Watch Me Blaze: Watch Me, #2

Chapter 1

From outside I hear the roar of thousands of excited voices. I look up, waiting for the thrill of anticipation that used to course through me. It doesn’t come. I drop my head into my hands, trying to block out the noise. The bellowing of the crowd used to push my buttons, get my adrenaline pumping, make all the hours of training worthwhile. But now? It just fills me with dread.

I glance around the locker room. It's eerily quiet. My teammates are already out basking in the adoration of the fans. Not me. I'm slumped on a bench, half-dressed, battling with a hangover that’s gradually cracking my skull.

Running a hand through my thick hair I feel the grease and dirt. I haven’t managed a shower today and even this small movement makes my stomach churn. Ah, crap. Did I really drink that much last night? I can't even remember. I woke up this morning next to a brunette with long legs and big tits—just how I like them. I can't remember her name. Sarah? Sally? Something like that.

I lean forward and grab my laces, but my fingers are like useless sausages. If I don't get myself together in the next five minutes, coach is going to go crazy. I'm already pushing the limits. Anyone else would have been kicked out of the team long ago. But I'm Ryan Miller, star player and the fans’ favorite. He knows better than to get rid of me. Perhaps that’s why I keep goading him.

Ryan, you all right, bro?

I look up and my vision spins in and out of focus. Connor Black, my best buddy, is staring down at me, face creased up into a frown. He’s no football player. He’s a musician and don’t the women just love his rock star persona? Bastard. I wave a hand.

Yeah, sure. Why not?

You look like shit.

Thanks. That makes me feel a lot better.

He takes a seat next to me. Your coach asked me to come fetch you. Although his exact words were, ‘go and stick your boot up his worthless backside.’ They’re waiting for you out there.

Yeah. I’m coming. Just give me a minute, will you?

So, who was she this time?

None of your damned business.

Okay, he sighs, holding up his hands. I'll not say another word.

He settles back against the wall, arms folded. Outside, the roar of the crowd gets louder as the players are introduced. I bend over, fighting down the churning in my stomach, and clumsily tie my laces. Gritting my teeth, I clamp down on the nausea. There's no way I'm gonna hurl, not in front of Connor. Wouldn't that just confirm that I’m the asshole he thinks I am?

Connor leans forward suddenly as though he’s just worked up the courage to speak. Look, bro. I know you don't want to hear this but I'm worried about you.

I force a laugh. Worried? I'm not a kid. I can take care of myself.

Can you? His voice is serious and he’s frowning in concern. How many hangovers have you had this week? How many nights you can't remember? Shit, man, I'm all for having a good time but not like this. Nancy and I are getting a bit concerned.

I glance at him as he mentions Nancy's name. She’s Connor’s girlfriend. God, they're so loved up it makes me sick. I want what he has. I can’t help but get all twisted up with jealousy when I see them together. Trouble is, I'm such an asshole I don't know how to get it. I'm not built that way. I'm Ryan Miller:  football star, playboy, party animal.

And a total shithead.

That expression on his face makes me want to punch him. I don't need his fucking concern. I'm fine. I am. I open my mouth to tell him to fuck the hell off, but the words die in my throat. He's pretty much the only friend I have left. So instead, I shrug then stagger to my feet.

Tell Nancy she doesn't need to worry. I'm all right. You know me, aren't I always fine?

He smiles wryly. Sure, Ryan. Whatever you say.

I punch him on the shoulder, grab the rest of my gear and stagger from the locker room. I emerge into afternoon sunlight that slices right through my brain. The roar as I step onto the field hits me like a wave, making me stagger. With an effort of will I force myself to stand up straight and give a swaggering thumbs-up to the crowd.

Then we're off.

I don't remember the game. I never do. It passes in a blur of heat and noise and exertion. Yet as the game ends there’s a groan around the stadium and I glance up at the scoreboard. Shit. We've lost again. I stagger from the field, into the locker room, and just about make it to a sink before I vomit last night's alcohol all over the pristine white porcelain.

I straighten, wiping my mouth on the back of my hand and turn to find coach standing behind me. His arms are crossed, and his wide, ruddy face is flushed with anger.

What the hell was that? he snaps.

I turn and examine the sink. Some kebab and several tequilas I think.

His eyes narrow. Well, aren’t you the funny man? Don't mess with me, Ryan. I'm not in the mood. You were a liability on that field today. Were you running in treacle or something? And your passes? I’d expect better from a child!

