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Pointless going after something that was only going to kick you in the balls, metaphorically speaking, of course. Why bother with all that shit when he had Ellen ready and waiting for him to just click his fingers whenever he wanted her? Not to mention all the potential conquests that would doubtless be lining up to meet the newest addition to North East football when he hit the town later. Some of his team-mates were taking him into the city centre for a bit of a “welcome to the club” night out, and even though it was a Wednesday, and probably not the kind of night that was going to throw up the biggest choice in women, Ryan was absolutely certain there wouldn’t be a shortage. It was almost as if these girls could sniff out a footballer at fifty paces, and before you knew it you were surrounded by a barrage of them all trying to “get to know you”. Ryan couldn’t fucking wait!
    ‘Okay you lot, back on the pitch, come on!’
    Ryan pulled himself up off the ground, glugging back one last mouthful of water. He had no intention of ignoring Colin Bailey. The man was a legendary football coach who, along with Jim Allen, the charismatic, American-born ex-player-turned-manager, had joined the club in the hope that they could bring Newcastle Red Star the success that had eluded them for far too long. Bailey had a reputation as a stern but fair coach, and it was a reputation that had gained him the respect of any player who’d trained under him. But he could also put the fear of God into you if he thought you were slacking in any way. Ryan, however, intended to start as he meant to go on – getting on the good side of his new coach.
    ‘Over here, Fisher!’ Colin yelled in his tough Glaswegian accent. An accent that only solidified his no-nonsense attitude. ‘A quick kick-about about to end the session, okay? But let’s not treat this like a piss around in the park, alright? I’m watching the lot of you. Especially you, Fisher. We need to know exactly what to do with you on Saturday.’
    Ryan ran back out onto the pitch, ready to give not just the coach but also the gathering crowd of press and TV that had been allowed access into today’s training session something to really look at. Ryan Fisher was one of the greatest strikers out there right now, and he was in the process of showing them just what it was this club had paid millions for.
    Fifteen minutes later and all he had to do was talk to a couple of journalists, give a handful of quick interviews to camera, and he was done for the day. But Ryan didn’t intend to waste the afternoon playing golf or spending money on some ridiculously over-priced shirt to wear tonight; he had enough of those already. No, he intended to give Ellen a ring, see if she could get away for an hour or so. He was going to spend the afternoon getting some practise in for his night on the town. Ellen was the warm-up act, but Ryan was definitely on the look-out for a different main performance.
    ‘You ready, then?’ Max asked, sauntering over to Ryan, his mobile phone attached firmly to his ear.
    Ryan rubbed a towel along the back of his neck, looking over towards the throng of assorted journalists and reporters who were across the other side of the pitch talking to some of his team mates. ‘Yeah. I’m ready.’
    ‘Great. Hang on a second; I’ll just take this call. Don’t wander off, okay?’
    Ryan sometimes wondered if Max actually knew how old he was because, at times, he still treat him like the nineteen-year-old kid he’d been when Max had first started representing him. Or maybe he just knew him too well.
    Looking over once again at the crowd of reporters, Ryan squinted slightly as a familiar figure stepped back from the crowd. Was that Ronnie White? What was he doing here? Hang on; was he with that reporter from yesterday? What was her name again…? Amber. That was it! Amber Sullivan. Daughter of Freddie Sullivan, apparently. So Max had told him. Pity she hadn’t inherited