Wayne awoke the next day with a pounding head and a sudden, unexpected resurgence of his will to live. His therapist had said that the melancholy and desperation came in waves, and that it could take days or weeks to subside – but that when they abated, it would be like clouds finally parting at the end of a storm.
He hadn’t believed her, but as he glanced out the window and saw the sunlight streaming in, he wondered if she’d been on to something. The darkness would come creeping back in again, he was painfully aware of that, but for now he was himself once again. And he might as well try to live while he still wanted to.
It was seven in the morning, and he had this wing of the house to himself. He didn’t waste any time.
He did his best to bathe himself, shave and douse himself with deodorant. When he looked in the floor-length mirror, he saw a determined gleam in his pale eyes. Of course, he was in no condition to leap out of his wheelchair and take to the pitch again, but he had overcome some of the mental obstacles that were in his way. There was work to be done.
He took a couple of painkillers – only two, the required amount – and then got himself dressed in a charcoal-grey suit that was a staple of his press conference appearances. Even the act of putting on the suit – difficult as it was for him to accomplish alone – helped to get him into a business-like mindset.
Reaching rock bottom had given him some much needed perspective. His football career was over: somehow, he would have to learn to accept that. It was a shitty thing, and it wasn’t his fault, but there was nothing he could do about it now. He would just have to move on. But just because he would not be scoring goals for Mile End any more did not mean that his life was over. He had thought that the beautiful game was his raison d’etre, and maybe it was. But not as a player.
“Dad?” he gave the word an inquisitive lilt when he spoke it into the phone.
“Wayne!” At once, David Carter was all sweetness and light, chatting to his son as though he were just another business acquaintance he had bumped into at a conference or a party, not someone who had accused him of purposefully ruining his life. “How are you doing, fella?”
“Not too bad,” Wayne answered, which was the truth. Last night had been the worst night of his life, but it was over now. He was a new man. He was all about the business. “We need to talk.”
“You’re right,” David agreed, “but not now. I’m just heading into a meeting. What do you say I stop by your place tonight? Bring a few beers, we’ll watch a movie or something. Be like old times. How about it?”
“If you want. I need to talk to you about something.”
“Yeah, yes, of course you do…” David was obviously not concentrating on their conversation. Wayne could picture him surrounded by assistants shoving papers under his nose for his signature. Well, that was fine. What Wayne had to say could wait until the evening.
It was seven-thirty when David arrived at his son’s house. Upon seeing Wayne not only clean-shaven but wearing a suit, his eyebrows shot up in surprise. Then he smiled.
“Alright, Wayne,” he said, putting an arm around the lad’s shoulder and deftly spinning the wheelchair around. Wayne would not have put up with that kind of thing from his therapists or bodyguards, but with his dad he didn’t have much choice.
David pushed Wayne through to the dining room. “Those two security fellas not making a nuisance of themselves, are they?”
“No, they’re alright.”
“Well, I’m pleased to see you up and about like this. Dressed up all smart. You look good. Nice to see you’ve got your mojo back.”
Wayne could not help but smile. “I wouldn’t go that far.”
“Alright, maybe not yet. But soon!”
“That’s sort of what I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Yeah? Fancy a beer?” David Carter cracked open a can and took a swig. Then he belched loudly: the highest compliment he could pay to a beverage.
The smile had not left Wayne’s face. “Maybe later.”
He could not put it off any longer. And if Wayne was right, he thought he saw a flicker of nervousness in his dad’s smile.
“Right then,” David said. “What did you want to talk about?”
“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking lately. About you and me. And about Mile End. It’s funny, but I’ve had a lot more time to myself these last few weeks.”
“Yeah, I know, and I’m sorry about that, Wayne. Had a lot on my plate, haven’t I?”
