Hitman's Baby (Mob City Book 2) (23 page)

I
was used
to lighting games on fire, not warming the bench.

I sat in a comfortable chair that looked more like a racing seat than a substitute's bench and smoldered to myself. We were playing Deportivo, for God's sake, not one of the big teams – this should be the kind of match the coach was more than happy to play me in, to test me out and find out what I could offer him.

Instead, when I looked at the team sheet pinned up in the locker room earlier that afternoon, I'd seen my name listed among the seven substitutes. The worst bit was that the team wasn't even playing well – we looked nothing like one of the best teams in the world.

"
Adelante
," the coach shouted in front of me, urging the players on the pitch to add some speed to the game. The match was crying out for some inventiveness, more precision in passing, but most of all – someone to just take a chance. Seventy of the ninety minutes of regular time had already passed on the clock, and the score was still obstinately nil-nil. Not a single goal scored. Not a great start to the season.

"Alejandro!" the coach shouted over his shoulder, startling me out of my irritable reverie. I looked to the player to my right questioningly, and he urged me to stand up.

"Yes?" I replied, startled.

"Warm up," he barked without looking at me, still studying the game intently. "And you, too, Rodrigo. You're on in five."

I looked back at Rodrigo, my only friend in the dressing room, and noticed that he looked, if anything, even more startled than I did. I didn't let the emotion control me for long, just pulled off my jogging pants in a hurry and pulled a yellow, numbered bib over my head so that the referee wouldn't confuse me for one of the players on the field. I ran the length of the field twice at a low speed, just getting the legs stretching, before putting my head down for a couple of short ten-yard sprints.

I felt a dull ache in my hamstrings from the previous night's efforts running up the hundreds of stairs to the top of the stadium and back, time after time – but it was nothing that I couldn't deal with.

"Ready, coach?" I asked, feeling suitably warmed. Rodrigo stood next to me, looking nervous enough to throw up. I got the sense that he hadn't played in many senior games.

"Don't let me down out there, Alejandro," he said in reply. "You remember what we worked on in training?"

I nodded, stifling the response I wanted to give – that I knew what he
wanted
me to do, but because of Ramon's interference, I hadn't actually practiced it… Still, I knew talking wouldn't get me anywhere, but taking my chance would.

A groan echoed around the stadium as the number flashed up on the substitution board. I looked up at it in surprise. I knew I was young and green, but I hadn't imagined that my substitution would cause so much concern.

"Ignore them," the coach said, clapping his hands on my shoulder. "You'll do fine."

My eyes searched for the board, and as soon as I saw it, I understood why the crowd's reaction had been so intense. My number – thirty, was on top in green. Underneath it, in red, was none other than Ramon's – the number ten.

"Fuck," I muttered. The last thing I needed was for him to hate me any more. I already suspected that part of the reason he'd taken such an immediate dislike to me was that, in a sense, I was supposed to be his replacement. I was supposed to be the future of the team, and for a man who’d dedicated his entire life to the club, the growing realization that his body could no longer reach the heights it once could must have been jarring.

He came off the field with a face like thunder. I raised my hands in a double high-five – the customary greeting in a substitution, but he just looked at me and spat on the ground before storming to his chair.

"Fuck," I repeated before running onto the pitch, followed closely by Rodrigo. Regardless of their disappointment the moment before, the crowd were nothing if not consummate supporters, and I was greeted by a roar of support that shocked me. It was one of the loudest things I'd ever heard – like a jumbo jet was taking off inside my head. It was incredible, sexual, and it had adrenaline pumping into my body at a rate I'd never experienced.

I was a forward player – an attacker who could play in any of the advanced positions on the pitch: whether at striker, on the left or right wing, or my favorite position – the number ten, just behind the striker where I could exploit the space opened up by the striker's movement and rush in on goal. Ramon had, only a few seconds before, occupied the ten role, and I slotted in.

"
Pelota
," I called, instantly screaming for the ball. My teammates might not have respected me in training, but they knew that their job on the field was to support me, because I was a match-winner, not a defender. The ball was pinged into my feet at pace, and I cushioned it to a dead stop. Suddenly, I only had eyes for the goal. Two defenders lay ahead of me – big, six-foot-two men who looked like denizens of a different area of soccer. They were slabs of muscle, and a lesser player than me would have been nervous and looked to offload the ball before they received a crunching tackle.

I ran straight at them. Judging by the expression of surprise on their faces, they weren't expecting it.

One of them came out towards me muttering something loudly. "
Cabrón
," was the only part I caught.

What the hell is it with these people and calling me a bastard?

I kept the ball glued to my foot. To take it from me, the defender was going to have to tackle very delicately or commit a foul – and he looked like the kind of brute who didn't know what the word delicate even meant.

"Hey,
coño
," I shouted. He looked to me, rage flooding through him.

