Riley Ricketts was gone.
The Patrovo sponsorship was gone.
My rival Alistair Pritch had won.
All that I had left was Jess, and she was absolutely furious with me for fucking things up so badly. She barely spoke to me on the flight back, electing to get into a separate taxi and head back for her small cou
ntryside cottage.
In truth, I barely had her at all.
Three hours of traffic and drizzling rain later, my driver pulled up to the gates outside my lavish home. He finally realized with one look at the house that I was loaded, but still couldn’t seem to place me.
“You some kind of big deal, brother?”
“Not anymore,” I told him, slipping a substantial tip into his hand. “Not anymore…”
I realized that he was ignoring my words – mostly because his eyes were too busy counting the bills I’d handed him. He glanced back up at the gate, and the driveway that stretched beyond it. “You want me to take you up to the door? Looks like quite a walk.”
“Absolutely not,” I told him, pulling the hood up as the dismal rain rose in volume. I closed the door and let myself through a side gate, and then carried my suitcase up the lonely, sluggish route to the front of my small mansion.
Lambert House was priceless, mostly due to the sheer size of the property and the thick virtually impregnable wall surrounding it. It had belonged to a Duke of some nature, living out here in the countryside. A summer getaway spot for royalty...
I called it home.
My eyes scanned the windows in the distance as my shoes sloshed through the mud. Even with all this pea gravel, it did barely anything to hold back the natural consequences of consistent rainfall.
Chet, my groundskeeper, was sailing towards me in his little covered cart, maneuvering around thick puddles and loose, soggy earth to skitter to a stop near me.
“Mister Lambert! This is no weather to be taking a walk, good sir! Let me take you inside!”
I nodded, although I doubted he noticed the gesture in the rain. Instead, I lugged my suitcase onto the back tray of his cart beneath the canvas bonnet of the vehicle, and took a soaked seat in the passenger’s chair. He took one forlorn look at me before driving us towards the manor steps.
“Permission to speak freely?” He asked.
“Granted.”
“Mister Lambert, I’m afraid that you look positively dreadful.”
I laughed heartily to myself, naturally alarming him. After I wiped away the uncomfortable, dripping rain from my face, I commented: “Let’s just say I’ve had a rough couple of days.”
He kept his eyes forward, carefully whizzing us through patches of solid ground. “I take it that America didn’t treat you kindly, then?”
“My trip was… complicated.”
“Ah, I see.”
Of course, he didn’t really. But the sympathy was appreciated, and we sat in silence for the last three minutes of the drive.
Once I’d pulled myself indoors, a maid brought me a towel and took my suitcase up to my main bedroom. There were only a few members on my staff, but they acted quickly and diligently at my appearance, already having some arrangements made as soon as I appeared within the gates.
A fresh change of clothes _– my usual business attire – was ready for me in the foyer. I wasn’t particularly feeling myself, so I left them where they were and wandered upstairs, changing into something a little more casual.
My staff sensed the change in my demeanor, and gave me a wide berth as I settled back home. It only occurred to me a few hours later that they were likely expecting my publicist to have joined me for the trek, and so I knew that they realized things were amiss.
Behind the manor, I had contracted the installation of an enclosed football field. Since the rain had done absolutely nothing to let up, I took the accompanying underground passage out to the field. It was less than half a kilometer of walking, and it was blissfully dry. When I arrived, I switched on the industrial lighting and marveled at how the water roared against the glass ceiling and walls before retrieving the best looking football from my equipment room.
It was time to work a few things out the only way I knew how.
I spent well over an hour kicking the ball around, fighting imaginary opponents on the field. I remembered my first year of owning this place, I’d invite friends over for garden parties before taking on any and all challengers in the diminutive glass stadium.
But now, there was just me.
My arrival was less conspicuous than I had imagined. I was surprised to hear a buzzing as I knocked the football into the opposite goal once again, claiming another imaginary victory against my perceived opponents. Turning and panting, I spotted a small assortment of people on the opposite wall, shaking off umbrellas and standing in the covered foyer room outside.
