The Playbook (3 page)

There is a sentiment that seems to go hand in hand with getting signed to a major football team, and that is, you think it's your right to treat women like shit. Obviously the fame and fortune goes straight to your head and fries a few brain cells along the way.
  

I wonder if you would be able to get half as many women in bed if they knew upfront that you have a baby dick, and women have to fake orgasms when they are with you.
  

I have first-hand knowledge that you are terrible in bed; in fact, you’ve bored women to tears. She’s making a shopping list in her head whilst you were giving her head, and I don’t think you could find a clit if it had flashing neon lights all round it. All I can say is, I pity your poor girlfriend for having to put up with you for so long, and if she had any sense, she should throw you to the curb and get herself a real man.
 

You, Asher, are a perfect example of what is wrong with modern men. You footballers are in the public eye and should be role models to your young fans; but you are nothing but arrogant arseholes teaching the next generation of men to treat women like objects to be used and thrown away afterwards.
 

Asher you have given my life a new purpose - I’m going to be watching you and your friends, and any other players that stray or treat women like shit. I’m going to let everyone know all of your secrets. so watch out. I’m coming for you. I’m coming for you all.
 

Xoxo—just kidding. This isn't Gossip Girl.

Sincerely,
  

The Playbook.

I sit staring at the screen for a few minutes, unable to believe that I wrote this. I read the words over and over again, checking for errors because I need to make it perfect. The hard part’s done. Now I need to figure out how to get it out there.

Half an hour later, my new website, The Playbook, is complete. I have no idea what I’m doing, but I don’t care. For the first time in a long time I’m
excited
to write. I don’t expect this to go viral, but if one woman doesn’t fall into his bed because of my words, then my job is done.

I pour the last bit of the Pinot into the glass, and knocking it back, I hit the publish button. A buzz hits me as my angry words fill the screen. I resist the urge to call Mel.

I glance at the clock. Holy crap! It’s after midnight, and I have to be up at eight to interview the State Bowl’s champion. I turn off the laptop and throw my dishes in the sink. As I climb into bed, my mind whirls, thinking about the last twenty-four hours. The incident with Adam—or Adamgate, as I’m going to call it—feels like it happened days ago.

I cringe, having no idea where I’m going to get my morning fix tomorrow.

Chapter Four

Jake

I call ahead for my usual table at the Blue Rooms—an exclusive club in town—and jump into the taxi that's already waiting for me outside my apartment. I can't stop my foot from tapping the floor of the taxi as it accelerates out of the street. The driver makes small talk with me, but I just nod and mutter responses. I'm pumped and ready to go, still worked up from the conversation—albeit short—with Serj.

What I really need tonight is a hot, loose chick and plenty of alcohol.    

Crystal fucking Hill
.

I slump into the back seat, angry at the world, and already hating my new club. I hate half the players there and I know the feeling is mutual. In the past, I've made it my mission to go after as many as possible—on the field and off it—if given half the chance. I can’t even count the number of fights I've started with my new teammates. I used to look forward to playing them because they were so damn easy to mess with, and now I was one of them.

My anger focuses on Serj. What the fuck am I paying him for if he's allowing me to be traded to one of the worst teams in the league? He's supposed to be looking out for me and he lets this happen? Sighing, I stare out the window at the passing traffic. I know I've got nobody else to blame for this, but I need to put it on someone, and my manager is the obvious choice.    

I glance at my reflection in the window, brushing my hand through my hair. I should've washed it, but know I look damn good anyway. I glance down at my new fitted jeans that Erin insists are going to be popular with the ladies—not that I really need help in that department. Having a sister who is working her way up in the world of fashion has its benefits, because the last thing I have time for is shopping. She scored a job right out of high school as a stylist because she has a talent for knowing what goes with what. She knows as much about fashion as I do about football, so I'll wear whatever she tells me is in—even if it does take me half an hour to get them off.

As the taxi pulls up outside the club, reporters gather by the front door armed with cameras, no doubt waiting for me. Maybe tweeting my intention of getting smashed here tonight wasn’t the smartest move. News of my transfer has traveled fast, so there are more of them than usual. I shake my head, refusing to think about that fucking joke of a club—
my
club. I pay the cab fare and climb out from the back seat, knowing better than to expect change from my twenty. I swear taxi drivers in London are better paid than hookers.    

The camera lenses are already focused on me as I stalk toward the front of the line. I don’t hide my disgust as they shamelessly click. I'm in no mood for them tonight. Reporters hound me wherever I go, and to be honest, I'm sick of it. All I want is one fucking night where I'm not surrounded by vulchers trying to get that million dollar shot. Let's face it, the odds are in their favor that I'm gonna fuck up, because I do it a lot.    

