Page 4 of Studs Up
“Hello,” I answered.
“Nolan Fucking Reed,” Coach Mirren of the United States National Team said in his grizzled old man voice. I smiled.
…
The flight to California wasn’t so long. Marcel had been called up and sat next to me on the flight. I liked Marcel. He was a good guy and an okay player. But he was an okay player, not national call up player. I wasn’t sure how he kept getting contracts and call ups, but that wasn’t my decision, so I kept my opinions to myself.
He chatted the whole flight, and I only half tuned in. I was focused on the roster. The full roster came out a week ago and one name caught my attention.
Having to be on the same side as Monroe was a fucking nightmare. The cocky asshole didn’t know how far his head was shoved up his ass. His presence rubbed me the wrong way, and the last two times we had been called up together, it hadn’t gone well.
I’m an asshole, but I wasn’t usually the guy to come to blows, but my god, Monroe’s attitude invited a good punch in that pretty face.
He was a talented fucking player, and where he was going wrong, other than his ego, was a missing piece that had simmered in the back of my brain for the last four years. It bothered me.
It bugged me because I saw the player he could be, and he was on the verge of being that player who could have had it all but turned out to be a dud, resigned to being the topic of discussion on the halftime show with John and John as the player who never lived up to expectations.
Last season, he had done a lot better but was still barely clinging to his starter spot.
He was an obsession I couldn’t shake. He got under my skin years ago, and I couldn’t get rid of him. I studied him more than any other player in the league. He was the itch I couldn’t scratch. I tried to save his footage for last, but I could never wait that long. When I watched games live, it was his game that I wanted.
“Hey,” Marcel nudged me. “Charlemagne texted, he wants to go to dinner.” The plane began to taxi, and I pulled up the footage from the Western Conference Final again like my body had control over my brain.
I nodded.
Disembarking in the southern warmth was unnatural for winter. Winter was supposed to be cold, wet, and miserable.
At the hotel, players and training staff milled around in the lobby, every single one I knew. I studied all of them. Almost all the players were people I had picked who would be called up before the roster came out.
And there he was.
Holden Monroe. That little fucker. Grey eyes, a resting arrogant face, and a fit body that he had no problem showing off in tight jeans and a just as tight t-shirt.
He stood with Rover defender Charlemagne, a big guy with an American father and a French mother. He grew up in France with his mother until he came stateside to go to college. He was a freshman when he was scouted and drafted to the Rovers.
I liked him. He was calm, commanded his field, and was a good center back.
The other man was Alex Prince. He was a solid midfielder that didn’t get the recognition he deserved. His only fundamental flaw was his friendship with Monroe.
Charlemagne saw us and waved us over with a cheery smile. I had absolutely no idea how anyone could be that bright and happy all the fucking time.
“Mingling with Rovers,” Marcel muttered. I felt the same. It wasn’t the rivalry. It was Monroe I didn’t want to be close to. His eyes targeted me as I walked up.
With tremendous reluctance, I put myself in the same space as Holden Monroe. The only thing that made it worth it was the look of disdain on his face. So I grinned, like being invited to this little gathering made my fucking day.
“This is going to be great,” Monroe muttered. He was four and three-quarters inches shorter than me. Dark brunette hair that was cut in a clean, wholesome good boy hair cut. Parted on the side and swept across his forehead, making him look innocent. He was not.
The grey eyes got me, though. They held so much mystery and locked me in with a simple glance. Suddenly, the room was hot, and my blood rushed into my ears. I looked away.
The ballroom was full of players and training staff. Most of us knew everyone else. But a few introductions were being made. There were some new kids and one wonder kid from Europe.
“We are all on the same team here. Isn’t that wonderful?” Charlemagne spread his hands with a big, genuine smile.
“Yeah,” Alex said. “Wonderful.” I wasn’t exactly Prince’s favorite either.
Marcel joined us, and I didn’t think Monroe and Prince could turn even icier than they already were with me. I was a little offended that they hated him more. Not sure where that hate came from. Monroe and Marcel played together at the Rover Academy. It would be easy to say that Marcel betrayed the rivalry by signing with us, but there was no meat on that bone. That happened all the time. A lot of players got signed by their own teams. A lot didn’t.
“Hey,” Marcel said, not reading the group’s mood. “This is gonna be great.”