"Who are you calling a pussy?" He spat at me. "You better watch out, kid."

I slowed to a halt, vaguely aware that everyone else on the pitch was twenty yards away. I had a couple of seconds at least before they caught up. I feinted, dropping my shoulder to make it look like I was about to sprint to my right, and the defender's left. I watched as he committed himself, planting one of his heavy legs in the turf and lurching towards where he thought I was heading.

I wasn't.

"
Lo siento
," I muttered, but in truth, I wasn't sorry at all. With him out of the way, leaving only one defender to beat, it was like child's play. The other defender stood in front of the goalkeeper, not knowing whether to run at me or back to his goal. I put him out of his misery.

The ball thundered, low and hard, into the back of the net, hitting the material so hard it made a rattling sound against the goalposts. The crowd erupted in pandemonium, and I wheeled away, tugging my shirt over my head and spinning around in circles as I ran towards the nearest stand.

"Oh my God," I screamed, sliding on my knees and flexing every muscle in my body as I slid to a halt. I'd just scored a debut goal – the stuff dreams are made of – and not for a tiny club, either. I'd just scored for Barcelona!

"What a goal!" Rodrigo shouted into my ear as he slid towards me, this time on his ass. He grabbed me into a massive, celebratory hug as I watched the fans in front of me go mental, hugging each other and spilling beer everywhere. "You're crazy, man!"

The rest of team joined us, and I stood up into one massive hug. I felt drunk with power, hazy with adrenaline, and almost turned on at the speed with which I'd turned myself into a fan favorite. I walked over to the stand, raised a fist and shook it happily, sending the fans into a state of rapturous, delirious excitement.

I heard the referee whistle, and turned him in surprise, only to see that he was brandishing a yellow card over his head.

"What the hell was that for?" I shouted.

"For taking your jersey off," he said, shouting back just to make headway over the noise of the now angry crowd.

It was a stupid rule, but the last thing I wanted was to get a red card and be sent off, so I shrugged, put the jersey back on and walked back into formation. I knew, even with the yellow, that this would be the best moment of my life. Not because I would never score another goal – because I expected to score hundreds, but because it was the first.

"The fastest goal ever scored by a Barcelona player on their debut," the stadium announcer thundered, "Alejandro Rodriguez!" The stadium erupted with joy one last time, and the whistle blew for the game to recommence.

Happy as I was, I couldn't help but notice that there was one man in the stadium who wasn't wearing a smile on his face – Ramon Garcia. He looked like he would happily strangle me.

T
he room hosting
the post-game press conference was a scene of utter pandemonium.

"Is it always this crazy?" I asked a Spanish journalist who was furiously scribbling away in a notebook, making use of the minutes before the press conference began to get as much of his story on paper as possible.

"In Barcelona?" He grinned, looking at me lasciviously. "Yeah, it is. But this is another level, to be fair. What's your name?" he asked.

Judging by the salacious look on his face, there was only one reason he was asking – and it wasn't out of a professional courtesy. Luckily, every chair in the room scraped backwards as Alex and the team coach entered the room as every reporter stood at once.

"Alejandro, Alejandro, Alejandro!" came the chant from a dozen different reporters' mouths. He looked ecstatic, like he'd achieved every one of his dreams, and like he was walking on air.

"Quiet, please," the tanned Barcelona press officer, Roberto, shouted over the noise of the crowd. "Please, everyone – settle down. You'll all have a chance to ask your question."

It still took a couple of seconds, but after a while, everyone sat down, microphones and Dictaphones in outstretched hands and expectant smiles on their faces.

"Yes, you," Roberto said, pointing out a middle-aged man in his early fifties. "Please remember – state your name and paper with your question."

"Of course," the man said graciously. "Miguel Marcos from the Madrid Daily News. I have a question for Alejandro."

Alex nodded, his face still wreathed in a dreamy smile. He barely seemed to be paying attention, and I couldn't blame him. After a day like his, the last place I'd want to be would be a press conference.

"Alejandro, can you tell my readers how you gained such astonishing talent in America? We didn't know that your country produced any particularly good soccer players…"

"I'm good," Alex agreed, "damn good. It doesn't have anything to do with America, or the coaches there. I work hard, I train hard, and I study the best to be the best."

"Next question?" Roberto asked quickly. To me, he looked like he was trying to cut Alex off, and I couldn't blame him. Alex wasn't exactly media polished – usually, in situations like this, players were trained to keep all the focus on the team or politely thank their parents or previous coaches.

Alex hadn't done any of that. He'd answered arrogantly and confidently – but also honestly. It wasn't exactly how I'd have done it, but I had to admit I was impressed by his chutzpah.

"Alex, Salvatore Navarro from the Sevilla Star. With talent like that, how come you didn't start today?"

