Page 15 of Linebacker
After flying from London Heathrow to Dallas, the seventeen-hour layover turning into an overnight stay due to a technical fault with the aircraft on my connecting flight to Billings-Logan International airport, I finally got to pick up my rental car; a four door, Chevrolet Malibu in an iridescent pearl colour, and hit the road. All in all, it’s been approximately 46 hours since I left my one-bedroomed apartment in Marylebone, and I’m pretty much dead on my feet. All I want to do is crawl into bed, any bed and sleep, but despite the delays in travel and my overwhelming fatigue, I’m expected to turn up to meet the head coach and some of the other coaching squad.
My stomach rolls, nausea threatening in the back of my throat. It’s a good thing, because it’s the only thing that keeps me from falling asleep at the wheel. Well, that and the utter dread of what kind of reception I’ll get.
For the past two years, I’ve been flitting from one club to another in the U.K. Mainly English football teams, but I have done a couple of Rugby League and Cricket clubs, when they too have run out of options and had to revert to desperate measures.
That’s what I am. The last resort.
Because despite the growing need for my particular skills, the sports world is still stuck in the dark ages, much like most of society. The lack of understanding and acknowledgement of mental health issues is still overlooked, and the sporting world is no exception. The stigma of it being a sign of weakness is still profound. But it is improving.
Once the powerheads behind these great sports teams get their heads out of their arses and smell the coffee, that’s when I come into my own.
My work has predominately been in the U.K, hence why I’m based in London, but my job has taken me around the country. Liverpool, Manchester, and I’ve even had to hop the English Channel a couple of times after being seconded to Italian and Spanish clubs, to work with big-name British stars on their payroll.
Most of the time, I’m introduced as a sports psychologist brought in to help specific athletes, but they don’t know that I’m not there to help them boost their performance in whatever sport they play. I’m much more than that.
My main field is behavioural psychiatry. So, for all intents and purposes, they think they’re seeing someone who will help them up their game. What I’m doing is much deeper than that. I get into their heads, identify their demons, and help to slay them. It increases their dynamics on the field and in their private lives. Although, private is a bit of a joke, as once they hit the sports celebrity status, every move they make, every dubious word that slips from their mouths are there for the paparazzi taking.
Which means I get called in to handle the troubled players. The addicts, the trouble causers and the generally badly behaved. Whether that’s butting heads with their managers and coaches or from hitting the headlines. It’s generally far from the exemplary role model that they should publicly be for their young fans and followers, therefore putting their sport into disrepute.
This is the first time I’ve been recruited to work in the U.S.
The first time in the sport that runs in my blood, and that’s impregnated in my bones.
American Football.
I finally arrive at the colossal 62,000-seat stadium. The exterior is all silver and glass panels that hide the impressive field behind it, the nucleus of the building. I brought the car to a stop in one of the parking places, as instructed in the email I received before leaving London.
God, I’m dog tired, all I want to do is crawl into the back seat of the car, pull my coat over my head and sleep.
Or am I just trying to delay the inevitable?
I breathe hard through my nose and hold it for five before pushing the air back out between my parted lips. It’s the only thing that eases the pending nausea that’s lurking in the back of my throat. With the tips of my fingers, I flick down the sun visor, adjusting the mirror until I get the perfect view of my eyes.
I lean further towards the mirror, noticing that my eyes look dry and lacklustre, the whites marbled with red due to lack of sleep. I rummage through my bag until I find the drops that might at least give them some life and a little sparkle. Once administered, the stray fluid dabbed away with the cuff of my hoodie sleeve. I lean back into my seat, but my gaze stays firmly in place.
“Fuck,” I curse at my reflection. “Why am I doing this shit?” I take another deep breath before the answer to my question comes clear in my head. Because I couldn’t say no to the biggest challenge of my life. My sink or swim moment. “Time to practice what you preach,” I whisper under my breath before I lean in close to the mirror again. “I am confident,” my stare firm and full of determination. “I have the knowledge and power to succeed. I believe in myself and will achieve my goals.” I repeat my mantra a second and third time before I scoop up my bag and step out of the safety of the car with a newfound determination. A quick switch to replace my hoodie with a more professional looking blazer, and I’m locking up and making my way towards the building.
CHAPTER13
It’s been seven years since I’d snuck out of the hotel room, leaving Vance Marshall asleep, and jumped on the first London-bound train. So, seeing Mars after all this time is something I’m kind of dreading.
I won’t deny that I’d been riddled with guilt and felt like a first-class ungrateful bitch when I walked away, but I still believe it’s what had to be done.
Since then, I’d taken my own route, consuming every inch of knowledge that I could muster throughout my college and university education. While Mars had gained a rare, but not unheard-of, football scholarship to Florida University. Then later went on to sign up with one of the NFL teams. A football club that had evolved from being a low threat, barely scraping into the bottom of the league, to now riding high, right up there with the top five.
So, yeah, the thought of coming face to face with Mars, after all this time was not something I relished. Still, as I’m now walking through the doors of the Montana Longhorns stadium, whose current number one Linebacker is the one and only Vance Marshall, it’s only a matter of time before the inevitable happens. Especially as he was top of my hit list of three players that require my expertise.
The automatic doors slide open, and I step inside. Immediately a young, tall, slim woman, who I guess is a similar age to me, with long striking, red hair tied back in a high ponytail, steps forward to greet me. When she gets that bit closer, I can see she has a naturally pretty, makeup-free face and is dressed in black tracksuit pants and a club branded royal blue t-shirt that makes her blue eyes pop.
“Ms. Palmer?” she asks, coming towards me. She doesn’t offer a hand in greeting as they are firmly locked behind her back, and the wavering smile on her face tells me that she’s nervous.
“Yes,” I respond, and just out of pure devilment, I hold out my hand to shake. “And you are?”
“Oh, erm… Lucy, ma’am. Lucy Williams.” She wipes her hand down the leg of her pants before taking hold of mine. Her handshake is soft and unsure, so I give her hand a friendly squeeze before letting go.
“Well, Lucy. Can you do me one thing?” I smile at her, taking in her wide eyes and partly open mouth as a clear sign that she’s taken aback by my relaxed demeanour. “Please call me Hope, and less of the Ma’am. It kind of makes me feel like I’m royalty or something.”
Her hand comes up to her mouth as she tries to hide her giggles. “I’ll try to remember,” she exclaims once she regains composure. “But you do kind of sound like the… “
