Page 117 of Maximum Dare
Growing up with a football legend—David Banham, Nick’s dad—you soon learn how obsessed British fans are. They attend every match, whether at home or away, proudly wearing their colors and buying all the team merchandise.
Take Manchester United, for example. Their emblem is a red and yellow crest featuring a devil with a trident. It’s easily distinguishable from the bright colors of Liverpool F.C., which stand out at a game, the blood red shade that marks their passion. The fans wear this coat of arms with pride.
Having popped into a store that sells tourist memorabilia, I’d purchased a nice-looking scarf with Manchester United’s team colors.
Of course, I’d have to be crazy to walk into the Spread Eagle Pub with this item on display while a game was going on between Liverpool and Manchester, broadcast in high definition on all of the wall-mounted big-screen TVs.
Especially since the only fans in the place were here supporting one team—Liverpool. The rowdy lot, predominantly men who were trying to drink the barman dry, didn’t even notice me entering. And they wouldn’t see the offensive scarf tucked inside my coat pocket.
“I’ll have a beer,” I told the bartender.
While sipping my drink—which would have tasted better chilled—I took my time scanning the crowd for Hugo White, the asshole who may have destroyed my brother’s career.
There was still hope that Nick would make a full recovery. The doctors were optimistic, and so were we. But the damage done was potentially catastrophic. Hugo had known what he was doing that night. Even with alcohol on board, he should have had better control.
And there he was, sitting at a table in the center of the pub drinking his beer. He was of medium build, handsome in a way, though his jaw was too square and his eyes were too close together. His lips formed a too-thin line, showing the bitterness of man who believed the world owed him.
All eyes in the pub were on the TV screens. Liverpool was winning. Everyone in the place was happy.
Except me, of course.
Hugo had caused more devastation than he’d ever know. Not only had he attacked Nick, he’d kicked my brother when he was down. Seriously injuring an exemplary sportsman.
The fallout from that incident outside this pub had reached me and Daisy, destroying everything we could have had together. Hugo had set my brother back in more ways than just his health. He’d weakened Nick’s resolve. He’d taken a swing at his ego and come out the victor.
I nonchalantly walked behind Hugo, my hand inside my coat pocket gripping the scarf, casually sipping my drink.
Hugo’s coat hung on the back of his chair and slung on top of it was his fan-boy Liverpool scarf.
Liverpool scored again and everyone roared.
Acting like a long-time fan, I raised my drink in a salute.
Hugo had jumped up to applaud, causing his scarf to fall off his coat onto the floor. I kicked it under the table. Reaching into my pocket, I drew out the Man United scarf and laid it over the back of his chair.
Then I returned to the bar to watch the rest of the game. Those players really knew how to protect the goal, how to forge ahead and score, how to help an opponent up after he’d fallen in true sportsmanlike behavior—pity none of that had rubbed off on Hugo.
With the match over, the place erupted in wild cries from the winning side.
I strolled toward the exit, feeling justified in my quest for justice.
Outside, sitting at a table surrounded by sycophants, I sawher.
I strode toward her, all smiles. “Morgan, how are you?”
From her expression, I could tell that being confronted by the big brother of her ex was not how she’d thought her afternoon was going to go.
At her stony-faced response, I asked, “Nick is doing much better, thank you for asking. He’s looking forward to starting physical therapy.”
“Good.” She gave a nod as though she cared.
“And how have you been?” I peered past her through the pub’s window and saw Hugo put on his coat, wrapping the Man United scarf around his neck.
“I’m coping,” she said with the quietness of the guilty.
I saw another man push Hugo, saw them arguing, and to my utter surprise, a fight broke out.
“There’s your boyfriend,” I said with forced brightness, pointing at the pub’s window. “Always causing trouble wherever he goes.” I stared down at her. “At least this won’t be on your Facebook or Instagram page, since they’ve been taken down permanently.”
