The match was nothing special. Both teams were playing scrappily, making mistakes, and struggling to keep possession of the ball. At half-time, neither side had scored. They filed back into their locker room, knowing they should have played better and were lucky not to be down several goals.
It was a good thing Theresa hadn’t come. She wouldn’t have seen anything to impress her so far. Emile grabbed his sports drink and a towel to rub down.
Someone yanked the towel out of his grasp. Emile turned around in surprise. Ernestinho, the new Brazilian midfielder who’d been signed for record amounts of money, was glaring at him, the towel discarded on the bench. Emile raised a questioning eyebrow.
“Just can’t keep your hands off other people’s property, can you, Renaud?”
Ernestinho had his hands on his hips and his dark eyes flared in hot anger.
Emile blinked. “I didn’t know it was yours.”
The Brazilian made a rude hand gesture, then swiveled on his heel and crossed the room.
“What was that about, mate?” Jason Woods, the team’s veteran goalkeeper, came to sit beside Emile. He jerked his head in Ernestinho’s direction.
Emile shook his head. “No idea.”
The team listened to Gatz’s diatribe on their mediocre performance in silence. On the way out, Emile chucked his empty drink bottle into the bin, tried to catch Ernestinho’s eye. The guy might be an arse, but they were teammates, and it would be better if they could sort out their differences off the pitch. Ernestinho pointedly ignored him.
Twenty minutes into the second half, Woolwich was awarded a penalty kick, and Emile lined up to take it. He eyed up the goal, sensed the direction of the wind, sent up a quick prayer, then began the run up he’d practiced thousands upon thousands of times before. He hit the ball cleanly, continued his follow-through, then heard the deep groans of the crowd when it edged the goal post and landed out.
He shook his head, fighting away the disappointment. The first and hardest lesson to learn on the pitch was how to block out the past and concentrate on the present moment. Too many players went to pieces after missing one opportunity. He needed a moment to center himself again.
“Piranhudo.”
Emile’s head whipped round. That hadn’t been a quiet taunt from the opposing team to mess with his mind. That was Ernestinho. He stepped forward to confront his teammate, standing close enough to smell the sweat of his skin.
“What the hell is your problem?” Emile kept his anger coolly under control and hopefully out of notice of the referee.
“My problem?” Ernestinho flung his arms wide. “Hah! A school kid could have made that penalty.”
Emile shook his head. They clearly weren’t going to be able to deal with this during the game. “Whatever. Just stay out of my way.”
He jogged back into position, forcing his temper down with long, deep breaths. A long kick from the Woolwich goalkeeper was heading in his direction. One eye on the ball and the other on the field around him, Emile ran backward to meet it. He spread his arms out and angled his chest, ready to bounce the ball down to the field...
Fais chier! Someone had tripped him in an illegal tackle. And merde, that was Ernestinho looking down at him with a smirk.
He jumped up and grabbed a handful of Ernestinho’s shirt. “You’re supposed to tackle the other team, salaud. Didn’t they teach you that in the slums?” A fist collided with his jaw, making his head whip backward. Emile didn’t have time to remember where they were. His brain had already kicked into fight mode and he’d knocked Ernestinho down to the ground where he could pummel some sense into him.
It didn’t last long, but it took three players to pull them apart and hold them still long enough for the referee to book them both. Gatz met them at the side of the pitch, with a face as blank as his voice was cold.
“Ernestinho, to my office now. Renaud, at the end of the game.”
He’d showered and changed back into jeans and a light blue polo shirt. Thirty minutes after the end of the game, someone finally brought the message that Gatz was ready to see him. Ernestinho must have got the drubbing he deserved.
He knocked and entered the office. Ernestinho was still there, rising out of his seat like a tiger ready to pounce, claws barely sheathed. Great.
“Sit down.” Gatz turned to the Brazilian player. “Both of you.”
Emile took the empty chair and pushed it slightly further away from Ernestinho as he sat down.
“That incident was the most deplorable, shameful, ill-disciplined, inexcusable behavior I have ever witnessed from any of my players. If it were in my power, I would terminate both your contracts immediately.”
Emile opened his mouth to protest. He’d only retaliated to Ernestinho’s provocation and attack. Surely he couldn’t be sacked for that?
“As it is, you will both receive temporary bans from the Football Association. Three matches each. You will not be paid for the duration of your ban. Furthermore, you will issue a statement to the press, apologizing in full for your behavior and assuring the public that you are fully supportive of each other as teammates.”
“Foda se,” Ernestinho blasted out. “He is no teammate of mine.”
Emile shook his head in disbelief. “Are you ever going to explain to me what I am supposed to have done?”
Gatz gave him a sharp look. “You don’t know?”
He shrugged and held out his hands. “Apparently I picked up his towel by mistake at half-time.”
“Piranhudo.” Ernestinho was out of his chair and halfway across the room to Emile.
“Sit down,” barked the manager. Ernestinho glared at him but reluctantly followed the direction.
“He claims you are having an affair with his girlfriend.”
Well, that would explain it. Except... “I’m not.”
A torrent of Portuguese invective spewed out of Ernestinho’s mouth.
“She told him you were,” said Gatz.
“She’s lying.”
Eventually, he pieced together the story. Mariella had disappeared from a party they’d both been invited to on Friday night. When Ernestinho had asked about her absence, she’d told him she was with Emile.
“Why the hell would she say that?”
“It’s not true?” Gatz’s pale blue eyes were fixed on Emile’s face.
“No! I spent the entire party trapped in a corner by bloody Prada.”
Gatz nodded. “Then you may wish to make a further statement to the press. Mariella has leaked the story already.”
Ernestinho was still looking like he wanted to murder Emile. There’d be another round of headlines. And a three-match ban without pay.
“The press department will write a statement. You will both be here at ten o’clock tomorrow morning to add your personal comments and show your solidarity. Ernestinho, go talk to your girlfriend. And don’t ever bring your personal life onto the pitch again, understand?”
Gatz was impressive, Emile had to admit. Even Ernestinho, still prickly with fury, was meekly nodding and apologizing as he left the room.
“As for you...”
“I didn’t do anything!”
Gatz nodded. “I agree, this was not your fault. However...” He opened the large binder on his desk and began to read. “October 2010: Mirror, Sun, Star, photographs of you leaving a strippers bar. November 2010: News of the World reports you in a drunken brawl at a nightclub. Also November 2010: News of the World, Mirror, Sun, Star, Mail, Telegraph, Times: your former girlfriend tells all on Channel 5 talk show. December 2010...”