“Look who it is.” Lyle’s smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Judas himself.”
Once, we’d been friends. I’d bailed him out of sticky situations, and he’d thrown a surprise birthday party for me at my favorite club in Holchester. It was wild to think that a standard team transfer could’ve ruined our relationship so thoroughly, but to him it wasn’t a standard transfer. I’d left mid-season to join their biggest rival without so much as a heads-up, and that was on me.
But it’d been almost a year, and I was tired of their taunts. They needed to get the bloody hell over it.
“I’m starting to think you fancy me, what with the special nickname and all,” I drawled without standing. They didn’t deserve that acknowledgment. “Did you seek me out at my favorite pub too? I’m flattered.”
His face reddened. “I don’t fancy traitors,” he snapped. “But it’s nice to see you getting so chummy with Blackcastle. You’ve truly turned, haven’t you?”
“They’re my team,” I snapped back, my pretense of fake congeniality gone. “And they’re not the ones who hung effigies of me in front of Holchester pubs.”
Non-sports fans would never understand it, but there was nothing like a Holchester football fan who felt like they’d been wronged.
“We can’t be held accountable for the public’s actions.” Bocci shrugged. “It’s not our fault they hate you so much.”
My jaw clenched. I should’ve been used to it, but after all this time, the sentiment still stung. I could try explaining it to people, but until they lived through it, no one quite understood what it was like to have a city that once adored you turn on you at the drop of a hat.
They felt betrayed by me, but I felt betrayed by them too. Their loyalty truly was transactional.
It made sense, but it hurt all the same.
“Get the fuck out of here.” Vincent came up behind Bocci, his face creased with a scowl. “You want to drink, drink, but leave my team the hell alone. Are you so petty you can’t get over a bloody transfer?”
“Oh, we don’t care about the transfer,” Bocci said. “It proved we didn’t need him because guess which one of our teams is the reigning league champion?” A nasty grin split his face. “Not yours.”
The tension thickened into a stifling weight.
Vincent’s face darkened, and even Noah let out a warning rumble beside me.
“Hold on to your glory while you can, because it won’t last long.” Vincent bared his teeth in a semblance of a smile. “I look forward to beating you at our next match.”
Bocci smirked. “You think you can beat us?”
“I don’t think. I know.” Vincent spat something in French.
Bocci was Italian, but whatever Vincent said was similar enough to his language that he understood it. He snarled out a response, but I stood and stepped in between them before Vincent did something stupid that would get us tossed out of the pub.
“Back off,” I warned. I itched to slam my fist into Bocci’s smug face, but I was trying real bloody hard to play by the rules this season. I wasn’t going to mess up my shot at a championship for anyone. “You know Mac’s rules.”
“How sweet. You’re defending your new best mate,” Lyle sneered. “Don’t come back to Holchester, Donovan. You’re not welcome. Even your own father doesn’t want you there anymore.”
My hands instinctively curled into fists. Anger chased after my strained calm and torched it into ashes.
I’d told Lyle about my relationship with my father when we were friends, and now he was using it to bait me?
Fuck. That.
“I can come back anytime I want, Artie,” I said, using his much-hated nickname. Arthur Lyle, or Artie for short. “Remember that wide-open shot you missed during our match against Chelsea? An amateur goalie could’ve knocked that ball right back at you. If I hadn’t covered your ass, we would’ve lost that match. Or how about the way you fumbled the first half of the season opener against Tottenham? There’s a reason you weren’t tapped to play for the national team, and you should be fucking glad I don’t want to go back to Holchester. If I did, you can kiss your playing time goodbye because guess what? You’re not. That. Bloody. Good.”
Lyle was good enough to play in the Premier League, but compared to other forwards at the same level, he was merely okay, and he knew it.
It was a sore subject for him, which explained why he reacted so quickly and thoughtlessly.
His face flushed scarlet, and he pushed me hard enough that I stumbled back into Vincent. “Fuck you, Donovan!”
A snarl ripped up my throat. I almost retaliated, but I held back when I saw the triplets bearing down on us.
Mac got to us before they did. “Out!” His grizzled beard trembled with outrage. “All of you!”
Shouts of protest erupted from both teams.
“C’mon, Mac!”
“They started it!”
“We didn’t touch them!”
“I don’t want to hear it!” he growled. “You know the rules. No fighting. I don’t care how rich or famous you are. You.” He pointed at Lyle. “Show your face in here again, and I’ll have the triplets knock your ass out the door. The rest of you, take it outside. I will not have you in here arguing and disturbing the rest of my customers. Argue with me, and I’ll ban you for life. Now get out!”
We snapped our mouths shut and skulked out the back exit since we didn’t want to attract attention from the hordes of tourists streaming past the front entrance.
One of the triplets slammed the door in our faces, leaving us in an alleyway next to the dumpster.
“Nice bloody job,” Bocci spat. “You got us kicked out before we even got a drink.”
“How is this our fault?” Adil’s normally good-natured face flashed with anger. “You were the ones who instigated things first!”
Fresh arguments exploded between the two sides again.