“JAKE! JAKE! How's it feels to be transferred to a team that you hate?” shouts one guy as he clicks his camera in my direction. I ignore him and keep walking toward the door of the club.

That's one good thing about London and being a famous footballer - access to the best private clubs in the city any time I want. That and the sheer amount of pussy waiting for you everywhere you go. It's so easy sometimes that it's not even fun anymore. Where is the challenge when everything is handed to you? These chicks are all the same, but I don't know what the alternative is. Falling in love? I snort. Not letting that happen again. Not after the disaster that was Ara.
Biggest mistake of my life was almost marrying her
. But that's a story for another day and a lot more alcohol.   

“JAKE, you dipshit. How does it feel knowing that Murray now owns you, asshole?”

I stop dead in my tracks and turn to face the loud-mouthed reporter. He smirks at me and glances at his mate, obviously impressed with himself for getting my attention. I’m annoyed at myself for giving him exactly what he wants, but how am I supposed to ignore this clown?     

“What the fuck did you say to me?”  I bark, not bothering to hide my annoyance.

“You heard me, wanker. Murray owns your ass. Your career is over, you washed up, useless piece of shit.” A group of bystanders watch with interest, waiting to see if I react, and of course, I’m going to. Who the fuck does this guy think he is? I can't help but laugh at his aggressive attitude, even though I’m half a second away from punching the fuck out of him.    

I walk directly towards him and grab the camera that he’s still clicking at me. His mouth drops open as I smash it onto the ground and kick the shit out of it.
Fuck, that feels good
!    

“Stop hiding behind your lens," I growl, tossing his mangled camera back at him. "Murray doesn't own me
or
my arse. I'm the best thing that will ever happen to that team and everyone knows it.” He gawks at what remains of his camera, and then turns his rage on me. The dude is so pissed off, he's shaking. He tosses the camera aside and lunges forward, his eyes dark.

“You are such a wanker, Jake. You got lucky with that goal last week and now you think you are the king of the fucking world. You’re nothing but a washed-up has-been on his way out of—”     

My fist comes out of nowhere and plants right on his lower jaw and he falls to the floor. He kicks his legs out, catching me off guard and I stumble back, my back grazing hard against the brick wall behind me.    

The reporter is still holding his jaw as I regain my composure. I put my hand on my arse cheek, assessing the damage to my new jeans. They’re clearly torn, but it's hardly ruined my night because I could walk inside naked and bag whatever chick I want, but I’m still pissed off.
How long will it take for this to get back to Serj?
Of course, it will somehow be
my
fault that some twatwaffle decided to heckle me.   

If I’m already in the shit, I’m might as well do this right
. I lunge to hit the guy again, but out of nowhere a set of hands restrain me and pull me back.   

“Jake. He's not worth it. He's just a parasite fishing for a story, and you're giving him one.”    

I recognize the voice instantly. My best friend since we were seven years old. Asher and I have always had each other’s backs. Our friendship formed in the playground when I decked some loser who thought it would be cool to make fun of the new kid. Asher’s parents were poor and couldn't afford new shoes every term like everyone else's parents could, and being a private school, the kids were less than accepting toward anyone less fortunate than themselves.    

"Come on,” he coaxes. “Inside, and I'll buy you a drink. Or ten." He stares at me with his intense, dark eyes until I relent, and nod. He wins. He always stops me from doing something stupid.

As I follow him inside, the reporter’s words keep ringing in my ears. Maybe the reason I got so worked up is that there is some truth in his words. Maybe my time
is
up? I cringe at the thought because if not football, what the hell would I do with my life? I’ve got no skills other than with a soccer ball, but more than that, football is my passion. It’s the only thing that’s always been there for me, and the thought of it being taken away from me is upsetting, to say the least.

I shudder. I can’t even think about it. 

No sooner than we're in the front door and the usual group of WAG wannabe’s are all over us. Sighing, I brush them off. I’ve got no intention of going where I know every other footballer has gone before me. There is no bigger turnoff than knowing half the league has seen inside that pussy. Probably even Murray. Why is it so hard to find a girl with a bit of self-respect? I survey the chicks as they gush over us, a frown on my face.

“Come on, drinks are getting warm,” Asher says. He hooks his arm around the brunette standing next to him. “You can join us,” he grins at her. I roll my eyes. Unlike me, Ash has no problem playing with used goods.

“Where is Marnie tonight?” I ask him pointedly, referring to his girlfriend of two years.

