Chapter 44: Xavier

Chapter 44: Xavier

No news is good news. Except for when no news is bad news.

It doesn’t matter. I’m living in limbo, which is akin to hell in my book.

I should probably simply admit defeat and move back to England, tail between my legs. I’ve never been one to cower in the face of a challenge though.

It may be why I’m here, against my better judgment, doing a grueling circuit that includes burpees, dragon walks, jump squats, spiderman push-ups, broad jumps, and pistol squats. My quads hate me, but only as much as I hate myself.

I can’t admit that I’m done, so I’m still here, training like a fool. Kenley, of course, is egging me on as if I’m going to be on the field for pre-season in two months. I finally hit my max, my legs buckling under the sheer fatigue, and I collapse down on the artificial turf of the Buzzards’ training facility.

Three weeks have gone by and the only thing keeping me partially sane is pushing my body beyond the point of exhaustion. Kenley lets me in after the rest of the team is done for the day, but I’m fairly confident he’s giving me the same sets they’re doing.

I’m not sure why he let me crash in his flat in the first place. I’m quite certain he’s punishing me in the gym for my overall crankiness and poor attitude. On the other hand, when I push my body to the point of breaking, it’s the only time I don’t feel like my heart has been ripped out of my chest and smashed beneath a boot.

Clearly, that’s not a good feeling either, so I’ll take muscles so worn out they simply cease to fire. It’s better this way. Not sustainable in the least, but I don’t know what else to do.

I close my eyes and clench my fists over my face, willing the burning to cease.

"Holy shit, Bird Man, you’re a beast. You hit the highest reps of the team."

"Too bad I’m not on the team," I growl through clenched teeth.

"Yeah, I wish I could put your name on the leaderboard. It might spark a fire under these lightweights to know they’ve got serious competition."

"Who you callin’ a lightweight?"

I don’t recognize the voice immediately, so I sit up. It’s Callaghan Entay, the keeper. He’s been named co-captain for the upcoming season. But if he’s in here, it probably means the rest of the team isn’t far behind.

Bollocks.

I need to stand up and get out of here before I’m accused of trespassing. With my luck, it won’t matter that Kenley let me in. I’ll still be accused. Or Kenley will end up being sacked. I don’t need that on my ledger. He’s a right good mate, and I can’t have him suffer for trying to help me.

Randomly, Ophelia’s rant about birds being bad luck and harbingers of doom passes through my brain. Perhaps she was right about that.

"Fuck, Kenley, I’ll go. I don’t want you to get in trouble."

"Actually, I came to talk to you." Entay sits down. He glances around nervously. I’d be nervous to talk to me too. "I’ve got to make this quick though. Word on the street is that you’re totally screwed right now."

"Good words travel fast."

"I got it from an inside source." Entay glances at Kenley. "Listen, those of us on this track know what it can be like. We get targeted for things all the time. Do you know how many paternity tests we’ve taken as a team?"

Kenley laughs. "Just you personally."

Entay shoots daggers at him with his eyes. "And the majority are unfounded. Kenley’s working with you, helping you out. That leads me to believe that there’s a chance you might not be as diabolical as the press is making you out to be. But you need to start speaking up for yourself."

"I’d like to hear this myself." Bjorn Janssen is there. Where’d he come from? Crap on a cracker. There’s no way this is going to end well.

I sit up, running my fingers through my hair. It takes me a moment to get to my feet. If it weren’t for the sudden jolt of adrenaline, I’m not sure I’d be able to stand at all.

"Let’s go to the conference room and discuss this." It sounds like a suggestion, but when Coach uses that tone, we all know it’s a directive.

My whole body is numb as I follow Kenley and Janssen into the office portion of the Buzzards’ facility. Entay brings up the rear, probably to make sure I don’t sprint off.

With the gelatinous mess my legs are from that killer workout, I wouldn’t be able to run away if a bear was chasing me. I’d simply lie down and be bear food. That might be the more preferred option, as I feel as if I’m marching to the gallows. This is it. This is when they tell me to get out and never come back, and just like that my football career will be done.

"Can I shower first?" I’m stalling, I know, but I also smell. "I might be better prepared for a discussion not covered in sweat."

"No. Just sit down." Janssen opens the door to the conference room. This is so much worse than I anticipated. The room is full of suits. Most of them I don’t recognize. One looks vaguely familiar, but I can’t place him. I definitely recognize Robert Miller, owner of the Buzzards.

