CHAPTER 2 - The Captain's Rules

Alexander Hayes had never been particularly fond of the press.

He hated how they could turn a line he spoke in genuine trust into a headline that would follow him for months. He hated the cameras waiting outside his house when he lost badly. Above all, he hated the way people who had never met him thought they knew everything about him.

Isabella Reed was different.

She was irritating in a way he could not dismiss.

Most journalists wanted a quote they could use. Some wanted a photograph. Others wanted to ask him about his private life, in the hope they would extract an embarrassing comment to sell extra copies.

Isabella had questioned his honesty.

Worse, she had done so without appearing to have the slightest interest in him.

Alexander sat in his car outside the club's administrative building, staring through the windscreen as rain trickled down the glass.

"Problem, Captain?"

He turned towards Daniel Brooks, who had just climbed into the passenger seat.

His best friend had been at Westbridge for almost as long as he had. At twenty-seven, Daniel was the team's vice-captain, a reliable midfielder, and one of the few people who could annoy Alexander without suffering immediate consequences.

"No problem."

Daniel glanced at him.

"Then why do you look like someone cancelled Christmas?"

"Because I just spent twenty minutes talking to the most infuriating journalist in London."

Daniel's face brightened.

"Female journalist?"

"Don't start."

"Pretty?"

"Daniel."

"Beautiful?"

Alexander started the engine.

Daniel laughed.

"Definitely beautiful, then."

"She was rude."

"Perhaps you deserved it."

Alexander shot him a look.

"Whose side are you on?"

"The side that gets me the most entertaining story."

Alexander pulled out of the car park.

"She asked about the financial allegations."

Daniel's smile faded.

"Oh."

"Exactly."

Neither spoke for a moment.

The scandal was becoming impossible to ignore. Rumours that Westbridge had been involved in questionable transfer payments were spreading through the football world. The club's management insisted everything was legitimate, but the constant rumblings had started to affect the players.

Sponsors were asking questions. Supporters were demanding explanations. The league had asked the club's financial department to supply documents.

Alexander knew only what he had been told.

And that was precisely what frightened him.

For the past month, he had seen people he trusted become nervous whenever the allegations were raised. Meetings were suddenly cancelled. Conversations ceased at his approach. Even the manager seemed to be choosing his words more carefully than was normal.

Alexander had asked the club director, Richard Vale, whether the players needed to be concerned.

Vale had given a smile and told Alexander to concentrate on football.

It was the same answer everyone gave.

Concentrate on football.

As if football existed in a world that was untouched by money, ambition, and lies.

"Do you think there's something to it?" Daniel asked quietly.

Alexander tightened his grip on the steering wheel.

"I don't know."

"That's not very reassuring."

"I wasn't aware I was responsible for reassuring you."

"You're the captain. It's practically in your job description."

Alexander said nothing.

Daniel looked at him.

"Did the journalist seem to know anything useful?"

"She had documents."

"What kind?"

"Financial records, apparently."

Daniel whistled softly.

"Sounds serious."

"It sounds like she wanted to intimidate me."

"Maybe she wanted an answer."

Alexander glared at him.

"You're enjoying this."

"Immensely."

Daniel leaned back.

"What's her name?"

"Why?"

"So I can read her article when it comes out."

"Isabella Reed."

Daniel reached for his phone.

"Right. Isabella Reed. Twenty-four, probably clever, definitely beautiful-"

"Give me your phone."

Daniel burst into laughter.

"I'm only looking her up!"

"Give me the phone."

"You know, if you continue to behave like this, people will start thinking you're jealous."

Alexander stopped the car at a traffic light.

"I am not jealous."

"Of a journalist?"

"Of anyone."

The light turned green and Alexander drove off, refusing to acknowledge Daniel's laughter.

By the time they reached the training ground, he had almost got over Isabella Reed.

Almost.

Training was usually the one place he could silence voices from the outside world.

On the pitch, there were clear rules. A pass was either good or it wasn't. A tackle was either clean or it wasn't. Goals counted for more than rumours and the only opinions that mattered were those of the people standing beside you.

Today, however, his concentration was far below its usual standard.

He misjudged a pass and sent the ball skidding beyond Daniel's reach and got a whistle from their manager.

"Heyes!"

Alexander turned.

Manager Thomas Bennett stood at the edge of the pitch, his arms folded.