Alex smiled. I saw his quick mind flick into action as he considered the question. It was a minefield – especially sitting right next to the coach who had decided not to put him in the starting lineup. However he answered, it was bound to be front-page news the next day, especially in a city as soccer mad as Barcelona.

"Tricky question, Salvatore." He laughed. The whole room laughed along with him. I began to revise my opinion – maybe he wasn't media polished in the
traditional
sense, but he seemed to have a natural air of confidence that allowed him to deal with a crowd of reporters all desperate to trick him into giving them a soundbite for a juicy story with consummate ease.

"Honestly?"

Salvatore nodded, and the whole room leaned forward as though expecting Alex to throw his coach under the bus. After his first answer, I certainly wasn't ruling it out…

"It was my first game. Coach did everything right – you can't just throw a new player into the first game from the start. Much better to give me twenty minutes at the end." The crowd sank back, looking disappointed with Alex's diplomatic response to such a loaded question. "But…" he teased, causing them to lean straight back towards him. "I fully expect to be in the team next week, isn't that right, coach?" he said, turning to the middle-aged man sitting next to him.

A flicker of irritation ran across the coach's face. "We'll see…" he grunted.

"Another question?"

I put my hand up. I'd watched the whole game from the press box, and I had a very good idea of what I was going to ask.

Roberto pointed at me. "Diana Lopez," I said, to some surprise in the room as the assorted men – and they were mostly men – tried to work out why my skin was so pale with a name that Mexican, "from WBC Sports back home."

For the first time, Alex looked rattled. I wasn't surprised; I would be, too, after discovering that someone I'd thought was nothing more than a tourist I was trying to hit on turned out to be a national sports journalist. Especially after what he'd told me…

"Alex," I said softly, "when you were substituted on today, I couldn't help but notice that Ramon Garcia didn't look very happy to come off. Can you tell us whether there’s any tension in the locker room following your arrival?"

If looks could kill, I'd be long dead. He took his time formulating a response, and when he did, he spoke coldly, sparing no effort to make me feel like scum. I guessed I kind of deserved it.

"I respect Ramon, and I imagine he was disappointed, as I've been many times in a game. It was a hard fought match against tough opponents, but I'm sure Ramon was as happy as anyone when I scored."

It was a pitch perfect deflection, one which any professional media consultant would have been proud to have written, and Alex came up with it on the spot. He wasn't just skilled with the ball at his feet, I realized, he was seriously clever as well. But he wasn't done responding – the last bit was aimed directly at me.

"I hope that's enough for you, Miss Lopez," he said coldly, "because that's all I have to say on the matter."

I watched as, visibly seething with anger, Alex dismissively waved for someone to ask the next question. In less than a second, his mood had changed from one of delight over his impressive debut to one of barely repressed rage. As I looked around, I noticed that the press pack were more than aware that they'd just witnessed something important. They were sitting up straighter, looking around at each other with questioning eyes as if to ask – "
Did you see that, too?
"

I couldn't blame Alex for his anger – after all, I'd not only ambushed him, but potentially ruined the memory of what should be one of the happiest days of his life. Not only that, but by raising the question of whether there was a rift between Alex and his team captain in such a public setting, I'd most likely set him up for weeks of strenuous media cross-examination – the last thing any professional sportsman wanted to endure.

The thing was, I thought, I'd burned every bridge with Alex coming this far, only to be met with the kind of boilerplate response that reporters got fobbed off with every day. As things stood, my question had been a disaster – certainly nothing I could report on live television later that evening. I felt terrible for ruining Alex's big day – but now that I'd done it, I wondered whether there was any point in stopping. If I didn't get a decent story out of it, I figured, then all this harm had been for nothing. It was a slippery slope, and I was falling down it fast.

"Alex," I shouted out in English, a language I hoped that most in the press room would speak sparingly, if at all, "one last follow-up question – can you comment on speculation that you had a bust-up with Ramon Garcia–?"

"That's it, I'm done," Alex hissed, batting away the microphone that sat on the table with the back of his right hand. It fell to the ground, and a loud squeal and a series of thuds played through the room's speakers.

Roberto stood up, trying to calm Alex down, but the player wasn't in any mood to listen. Wary that he was, if anything, contributing to the scene in front of media from all over Spain – and in fact, like me, all over the world, the press officer quickly stopped. The sound team quickly killed the offending microphone, thankfully silencing the ghastly dirge, but by this point, Alex was already on his way out, each long stride emphasizing the length of his powerful legs.

The press officer clicked his fingers, urgently indicating he needed another microphone. It was quickly handed over.

"Apologies for that, ladies and gentlemen," he stalled, desperately eyeing up the door in the hope that Alex might return. After a few seconds, when it was clear that Alex had no such intentions, he continued. "Alejandro has had a, uh, dramatic day. I imagine he's still riding high off the adrenaline of scoring his first goal for this historic club…"

The press conference erupted, three dozen journalists, news anchors and reporters all competing to ask the next question, while the clacking sound of camera shutters closing bounced off every wall. I stood in the middle of the room, clutching my Dictaphone like a lifeline, shell-shocked at how badly my first ever press conference had gone.