Bloody hell, this is going to be bad.

Coach Janssen points to a chair and I slide into it. There’s a pitcher of water on the table in front of me. I pour a glass and promptly down it in one fell swoop. I refill my glass and drain that too.

It does nothing to quench the parchedness of my throat.

"Let’s get this meeting started," the voice behind me says. I turn to look. Camacho is here? Shit. Absolute bloody shit.

Miller stands up. "We were just waiting on you, Vinny. Prompt as always, I see."

Camacho is so slick I’m surprised he doesn’t slide off the seat when he sits down. "Xavier." He nods in my general direction.

I pour myself one more glass of water, this time if only for something to do.

"You’ve really stepped in it this time," Camacho continues. "I should have known you’d be a wild card with the reputation you came in with. Disgraceful. Who knows how many more people you’d leave in your wake of destruction? Do you know how hard you’ve been to pin down? Lucky for me, owners talk. I’m not sure what you thought you were doing here, training illegally." He opens his briefcase and pulls out a stack of papers.

Sliding them down the table, he continues, "That’s a violation of your contract. Additionally, you violated your morality clause by engaging in fraudulent and illegal behavior with one Ophelia Finnegan."

I want to hiss at the mention of her name. How dare he even speak it?

"So if you’ll please sign where the tabs are, you’ll be officially terminated with the Baltimore Terrors."

Oh fuck. That water sits like lead in my stomach. I want to vomit it all back up. I look wildly around the table for a friend. An ally even. But all I see is stony faces.

"Do I have a choice?" I ask. I want to beg, to plead for someone to tell me there’s another way.

Miller clears his throat. "I’m afraid not, Xavier. By working with Kenley here, you clearly violated your contract. You have no option but to sign the termination papers."

This is it. This is how it ends. With my hand shaking, I pick up the pen and begin to scrawl my name. Once, twice, three times, and then it’s done.

Football is done.

My life is done.

I close my eyes as I place the pen down on the table. I hear the papers being pulled away. I sit back in the chair, eyes still closed, and elbows propped on the armrests. I knit my fingers together and try to focus on deep breathing. If I can’t do something to still my mind, I’ll absolutely lose it.

I’ve lost enough today. I’ll keep what’s left of my dignity, thank you very much. Though there’s nothing wrong with a bloke crying, I won’t give these suits the honor of seeing me do it.

I can hear low murmurs over the roaring inside my ears. Words swirl, but nothing clear enough for me to decipher. My brain struggles to process what they’re saying. What I’m hearing.

"It’s witnessed and notarized, Vinny. It’s done, correct?" I think that’s Miller, but I can’t tell without looking.

"Done. Fair and square. Xavier Henry is no longer a Baltimore Terror. His career is finished, once and for all."

Slowly I open my eyes to see Camacho handing a stack of papers to the vaguely-familiar looking gentleman. Then I place him. Tanner Suarez. Commissioner of the USSL.

Bloody hell.

Not that there was much of a chance, but this seals the deal that no USSL team will ever even glance my way again.

Camacho stands. "Well, ladies, this has been fun, but now I’m off."

"Sit down, Vinny. I think you need to hear this." Miller’s voice is commanding.

Camacho sinks down slowly, and I sit up straight. What’s going on?

"Bjorn, whenever you’re ready."

I don’t know what else there is to say. I’ve been sacked. I’m banned from the USSL as well. They wouldn’t have Suarez here if I wasn’t. I don’t need to hear them say it to know that it’s true.

And the last thing I need to hear is my former coach telling me what a disappointment I am. I already know that. Every single cell in my body knows that.

"Thanks, Bob. Mr. Suarez, I’m glad you could join us today. We at the Boston Buzzards value integrity and honesty, as well as transparency in our business dealings."

Camacho smirks. "Yeah, then why did you want this guy?" He jerks a thumb toward me. "He’s as shady and ruthless as they come. Need I remind you that he almost killed poor Phaedra Jones? Tanner, think about it. What if it was your daughter? Edmund Jones was right to ban him from the BSL."

"Yeah, about that," Bjorn says. He nods toward one of the suits, who begins clicking away on his computer. The projector screen at the opposite end of the room lights up as Zoom opens.

And there’s Phaedra Jones.