Pitbull: He plays hard on the field...He plays harder off it. (7 page)

"I'm not trying to turn my life around," I interjected, "I've been
told
I
have
to talk to someone like you, or I'm out of a job."

Emily smiled. "It's admirable that you've taken the advice then, but I can't help you. I
can
put you in touch with somebody who will though."

I stood up and walked to the framed certificate that hung on the wall next to shelves full of books. "It says here that you're a psychologist, Emily Slater," I said, tapping the glass that protected the certificate. "And I'm asking you for your help. Not forgetting that I just saved your life."

"You didn't save my life," she snorted, "you saved me from a few bruises. Sandra would have sorted him out, she's a tough one."

"She was shaking with fear!" I said, "come on, Emily. If you don't agree to giving me at least one or two sessions, then I'm out of a job. Imagine the headlines,
eminent psychologist seals Pit Bull's fate,
"

Emily stared at me, her green eyes so intense that it wouldn't have shocked me if she'd fired laser beams from them. "I'm hardly an eminent psychologist," she said, "and I don't respond well to blackmail."

"I'm not blackmailing you," I said, "I'm just trying to get the help of the most beautiful psychologist I've ever met… I've only met two others, and one was a man, but you're still by
far
the most beautiful."

I spread my arms wide, palms out. "Come on, Emily, help me out."

Emily looked like she was going to say yes, but instead, she turned her back to me, bent down and continued picking up pieces of broken glass.

"I can't help you, Jack," she said, stroking a strand of wayward hair behind her ear. "I'm sorry."

Chapter Nine

~Emily~

When Jack had left my office, I picked up the rest of the broken paperweight. A hot tear ran down my cheek as I remembered how proud my mum had been when she'd given it to me. It had been the last gift she'd bought me before the cancer had taken her.

When the last of the chunks had reluctantly been put in the bin, I sat at my desk and thought about Jack.

Never get involved with patients. That rule was written in stone, but Jack
hadn't
been a patient when I'd slept with him. I
knew
the real reason why I'd refused to help him, although I was reluctant to admit it. It was the fact that for the whole time he'd been in my office, I'd been picturing him towering over me, about to put his giant dick inside me. That was a memory that I doubted my mind would ever erase, and if I was honest, I didn't want it erased.

The night with Jack Bailey had been the most fulfilling sexual encounter of my life, and try as it might, my psychologist's brain couldn't do
anything
to make me regret it. I'd enjoyed it, and although I'd been
absolutely
certain I wouldn't sleep with him again — when I saw him, I'd instantly doubted myself.

That
was what worried me, and that's why I'd refused to see him.

Anyway, he didn't seem the type who would listen to advice about his personal life from
anyone,
let alone a psychologist — especially one he'd had sex with, so I assumed he was just looking for help from me to pay lip service to his club.

I'd seen the way he'd looked at me too. It had been pretty apparent that he was still attracted to me — you didn't need to be a psychologist to read body language, especially when it was so obvious. I didn't need the complications, not when I was so close to leaving the country.

I picked up my phone and dialled Megan. She answered on the third ring.

"Megan," I said, when she'd grunted a hello. "You'll never guess what just happened in my office."

"If I'll never guess, just go ahead and tell me," said Megan.

"I was attacked by a patient," I said, "Peter Cross, but you'll —"

"Oh my God, Emily!" gasped Megan, her voice heavy with concern. "Are you alright?"

"Yes, yes, I'm fine, really. It was nothing. Guess who saved me though?"

"Sandra?"

"No," I said, "Jack Bailey."

Megan paused. "What the hell was he doing there?" she said.

"His club wants him to speak to someone, you know, about the trouble he gets in blah blah blah," I said, "to cut a long story short, someone at his club arranged a meeting with me, and he turned up, not knowing it would be me, and walked in on me being attacked by a raving lunatic."

"Slow down," said Megan, "so you've agreed to help someone you slept with. Someone you
still
have the hots for? Isn't there a rule about that?"

"I haven't agreed to see him. I turned him down."

"Good," said Megan, "I regret ever persuading you to sleep with him. I'm sorry."

"You didn't persuade me," I laughed, "you just pointed out, correctly I might add, that I needed to let my hair down."

"I won't be doing it again," said Megan, "down that path lies weirdos and messed up rugby players. I'll keep the sleeping with strangers gig for myself."

I laughed. "Look, I'd better go. I want to clean up the mess in my office and get home early."

"Are you hurt at all, do you need me to look at you?"

"No, really I'm fine. Jack probably hurt Peter more than he hurt me."

"As long as you're sure," said Megan.

We said our goodbyes and just as I was about to press the end call button, Megan's voice came through the speaker again. "Before you go, put a note in your diary for next Saturday morning. I need your help."

"Doing?"

"Dog shopping. I'm getting a dog, and I need you to help me choose it."

Chapter Ten

Jack

"What are you talking about?" said Andy, slightly out of breath as the treadmill increased in gradient. "You have to."

I took a heavier dumbbell off the rack and continued working my triceps. The mirror I stood in front of told me all I needed to know — I still had it.

"Do you know what, Andy," I said, "I don't. Fuck Harry, and fuck the club. I can get signed somewhere else if I feel the need, and I've got enough money and investments if I don't. I don't have to see a head doctor just because someone else thinks I need to."