"No more questions, I'm afraid," the press officer shouted over the clamor of the baying crowd. Even so, he was assailed by the press until he also left the conference room. I needed to get out, because suddenly, I felt hot and claustrophobic – not just because of the heat of the lights and the dozens of bodies in close proximity to me, but because I felt ashamed of how I'd acted.

I'd always hoped that I wouldn't be an ambush-style reporter – hoped that I would trust in my journalism skills and track down the story, rather than trying to beat it out of my subject with force.

And yet, the first time that vow was truly put the test, I failed.

I pushed through the crowd, hot tears pricking my eyes. I caught a couple of curses muttered at me in Spanish as I stepped on toes and bumped into people on my way out, but I couldn't have cared less. I was almost out the door when my path was blocked.

"Where do you think you're going, missy?"

I looked up, wiping the wetness away from my eyes surreptitiously. "Who – who are you?" I asked as not one, but two men came into focus. My eyes bugged as they finally did, because they both looked preposterous, in entirely different ways. To my right stood a gentleman, well over six feet tall, whose gut bulged over his trousers in a way that was noticeable even on his truly massive frame and was scarcely contained by a stained, mustard-yellow jacket.

To his right, and my left, his companion was so different that it barely seemed credible. He was entirely average – dark hair, somewhat pale skin, perhaps five-foot-nine, but was wearing a cream Cuban-style linen suit and held a straw panama hat under one arm.

"Frank," the fat man bellowed. "And this here's Ken," he said, jutting his thumb towards his friend.

"Okay…" I said, completely confused. "I'm sorry, have we met?"

The thin man, Ken, started chuckling. It was a high-pitched, keening laugh that sent shivers running down my spine. For a man whose appearance was generally inoffensive, other than his grandiose style of dress, the laugh was enough to immediately kill any sense that I might ever be friends with him.

"No, girl," he began.

Girl!

"I think you'd remember if you'd met us," he said arrogantly.

"Well," I hesitated, off-balance, "who are you then?"

"We're journalists," fat Frank said condescendingly.

I really wasn't sure how I was supposed to respond to that. Of course they were both press – after all, why else would they be in a
press conference
?

"Congratulations," I said dryly. "It’s been great meeting you both. If you don't mind, I'm in a bit of a hurry to file my story," I lied.

"Actually," Ken said, twirling his panama hat ostentatiously, "we do mind. Frank and I were talking, and you know what,
Diana
?" he said lasciviously.

"What?" I sighed, more than aware of what was going on. This was far from the first time a man had tried to tell me how to do my job. In fact, I was beginning to notice that it was something of a trend with middle-aged men.

"You do know," Frank picked up, "how badly you screwed up in there, don't you?"

I did, but I sure as hell wasn't going to admit it – especially not to these intrusive assholes. "I'm sure you're about to enlighten me…"

"We don't like," Ken continued, pointing back to Frank, "rookies like you coming in in giving the rest of
us
," the pointing intensified, "a bad name. You know how hard it is to make a career as an American journalist in Spain?"

He jabbed his finger threateningly in my direction, though not to the point of actually making contact.

"I guess not," I said noncommittally, doing my best to sidle past my two unexpected assailants. The hair on the back of my neck was standing up – it felt like I was experiencing a fight or flight reaction to the unexpected situation. I wasn't scared so much as…uncomfortable.

"Oh, you'll learn," Frank said, picking up where his partner had left off. "If you last, that is – and looking at you," he said, making a point to pass his eyes up and down the entire length of my body – lingering on the chest, "I don't expect you'll make the cut."

I was beginning to get annoyed. In fact,
annoyed
didn't really cover it: I was getting angry, especially as my brain had finally computed the fact that there was absolutely no way, even with my slender frame, that I was getting past Frank's bulk. I guessed theoretically I could possibly have fit in between his rounded gut and the door frame, but I definitely didn't want to risk the unappetizing prospect of having to touch his doughy flesh. It wasn't his size that bothered me – it was his creepy demeanor.

"Are you going to get out of my way?" I asked firmly. "Because I've got a story to file."

The two men looked at each other and chuckled. "Oh, that's funny," Frank gurgled over the sound of his belly laugh, "so would we – if you hadn't just torpedoed that press conference. We don't get paid to sit around on our asses, you know."

"What do you want from me?" I asked desperately. I knew I'd fucked up – and badly. Not only had I turned Alex, who could have been a useful source if only I had treated him with basic respect, against me, but it also seemed like I'd created a rift amongst the entire press pack. Except I was the only member of one of the sides.