"Are you plann ing to play football today?"

"Yes, sir."

"Then perhaps you should start doing it."

A few players snickered.

Alexander got the ball and returned to position and the next hour was brutal.

Bennett pushed the squad through repeated attacking drills, demanding speed, precision, and discipline and Alexander responded in kind.

By the end of training, his shirt clung to his back and his legs ached.

He welcomed the ache.

It was easier than thinking.

In the changing room, his phone buzzed.

A message from Richard Vale.

My office. Immediately.

Alexander frowned.

He showered quickly, changed into dark trousers and a black jumper and crossed the corridor to the administrative wing.

Vale's office overlooked the main training pitch. The director sat behind a wide desk, chatting to the club's communications manager, Victoria Shaw.

They both looked up as Alexander entered.

"Captain," Vale said. "Thank you for coming."

"You said it was urgent."

"It is."

Victoria closed the folder in front of her.

"We understand you were asked about the financial allegations during this morning's interview."

Alexander remained standing.

"Who told you?"

"The communications team has already received a complaint from the journalist's newspaper."

"About what?"

"Your refusal to answer."

Alexander gave a humourless laugh.

"I'm a footballer, not an accountant."

"No one is asking you to explain the accounts," Vale replied. "But we need to ensure that all public statements are consistent."

"Consistent with what?"

"With the club's position."

"And what exactly is the club's position?"

Vale's smile was thin.

"That the allegations are unsubstantiated."

"Then why are we having this conversation?"

For the first time, irritation crossed the director's face.

"Because the media is looking for a weakness, Alexander. And as captain, you are the most visible representative of this club."

Alexander looked between the two men- or, rather, between Vale and Victoria.

"So you want me to smile for photographs and pretend nothing is happening?"

"We want you to focus on football."

There it was again.

The same phrase.

Alexander's expression hardened.

"What happens if the allegations turn out to be true?"

Silence.

Victoria looked down at her folder.

Vale leaned back in his chair.

"They won't."

"That wasn't my question."

"Your responsibility is to the team."

"And the club's responsibility to its players?"

Vale's eyes narrowed.

"Be careful."

Alexander stared at him.

It was not a warning a man gave unless he believed he had the authority to make it matter.

Alexander had spent years earning his place at Westbridge. He had worked his way through injuries, fought for his position, and accepted the pressure that came with being captain and he would not allow anyone to treat him as a child simply because he wanted answers.

“I'm always careful,” he said.

Then he left.

He was halfway down the corridor when his phone rang.

His agent, Michael Grant.

Alexander answered.

"What's happened?"

"Nothing yet," Michael replied. "But I want you to be aware that other clubs are monitoring the situation."

Alexander fell silent.

"What other clubs?"

"Several. They want to know whether Westbridge is facing a genuine investigation or merely dealing with rumours."

"I'm not leaving Westbridge."

"I didn't say you were. I'm telling you to be prepared."

Alexander rubbed a hand over his face.

"I have a match on Saturday. That's what I'm preparing for."

"Then make sure you play well. Right now, the last thing you need is your name attached to a financial scandal."

Alexander ended the call before his agent could continue.

Outside, the afternoon sky had darkened.

He walked towards his car, his thoughts tangled in the conversations of the day.

He had always believed that if he worked hard enough, stayed disciplined, and kept his private life private, he could protect the things that mattered to him.

Now, for the first time in years, he was starting to wonder if hard work would be enough.

His phone buzzed again.

A notification appeared from the London Chronicle.

An article had just been published about Westbridge FC's financial allegations.

The headline read:

WESTBRIDGE FC UNDER SCRUTINY AS QUESTIONS MOUNT OVER MYSTERIOUS PAYMENTS

Alexander opened the article.

Isabella Reed's name appeared beneath the headline.

He read every word.

The article was careful, measured, and supported by limited evidence. She didn't accuse anyone of a crime. She didn't invent quotations or exaggerate the allegations.

She simply asked questions the club had refused to answer.

At the bottom was a sentence that made him stop.

The club's players may be unaware of the full extent of the situatio

n, but their silence will not prevent the truth from emerging.

Alexander read it twice.

Then he locked his phone.

He was angry with her.

He was angry with the club.

Most of all, he was angry because she had managed to say in a single sentence what he had been thinking for weeks.

And he had no idea whether he could trust her enough to find out the truth.