ground, got in my face more than once, calling me old man and slow. He might have been teasing because the fucker grinned like a clown when he said it, but all I could do for ninety minutes plus stoppage was imagine punching him right in the bloody mouth.
Losing was always hard in our league. Especially when your team hovered only a few spots above relegation. Each loss, each time you failed to add points added a sense of urgency to the time spent on the pitch.
We were fine. For now.
But in a few weeks or another month or two, it could be an entirely different story.
Losing was even harder, though, when your manager pulls you into his office and says, "I'm probably going to bench you next week, Jude, and I want you to know it now before anyone else does."
It took everything in me not to explode. "I can play better," I promised.
"You've been telling me that for weeks, McAllister. I've got guys younger and faster and hungrier, and that makes them better options for me when I'm trying to win more games."
I clenched my jaw, practically heard the crack of my molars from the effort it took me to keep the words crowding my throat from coming out. It hurt to breathe through them, breathe through the bruise to my pride, if I was honest.
There wasn't much worse for a footballer than to feel useless or like a hindrance to their team. And after a wet, sloppy loss on a muddy rain-soaked field, useless was an apt word for how I felt.
Ineffective.
And if I was honest, I couldn't stop the word worthless when it whispered through my subconscious. If I wasn't this ... if I couldn't do this, what was I? What good was I to anyone without this part of my identity?
All the things I used to define myself came straight from the game I played. My drive. My passion. My work ethic. None of those things were in question, which was what made it even worse. Those things were in my control, but the reason Coach wanted to bench me, that was nothing I could grasp onto.
I nodded stiffly and left his office without another word.
I showered. Changed. Packed my bag. No one said anything to me in the locker room, and I was glad for it.
I was supposed to get my head on well enough to go meet Lia and her sister visiting from the States. Lia and I hadn't even seen each other since I dropped her off in front of her flat after the disaster at the farm and all for good reason.
She was finishing her paper and didn't want to stop while the work was good.
I was training my arse off to prepare for a brutal stretch of Liverpool and then Tottenham, both games serving us brutal losses.
Fucking red birds and fucking roosters.
All of that to set up the fact that when I walked out of the locker room, I was in a foul fucking mood when my brother sent me a text.
Lewis: Sorry about the match. Can you swing round after you're done? I'm assuming Lia is with you. I've got something for both of you.
Me: I'll ask her. Her sister is visiting from the States, and I don't know if they've got plans for us after this.
Lewis: It would mean a lot.
I dropped my head back and let out a slow breath. That moment right there was when I should've canceled all of it.
Should've called Lia to reschedule meeting her sister until the next day.
Should've told Lewis to sod off because I was in a horrid mood.
But that useless feeling would've only intensified, and I knew it. The only thing worthwhile I'd done in the past few months was Lia. Just that one thing.
I took a deep breath, smoothed a hand down my weary, old, slow face, and turned the corner where I knew the two women would be waiting for me.
They were leaning up against the wall taking selfies of the Tottenham logo in the background, and I took a moment to study them. Lia's sister was taller than her with sharper cheekbones and a sharper jawline. Her hair was darker, and when she smiled, it didn't spread as widely as Lia's. But the similarities were stunning, and I could only imagine what the four sisters must look like all together.
Isabel saw me first, and the look she gave me reminded me of a flock guard dog that