Page 19 of Sweeper
I chew my lip and nod thoughtfully. Perhaps it’s better not to pry. The less I know about Zander Williams, the better.
Zander
This was a bad idea,I think as I find myself at a pub with Knight, Link, and three other guys from the team. The bar is located down the street from Tower Park training facility, but I didn’t even get a look at the name of it when we walked in. Although, saying I “walked in” is a bit of a stretch. We were pretty much pushed in by our teammates who play the same positions we do on the field. So, it’s safe to say I’m a little uncomfortable by the crowd I’m surrounded by.
First, we have Scottish midfielder, affectionately nicknamed, Macky Junior in honor of the former Scottish midfielder, Maclay Logan, who retired a couple of years ago. His actual name is Banner Macleod, so the nickname suits him for a couple of different reasons. Banner has dark black hair and narrow blue eyes that sort of say, “you can fuck right off.” Then there’s Billy Campbell, the twenty-three-year-old striker from Wales. We were warned in no uncertain terms not to ask him about the women’s knicker incident and that’s about all we know about quiet Billy.
And finally, there’s Lance Finnegan, aka Finney. He’s a thirty-one-year-old center-back from Ireland. He has short blonde hair, a long face, and a permanent scowl that seems constantly directed at me.
“One more shot,” Finney says, slapping the sticky bar with his hand. It’s nearing eight o’clock and we’ve been here since practice ended at four. I have no food in my belly and I’m pretty sure I’m going to yack like Knight did last week.
“I can’t drink anymore.” I shoot Finney a pleading look. “I need food. I’m fucking wasted, man.”
“You’re pissed,” Finney states firmly.
“I’m not pissed! I’m happy to be here,” I lie through my teeth. I’m not happy to be here, but I need Finney to like me because I need a mentor more than a rival.
“Pissed means drunk. Saying you’re wasted sounds American. Tell me you’re having savage craic and we’ll be mates for life.”
My eyes go wide. “You do hard drugs? Doesn’t the club test us for that shit?”
Finney’s face bends in disgust. “The craic is Irish for a good time, you idiot! Savage craic is a mighty fine night.”
He shakes his head like I’m a moron as he orders two more shots from the bartender. Dread washes over me as Finney pushes a glass of clear liquid to me. “If you don’t drink this, then I will tell the entire team you’re a wanker.”
“I think that ship has sailed,” I slur, my eyes slow blinking back at him. I’ve heard wanker dropped a few times throughout the locker room.
I pause as I recall how fucking hard the past four days have been. I knew training here would be difficult, but annoyingly, it seems worse for me than it does for Knight and Link. They seem to be keeping up while I’m looking like this is my first time at soccer camp.
Coming from America, I was always the quickest player on the field. But here, the speed and rate of attacking these guys all possess is a serious culture shock. I’m killing myself so much I’ve needed to do ice baths daily, and I’m damn near crying myself to sleep every night. Today, I literally considered asking for a wheelchair escort to heave my dead ass off the training field. I’m floundering big time.
“What does wanker mean exactly?” I ask Finney, even though I’m pretty sure I know the answer.
He makes a lewd gesture with his hand and I groan, scrubbing my hand over my face. “Pretty much what I thought. Hey, how are you going to be able to train tomorrow after this many drinks?”
“I’m Irish.” Finney throws back his shot and with a heavy sigh, I do the same. He nods his approval at me and says, “Grand.”
Nothing about the past few hours has felt “grand.” Finney hasn’t spoken a single word to me all week during training. He just glowered and took every chance he could to make me look like a rookie.
“Do you honestly think you have what it takes to be a leader, Williams?” Finney asks, shoving yet another shot in front of me.
“A leader?” I stare ominously at the liquid.
He nods and gazes forward. “A center-back…or sweeper if that’s what Vaughn Harris wants to call you…we see the field like no one else. We have to make decisions for the team on how we’re going to move the ball away from our net and set up the next play. Do you truly expect me to believe you can come over from America where you’re a big fish in a small pond and play closely with Booker Harris and lead a team of European footballers who were playing football while you were still shitting green in your nappies?”
“Not all of us are European,” Link says, holding up a neon appletini that he and Billy have been drinking the whole time. The martini glass looks like a tiny child-sized cup in his large hand. Finney cuts Link a punishing glower so he redirects his attention back to his green liquid.
“I’ll tell you what I think.” I straighten my posture and do my best to focus on one of the Finneys sitting beside me, not the other two swirling around him. This asshole brought me here to fuck with my head, not to bond, and seeing how I’m fucking with my own headplentyenough this week, I refuse to let him pile on.
I lean forward and do my best to sound sober when I say, “I think that you’ve been nursing a bum knee for over three years and big pond or small pond, a guy your age will eventually drown with an injury like that.” I lift my brows knowingly. “And deep down, you know that’s why Vaughn Harris recruited me. And if you think one bad week of practice and trying to get me wasted is going to sabotage my potential with the club, I promise you’re going to be sorely disappointed.”
Finney’s nostrils flare, his eyes murderous slits on mine. “If you want to take my spot on that pitch, you need to play a lot better than you have been this week.” He stands up, drinks his shot, and gestures to Macky and Billy to follow him out. “I tell it like it is, kid, and I don’t think you have what it takes to be here. It’s only a matter of time before the coaching staff sees it too.”
I wince slightly as his words poke the bruise that I’ve been nursing all week as Finney, Macky, and Billy walk out of the pub. They move with a lot more agility than they should after four hours of drinking. Frowning, I reach over and grab Finney’s shot glass off the bar and give it a sniff. With a low growl, I tip back the leftover droplets into my mouth. “It’s fucking water.”
“What?” Link and Knight slur, barely able to keep their heads up off the bar as they look at me.
“Finney’s shots were water.” I glower at the bartender, who holds his hands up knowingly.