Jogging over towards them, I realized that it was my usual group of friendly competitors – some amateur players from my schooling days, most of my National team, and a couple of members of the staff who were avid football fans and players.
There were a little less than two dozen of them… just enough to play a game. Jess must have been working a little magic. Maybe she hadn’t given up on me yet…
“What are you lot doing here?” I asked as I unlocked the entrance and let them all in. They hung their wet jackets in the nearby coatroom, smiling and clasping my hand in turn.
“What, you’re gonna come back and not tell us?” Jarvis MacNeil grinned, gripping me by the shoulder. He was one of the defenders on my team, and a rigorous force to deal with.
“My mind’s been a little preoccupied the last few days,” I confessed.
“Well, I can certainly see that!” Another chimed in. This one was Kil Humapoor, an old dormitory mate who had the gift, but was just too lazy to audition for teams. “You head straight onto the field to play alone after a sudden flight back? Not a person here that doesn’t know that means something’s wrong, man.”
“I don’t want to talk about it,” I muttered.
“No need to talk with words, bro,” Jarvis replied. “Do it with your feet. Let’s dance!”
The twenty of them changed into athletic attire in the equipment rooms. Afterwards, we split into two teams and set the stage for our match beneath the storm.
With Humapoor electing to play as referee to maintain the balance, we chose our sides and set the green battlefield for war. Above us, the rain pounded against the glass as we fought valiantly for the ball. The storm’s intensity was cheering us on.
Both teams were short a man, but we were able to work around that mutual handicap. I took my usual position as an offensive striker, dominating the ball and barking orders to my team as I led a vicious charge against the others.
Jarvis MacNeil had been nominated as captain of the opposition, and took a conservative, defensive approach. After years of playing together, he knew my weaknesses, and was able to hold us back time and time again… but he wasn’t prepared for the level of frustration and bitterness that I brought to the green.
I ran faster than ever.
My kicks were stronger than ever.
Fueled by hate and animosity, I channeled every last ounce of my blinding fury into my plays, unafraid to test the patience of our ref and to lash out if it meant gaining additional ground, crippling a tactical advantage of the opposing team, or smiting down one of their brief shots at temporary victory.
During a break, MacNeil and Humapoor approached me, tossing me a bottle of water as they downed their own.
“Dude, what the fuck is the matter with you?” MacNeil asked, giving me a fierce look as I squeezed the bottle into my mouth. “You’re playing like a wild fucking animal.”
“Nothing’s the matter,” I insisted gravely.
“You’re acting possessed out there, dude,” Humapoor added. “I’ve never seen you so unchained on the green. It’s like you’re on the bloody attack!”
“I said, everything is fine,” I hissed, letting my insipid glare fuel the emotion.
“What the hell happened in America?” He pressed me, simultaneously pushing his luck as well as my buttons.
I stood up from the bench, putting my nose inches from his as I glared him down. “It’s done. It’s finished. What happened there is over. And now I have to deal with that.”
?
??You’re Lightning Lex,” MacNeil kicked in, stepping up to back up our friend. While MacNeil hadn’t encountered him during school, they’d gained a healthy respect for each other during our impromptu matches, and bonded over a shared love of premium cigars. “Whatever happened, you can fix it.”
“What part of it’s over didn’t you quite understand?” I snarled at him.
“The part where you got back on a plane like a yellow-bellied coward instead of taking care of your fucking business,” MacNeil spat back, fueling me into a rage. “I don’t know what’s got you set off, but I know it has nothing to do with the story in the rags. You want to hide away in your glass cage and beat the piss out of a ball? That’s your problem. You start taking it out on your friends during a friendly match? Ain’t fucking nothing friendly about what you’re doing out here. Either tone your shit down and accept whatever your fuck-up is, or get back out there and take care of your shit.”