Andy stopped the treadmill and stepped off, wiping the sweat from his face with a Budbury Bears towel. "Come on, Jack, we need you. You're one of the best wingers in the game, and we've got a real chance of winning the cup next season. Not to mention the World Cup… you want to play for England again, right?"

"I don't know what I want," I said, honestly. I didn't, that was the truth. Maybe I wasn't cut out for the game anymore, maybe I needed to call it a day and keep bees or grow prize winning turnips. That's what a lot of people did in the areas surrounding Budbury, and they seemed happier than me. Or maybe I should just do what I enjoyed — drinking, and as Emily had put it — womanising.

"Let him do what he wants," came a voice from someone using the squatting rack.

"What do you mean by that, Carl," I said, my anger already rising. Carl Taylor had only been signed for the club for five months, but had already pissed me off on two previous occasions with his sarcastic comments. I wasn't in the mood for his shit.

"Leave it," said Andy, placing a hand on my shoulder.

"No. What do you mean, Carl — let me do what I want?"

He stopped his exercising, and stood up. "I mean," he said, glaring at me. "That if you can't be arsed to see someone about your fucking immature behaviour, then maybe we'd be better off without you. You've embarrassed this club enough already,
Pit Bull.
"

I took a step towards him. "What do you know?" I said, "you've only been here five minutes, and anyway, I'm not taking shit off someone who looks old enough to claim school dinners."

Carl laughed. "I may be young, but you're fucking past it." He took a swig of water from a plastic bottle. "Anyway, I'm old enough to kick your ass."

Andy put a hand on my shoulder as I took a step towards Carl. "Leave it mate," he said, "and you shut the fuck up, Carl."

I shrugged his hand off. He may have been bigger than me, but he knew better than to mess with me.

Carl threw his water bottle onto a padded gym mat and came at me. "Come on then, Pit Bull," he spat, "let's see how hard you are when you're not on the field with a referee to look after you."

My mind shifted into a bubbling mass of anger, and I tensed my body as Carl approached, a smirk on his face and his fists rising in front of him.

When he was a couple of feet away, I turned my body to the side and raised my own hands.

Carl rolled his body and swung a fist at me, leaving his face exposed — the mistake that people not used to fighting often make. I took the opportunity and sent a right jab flying through his non-existent guard and felt bone crunch as I connected with his eye socket.

He stumbled backwards and I flew at him, grabbing him around the throat and using his backward momentum to slam him into the gym wall.

The breath left him in a satisfying whoosh, and I tightened my grip as his hands came up to my wrist, scrabbling at me to release him.

I placed my face close against his, my forehead pushing his head further into the hard brick wall. "If you ever talk to me like that again, I'll rip your fucking ears off and force them down your throat," I hissed.

He grunted a reply and tried to nod, but I held him still, tightening my fingers.

"I mean it, Carl," I said, "don't you ever talk to me like that again."

Carl's eyes widened and I released my grip, letting him slide down the wall into a slumped ball of coughing and spluttering.

I turned away from him, my adrenalin still pumping and my hands shaking.

"What the fuck is going on in here?"

Harry was storming across the gym, his glasses in one hand and Andy next to him, trying to calm him down.

"Carl threw the first punch," said Andy, "Jack just finished it."

"I don't give a fuck who started it," said Harry, brushing Andy's hand from his chest. "In my office, Jack," he snarled, "I'll deal with you later, Taylor."

Harry turned to Andy. "Make sure he's okay," he said jabbing a finger at Carl, who was clambering to his feet.

Andy placed a hand on my shoulder as I followed Harry out of the gym. "It wasn't your fault," he said under his breath. "I've got your back."

****

"Sit down," snapped Harry, as he slammed the door shut and stormed to his side of the desk, his glasses back on his face, the lenses slightly steamed around the edges from the heavy breaths that he was trying his best to control.

"I'm giving you a choice, Jack," he said, "You either —"

"I didn't start it, Harr—"

"Let me fucking finish!" shouted Harry, spittle flying through the air and dotting the contents of his desk top.

I kept quiet. Being reprimanded by Harry evoked memories of standing in front of the headmaster at school.

"You have a choice, Jack," he said, "either you find the means to control yourself, or you're gone, and I
mean
gone. One word from me and the club will kick you straight out of the fucking door. As of now, you only need to worry about one person in your messed up world… me. I'm the person who holds your future in my hands, Jack, and right now I feel like chucking it out of the fucking window."

Harry removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He slumped in his seat and took a deep breath, his eyes softening a little.

"How's it going with the psychologist?" he said, "has anyone managed to bash any sense into that thick skull of yours yet?"

"It didn't work out."

"What do you mean, it didn't work out? How hard can it be, Jack? Jesus."

"The first two people you booked me with were fucking
freaks,
Harry. One of them made me pretend I was a soaring fucking bird, for Christ's sake. A seagull I think."

"And the third one?"

I dropped my eyes. "We just didn't click," I said.

Harry shook his head. "Jack, that's not good enough," he said, "not for me, and certainly not for the bosses. It's Saturday morning and you're fighting in a gym like a pumped up steroid abuser. Get some fucking help! You either get your arse into some form of therapy, and sort yourself out, or I swear to Arthur Davies… God rest his soul, that you're out of here."

Chapter Eleven

Jack

I left Harry's office and went straight home. A penthouse could be a lonely place sometimes, and as I stood on the balcony staring at the swathes of countryside and the distant river, I'd never felt lonelier.