get this match underway. And as Ryan jogged out of that tunnel, out onto a perfect pitch, the roar of the crowd was almost deafening. But it was exactly that which gave him the will to play this game to the best of his ability. It was that feeling only a stadium-full of football fans could give a player like him – a feeling of absolute determination not to let them down. He’d do it for them, and show them he was worth every single penny of those multi-million pounds this club had forked out for him. Ryan Fisher was home.
*
‘There’s no doubt about it, the guy can play football,’ Ronnie said, leaning against the small corner bar in the Players Lounge as the post-match crowd started to drift in. Everybody from journalists and sports reporters to pundits, players’ wives, friends and girlfriends would congregate in the Players Lounge to dissect the match, catch up with people they hadn’t seen in a while or, in the case of some of those aforementioned wives and girlfriends, bitch about somebody’s ill-advised choice of shoes, hairdo, or personalised number plate on their brand new, salmon-pink Range Rover.
‘Are you expecting somebody?’ Ronnie asked, taking a much-looked-forward-to sip of cold beer. He’d just spent the best part of two hours stuck in a commentary box and he was parched. The cups of tea he’d been given during the game just weren’t going to cut it anymore.
‘Hmm? Sorry?’ Amber said, turning to face him. ‘Did you say something?’
‘You keep looking at that door as if you’re expecting somebody to come through it.’
‘No I don’t,’ Amber frowned, her voice a touch more defensive than she’d wanted it to be.
‘Yeah. You do,’ Ronnie went on, taking another sip of beer. ‘So, when did you sleep with him, then?’
Amber almost choked on her lager. ‘Jesus Christ, Ronnie! How the hell do you know I’ve slept with Ryan Fisher?’
‘I didn’t,’ Ronnie said, leaning back against the bar again. ‘But you’ve just admitted it now.’
‘Shit! I hate you, do you know that?’ She took a long drink of lager. ‘Thursday night, if you must know.’
‘And you haven’t spoken to him since?’
‘Only when I grabbed a few words with him seconds after the match for News North East. Professional capacity only. In front of the camera wasn’t really the right time to discuss our sex life.’
‘So, you’ve got one, then?’
‘Got what?’ Amber asked, still somewhat distracted.
‘A sex life. Me on Wednesday night, Ryan Fisher on Thursday…’
‘You’re making me sound like some kind of slapper. It wasn’t like that.’
‘Well,’ Ronnie sighed. ‘I don’t want to say I told you so, kiddo…’
‘Then don’t. Because it was me who sent him packing, if you must know.’
Ronnie looked at her, frowning slightly. ‘Huh?’
‘He came to see me at work, I invited him round to my place, he looked hot – he looked really hot, actually – we had sex, then I told him to go. Simple as that.’
‘Why?’ Ronnie asked, wanting to ask so many questions but thinking better of it. She didn’t look as though she was in the mood for the Spanish Inquisition.
Amber looked over towards the door again, not caring that she was making it obvious now. ‘I got scared. I let my guard down and I let it down in front of Ryan fucking Fisher, of all people.’ She took another drink of lager and slammed her glass down on the bar, putting her head in her hands. ‘Jesus, Ronnie. What have I done? I slept with one of the most notoriously arrogant, self-centred footballers there’s ever been, he’s probably told God knows how many people, and now my “no footballers” rule is tarnished forever.’
‘Wasn’t it tarnished the second you slept with me ?’
‘You don’t count, Ronnie.’
‘Gee, thanks, Amber,’ Ronnie replied, a touch sarcastically.
‘You know what I mean,’ Amber sighed, suddenly feeling very tired. If the truth be told she hadn’t really
*
‘There’s no doubt about it, the guy can play football,’ Ronnie said, leaning against the small corner bar in the Players Lounge as the post-match crowd started to drift in. Everybody from journalists and sports reporters to pundits, players’ wives, friends and girlfriends would congregate in the Players Lounge to dissect the match, catch up with people they hadn’t seen in a while or, in the case of some of those aforementioned wives and girlfriends, bitch about somebody’s ill-advised choice of shoes, hairdo, or personalised number plate on their brand new, salmon-pink Range Rover.
‘Are you expecting somebody?’ Ronnie asked, taking a much-looked-forward-to sip of cold beer. He’d just spent the best part of two hours stuck in a commentary box and he was parched. The cups of tea he’d been given during the game just weren’t going to cut it anymore.
‘Hmm? Sorry?’ Amber said, turning to face him. ‘Did you say something?’
‘You keep looking at that door as if you’re expecting somebody to come through it.’
‘No I don’t,’ Amber frowned, her voice a touch more defensive than she’d wanted it to be.
‘Yeah. You do,’ Ronnie went on, taking another sip of beer. ‘So, when did you sleep with him, then?’
Amber almost choked on her lager. ‘Jesus Christ, Ronnie! How the hell do you know I’ve slept with Ryan Fisher?’
‘I didn’t,’ Ronnie said, leaning back against the bar again. ‘But you’ve just admitted it now.’
‘Shit! I hate you, do you know that?’ She took a long drink of lager. ‘Thursday night, if you must know.’
‘And you haven’t spoken to him since?’
‘Only when I grabbed a few words with him seconds after the match for News North East. Professional capacity only. In front of the camera wasn’t really the right time to discuss our sex life.’
‘So, you’ve got one, then?’
‘Got what?’ Amber asked, still somewhat distracted.
‘A sex life. Me on Wednesday night, Ryan Fisher on Thursday…’
‘You’re making me sound like some kind of slapper. It wasn’t like that.’
‘Well,’ Ronnie sighed. ‘I don’t want to say I told you so, kiddo…’
‘Then don’t. Because it was me who sent him packing, if you must know.’
Ronnie looked at her, frowning slightly. ‘Huh?’
‘He came to see me at work, I invited him round to my place, he looked hot – he looked really hot, actually – we had sex, then I told him to go. Simple as that.’
‘Why?’ Ronnie asked, wanting to ask so many questions but thinking better of it. She didn’t look as though she was in the mood for the Spanish Inquisition.
Amber looked over towards the door again, not caring that she was making it obvious now. ‘I got scared. I let my guard down and I let it down in front of Ryan fucking Fisher, of all people.’ She took another drink of lager and slammed her glass down on the bar, putting her head in her hands. ‘Jesus, Ronnie. What have I done? I slept with one of the most notoriously arrogant, self-centred footballers there’s ever been, he’s probably told God knows how many people, and now my “no footballers” rule is tarnished forever.’
‘Wasn’t it tarnished the second you slept with me ?’
‘You don’t count, Ronnie.’
‘Gee, thanks, Amber,’ Ronnie replied, a touch sarcastically.
‘You know what I mean,’ Amber sighed, suddenly feeling very tired. If the truth be told she hadn’t really
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