He shrugs, a look of annoyance on his face. “We have an arrangement. Why is everyone so fucking concerned about what I have going on? You know we have an open thing happening, Jake.”

“Open because she knows that’s the only way she’ll keep you,” I reply, my tone dry.

Asher shrugs and waves me off. “Not my problem.”

Laughing, I shake my head. I guess it isn’t his problem if she’s happy with his terms.

We sit down, and Ash’s new friend excuses herself to the ladies’ room. No sooner than she’s gone, he’s on me about my behavior.

“You should have just ignored that douche,” he growls. “You know it's only going to get Serj on your back again. Why can’t you stay out of trouble even for a night?”    

I glare at him and down my first glass of ice cold Cristal. I got hooked on decent champagne when I first signed with Tottenham Park and I haven't stopped drinking it since. I’ve got expensive taste at nearly two hundred pounds a bottle, but it’s worth every drop.

Asher holds up his hands in defense. “You know I'm right, Jake. You can't really be all that shocked you got kicked. You need to figure out what you're doing because pretty soon, nobody is going to want you.”    

I scowl at him, knowing everything he is saying is true. His eyes soften and he sighs. I rub my forehead, feeling bad about taking my anger out on the only real friend I have. Asher is the only person—aside from Erin and my mother—who I know are there for me. I can be myself around him and know he's not just trying to ride on my reputation.

"I'm sorry; I'm just worked up about all this shit."

“So forget it and have some fun.”   

I snort. “I plan to. I have three things on my mind tonight. First, get wasted. Then I’m gonna get my groove on. and finally. I’ll take some lucky girl to bed at the end of the night and forget her in the morning.”     

“So it’s just like every other night then, hey?” Asher rolls his eyes, a gleam in them as he reaches into his pocket and pulls out two tiny pills. “Good thing I brought these little guys along then. My eyes narrow as I lean over the table and snatch one of them. I laugh when I realize what it is. I’m not usually one for drugs—all the random testing makes sure of that—and as far as I know, neither is Asher. I haven't done anything harder than alcohol since the night I was signed. I hesitate for a second and then throw the pill back to him.

“All yours,” I say. The last thing I need is to be caught doing drugs, and to be honest, I’m a little disappointed Ash is into that shit. I down the contents of my glass and top it up again. I better make the most of this before I take my pay cut. Next week all I’ll be able to afford is cheap beer.

“Your loss,” he shrugs, shoving the pill back in his pocket.

As the drinks continue to flow I feel the buzz of the alcohol and lack of sleep hitting me. I can't sit still. I stand up and grab a bottle off the table and dance my way to the downstairs bar, in search of a woman. I've fulfilled two things on my list tonight, now it's time for number three.   

I walk through the doorway, my fingers clutched around the neck of the bottle, and look around. The music booms as I survey the talent, determined to get some action now. At this stage, anyone will do. I spy a redhead sitting at the bar, talking to her friend and decide she is my target. I neck some more booze, slamming the empty bottle on the bar next to Red. She turns to face me, her eyes wide.   

“Hey, Red, how's it going?” I say, my words slurring slightly.

Not very inventive, but with the girls in here you don't really need to put much effort in. God that sounds harsh, but it's the truth. Usually just acknowledging them is an invitation. I caress her face, her creamy white skin turning almost as red as her hair.   

"What are you drinking?” I signal to the barman that I'm ready to order, and he grabs another bottle from the top shelf. He shakes his head as he pops the cork and slides the bottle across the bar. I scowl at his judgement then turn my attention back to my new friend.

“Hi! Wow, you’re Jake Tanner, aren't you?” she gushes, her eyes wide and puppy-like. It's almost cute how star struck she is. God, I love my job.
Or at least I used to.

“The one and only. Out of all the women in here, I picked you," I say. I'm making myself cringe over here, but my charms seem to be working. If her smile gets any bigger she will give herself lockjaw, and I can’t let that happen with what I want her to be doing in about ten minutes’ time.

She blushes again, then smiles shyly at me as she tucks a stray lock of hair back behind her ear. She bites her lip and I harden instantly. My cock needs to be in that mouth now. I rub my stubbled jaw and flash her my trademark smile—the same one that scored me two sponsors with Nike and Lynx.

"So, drink?" I remind her.

“I will have a rum and Coke, please.” She turns and grins at her friend, who rolls her eyes in response. I glance at her for the first time. Is she expecting a drink, too? She glares at me through her wire rimmed glasses, looking less than impressed. I turn back to Red as the bartender puts the drinks on the table and she takes a sip.