I shrug. What does he want me to say?

Another drinking binge was it? Despite your disciplinary last week? Jesus, Ryan, when are you going to wake up?

I mumble something incoherent. I wish he'd shut the hell up. My head is pounding like a drum.

He stalks forward and pokes me in the chest with his finger. You need to pull yourself together and fast.

He’s in my space, face right up close, finger jabbing me as if he has the right to tell me what to do. It happens in an instant. Hot fury turns my vision white. I grab the front of his shirt, yank him forward and raise my fist. I’m halfway through the swing before my brain kicks in and screams at me to stop. I pull the punch just in time and stand there, my hand fisted in his shirt, my breathing suddenly hoarse and ragged.

Coach glares at me. He makes no move to escape my grip. Go on, Miller, he says in a voice barely above a whisper. You know you want to. This has been coming for a long time. Get it over with. Then get the hell out of my team. You’re a thug, Miller.

Fury flares at his words. For a second I almost do it. My arm quivers with the urge to punch the smug old bastard. But I’m not stupid. This is what coach wants. Anything to get me off the team.

I let him go and stagger back, leaning against the sink. He says nothing. Just stares at me like he's seen all this before. Like I'm not the first football player to throw everything away and I won't be the last.

Sorry, I mutter. I don't know why I did that.

He straightens his collar.  This is it, Miller. You turn up drunk or hung-over to a match again, you threaten me or any member of the team again, and you're gone. I don't care who you are. I don't care that your father sponsors the team. This is your last chance. Got it?

I nod, even though the movement makes my vision spin. He turns on his heel and strides away.

I slump onto a bench and put my head into my hands. Around me, my team-mates get changed and leave one by one. Nobody talks to me. No doubt they saw and heard every word of my latest little performance. I try to muster enough energy to care but I can't. Fuck them. Fuck them all. My cell phone beeps, and I dig it out of my bag. I press the message button and words appear on the screen.

Thanks for leaving me like that. You fucking asshole.

It's from Stacey. I stare at the text, trying to place the name. Stacey? The girl from last night? What the hell is she complaining about? I paid for our hotel room didn't I? She got a night of great sex with no-strings attached. What the hell does she want from me?

I toss the phone back into the bag. Tomorrow morning I'll probably have a similar message from some other girl. Story of my life. I get dressed slowly, trying not to vomit again. When I'm done I leave the locker room and make my way to my silver Alfa Romeo that’s parked in the lot.

My steps slow as I see someone leaning against it. Late fifties, dark hair, wearing a sharp business suit like always. His eyes are cold as they track my approach.

Hi, dad, I say in as bright a voice as I can manage.

He scowls. Don't 'Hi, dad' me, Ryan. Your coach just had a word with me. Do you know what he said?

I shrug. I really don't need this.

He said you played like shit. He said you let the whole team down. He said you're a pain in the ass he doesn't need.

Aw, and here’s me thinking he doesn’t like me.

This isn't funny. He plants his hands on his hips and looks me up and down, curling his lip as though disappointed at what he sees. Do you have any idea the sacrifices your mom and me have made for your football career?

Of course I do. They tell me often enough.

Do you think we've worked this hard just to let you throw everything away?

His face has gone white like it does when he's seriously pissed. Nothing annoys my dad more than not getting his own way. At the moment I'm in serious danger of upsetting his meticulous plans. My dad was a pro in his youth, but a back injury ended his career before he could make the big league. So I'm the one who’s going to carry the family honor. As long as I can remember I've had football training six days a week, come rain or shine. When I was a kid, I loved it. But I’ve not been a kid for a very long time.

You’re out of control, my father says. Your grades are slipping. You're missing training. You're turning up to matches with a hangover. Your mother went over to your apartment this morning and says it's like a pig sty. What the hell is going on, Ryan?

I shrug. How the hell should I know?

You've got a problem. You need help. Give me your keys, you're in no fit state to drive.

I glare for a moment before digging my keys from my pocket. I pause, holding them out between us.

What’s this about?

Get in.

Why? Where are we going?

I'll drive.

Drive where?

We've booked you into rehab.

The word sends a shockwave through my system. Rehab. What the hell? Does he think I'm some sort of alcoholic or something? I just like a fucking drink, that's all!

I back off. No way. No fucking way.

Yes way. Get in the car, Ryan. I'm not asking you; I'm telling you.

Now it's my turn to be angry. "I'm