“I’m not fishing for an apology, Dad. But there’s something that I wanted to say to you. You know that even when I was a toddler all I wanted was to play football. It was the reason I got out of bed in the mornings. Well, that’s not going to happen anymore…” He held up a hand to silence David’s protests. “No, it’s not. I’ve come to accept that. But there’s something you need to understand, and it’s that you owe me big time. Why did I go out on the pitch that day? Because of you. Why did I ignore the threats? Because of you. Because I trusted you. And look where it’s got me.”
There was a silence, and David took another sip of his beer. “You’re not wrong, son,” he said finally. “I feel terrible about the whole thing.”
“Not as bad as me, I can promise you that. Anyway, the point is this: I want you to make it up to me. Football is my life. That’s not going to change. And if I can’t go out on the pitch and play anymore, then I need to find something to do. Or rather, you need to find me something to do.”
David cocked his head, thinking about this. “What did you have in mind?”
“You’ve got to remember that I know the team. I understand them. And I know the whole club inside and out. It’s my life.”
This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it
“Get to the point, Wayne.”
“I want you to give me a job. Manager, or CEO, or something. Something that will give me the chance to make a real difference to the team from behind the scenes. I could do it. I know I could.”
David put his beer can down on the table. “You want me to make you manager?”
“I think it’s the least you can do.”
David shrugged. “I feel terrible about the whole thing,” he said again. He was buying himself time; working out the best way to say no.
Wayne sensed the direction the conversation was taking. “I’m not expecting anything straight away,” he said. “I don’t mind waiting till next season. But you owe me, Dad.”
Another silence. David Carter knew how to use silence and turn it to his advantage. He slowly and thoughtfully reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and emerged with a pack of cigarettes. He slipped one into his mouth and lit it with a dexterous flick of his silver lighter. “You should know, Wayne,” he said on the exhale, “that I don’t take kindly to ultimatums. It’s fortunate you’re my son.”
“I couldn’t agree less.”
David smiled wryly. “Smoke?” He offered the pack to Wayne.
“No thanks.”
“Why not?” David smiled. “What have you got to lose?”
Grudgingly, Wayne took the offered cigarette, and his dad lit it for him.
Then David seized the reins. “You’ve got no experience, Wayne. And I know what you’re going to say, but knowing the team is not the same as knowing the business. Football isn’t just a game. The action isn’t just what happens on the pitch. There’s a whole invisible world you can’t even imagine, Wayne.”
Wayne took a drag of the cigarette, doing his best not to burst out coughing. He had never been a smoker. But David was right: what did he have to lose? “You’re underestimating me, Dad. You always do. If you give me a chance, you’ll see what I’m capable of.”
“Sorry, son. It’s not going to happen. I've got to be honest. I don't think you’ve got it in you. All you've ever been is a footballer. That's all you know how to do. I know it's hard to hear, but I'm telling you the truth."
"Dad, are you taking the piss? After everything I've put into that club? The sacrifices I've made?"
But David wouldn't budge. "Use your head, Wayne. The club's doing well. We're winning matches. If it ain't broke, don't fix it. How do you think the fans will react if I give the manager the boot and install my twenty-two-year-old son in his place?"
In spite of everything, Wayne had to admit that his dad had a point. He thought of those chanting voices: You only play coz your faaaaather…
"Alright – what about CEO? You know I can do it. Come on. You know I can." Wayne's voice was rising. He was losing his cool. This was going to turn into a shouting match if he wasn't careful, and he couldn't let that happen. The best way to handle David Carter was to use diplomacy. To reason with him, and to gently nudge him in the right direction rather than outright demanding anything.
David got up and began pacing up and down the room thoughtfully. He was still pluming cigarette smoke. After another excruciating silence, he said: "It's not going to happen, Wayne. There are going to be a few changes at Mile End, but I can't make you CEO. We’ve already got a new CEO incoming. Someone I’ve been working with for a while – I’m talking years – training him for the job."
"What? What do you mean?"
"It's going to be Rob Linley."
"Are you taking the piss? What's he got that I haven't got?"
David shrugged. "An MBA, for starters. And experience"
"But I know the club. I understand the club."
"That may be true, son, but I'm afraid the decision's already been made. I'm sorry."
Wayne furiously jabbed his cigarette out on the tabletop, ruining its polished surface. Then he rolled his wheelchair over to the window, where he gazed out at the setting sun. "Alright, Dad. I understand. Now get the fuck out."
"You what?"
"You heard me. Get the fuck out of my house!" It was the first time in years that Wayne had raised his voice to his dad. Even David was a little shaken by it.
"Alright," he said, "I'll go. But just know this, son: you won't struggle. Understand? I'll take care of you, I'll pay for everything while you recover. You'll never have to worry about money. And then, maybe, a couple of years down the line... I'll see if I can find something for you. But that's the best I can do, Wayne. Believe me, if there was anything else, I would do it."
Wayne was seething. He could not even bring himself to look at his father. "You owe me," he said. "Can't you see that? If you're not going to give me something in the company, the least you can do is make it up to me. I want what you promised me at the hospital: I want you to finish Ronnie Vincent. Put an end to his career the way he did mine. And take out the Popovs. Finish them. I want them gone."
David snorted. "This again? Didn’t you hear me when I told you it’s not that simple? Wayne, you need to grow up. This isn't the movies. It's not a bloody Scorsese flick. Listen to me..." and he got down on his knees in front of Wayne, looking his son dead in the eyes. "Wayne, you're my boy. You mean more to me than anything in the world. Alright? But Popov is the most connected man in London. It's not just a case of 'taking him out.' There are so many other things to consider. It's a long game, it might take years. And as for Ronnie Fucking Vincent, if I take him out now then people will start asking questions straight away. It's too obvious. And I can't have anything murky like that hanging over me. Not with this property deal I've got coming up."
"Property deal?" In spite of himself, Wayne was curious.
"Four years in the making," David explained. He got to his feet again, knowing that he had managed to salvage the situation. He had neutralised the potential threat his son posed. It was all tactics; all part of the game. "Guess how much it's worth?" He didn't wait for Wayne to guess. "Five billion pounds. Not five million – five billion. That's what we’re looking to net from this development. And the profits... everything, all of it... when I die it goes straight to you. And your sister, of course. Just think about that. More money than you could ever dream of. That’s how you win against someone like Popov: you make so much money and garner so much power that he can’t touch you. Then you destroy him. And I can't let anything get in the way of that, especially not anything as petty as revenge. Think about it, Wayne. I know I take the piss out of you, but you're not a stupid kid. Just give it some time, and then one day you'll thank me for not doing anything rash. You'll thank me when you're on a beach in the Bahamas counting your cash."
“So when you said Popov would rue the day he hurt me, you meant, what, in fifteen years?”
David clapped a hand on his son’s shoulder. “Slow and steady wins the race.”
Wayne didn't say anything.
"I'm going to go now," David told him, "but you think about what I said. I know it's hard, but you're just going to have to suck it up for now. At least until the deal goes through. Alright?"
Still no word from Wayne.
"Alright?" David repeated, a little louder. There was a threatening edge to his voice.
"Alright," Wayne said finally.
"Good lad." And David strolled out of the house, slamming the front door as he went.
Wayne sat for a long time. It was now fully dark outside. His head was humming with images and ideas. His dad was right about one thing, at least: he wasn't stupid. He knew when he was being fobbed off. He didn't give a fucking shit about a property deal, five billion or not. It was all just numbers. Counting cash on a beach in the Bahamas? Was that really David’s idea of paradise? Wayne already had more money than he could ever have wanted, and what good had it done him? Here he was, alone in a mansion with no friends to speak of, no girlfriend. He had given up everything for the club. Every opportunity that had come his way. What he cared about now was making a name for himself. Being somebody. And you didn't make it big with money alone.
But there was something he wanted even more than that. Something his Dad would not let him accomplish. Something that might finally help to heal the broken heart he had suffered along with his hideous injury. He wanted revenge.