The Footballer and the Wife

Lee Brook The Footballer and the Wife First published by Middleton Park Press 2023 Copyright © 2023 by Lee Brook All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, scanning, or otherwise without written permission from the publisher. It is illegal to copy this book, post it to a website, or distribute it by any other means without permission. This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author's imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental. Lee Brook asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work. Lee Brook has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for external or third-party Internet Websites referred to in this publication and does not guarantee that any content on such Websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate. Designations used by companies to distinguish their products are often claimed as trademarks. All brand names and product names used in this book and on its cover are trade names, service marks, trademarks and registered trademarks of their respective owners. The publishers and the book are not associated with any product or vendor mentioned in this book. None of the companies referenced within the book have endorsed the book. First edition This book was professionally typeset on ReedsyFind out more at reedsy.com For Malc— For everything. Thank you. Contents Chapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter FourteenChapter FifteenChapter SixteenChapter SeventeenChapter EighteenChapter NineteenChapter TwentyChapter Twenty-oneChapter Twenty-twoChapter Twenty-threeChapter Twenty-fourChapter Twenty-fiveChapter Twenty-sixChapter Twenty-sevenChapter Twenty-eightChapter Twenty-nineChapter ThirtyChapter Thirty-oneChapter Thirty-twoChapter Thirty-threeChapter Thirty-fourChapter Thirty-fiveChapter Thirty-sixChapter Thirty-sevenChapter Thirty-eightChapter Thirty-nineAfterwordAbout the AuthorAlso by Lee Brook Chapter One Paxton Cole threw open the blinds and looked across the Linton rooftops towards the horizon hidden by storm clouds. It was pissing it down. Again. Not that Cole cared. He did his job no matter the weather. A teenager on a pale horse trotted past his house, and Cole thought about The Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse and the aptly named horse Hades, which he lost fifty grand on last night. Fucking Johann told me it was a sure bet; he thought and clenched his fists. Fucking wanker will pay later on. Arsehole! His head was thumping from the lack of sleep. Last night, after losing that money, he felt like he had a heart attack. Though worryingly, he was becoming numb to it. A tenner? A hundred? A grand, or ten. They were all the same bet to him. But Cole needed coffee and quick. So he tugged on his trackies, pulled on a jacket and slipped his feet into socks and flip-flops. Amanda stirred in her sleep, but he left her to it, knowing she would appreciate a double Americano from the Inn on Main Street. They used locally roasted beans, and whilst, for the regular punter, they were expensive, the Coles thought they were worth it. Cole stretched, his back hurting from a crunching tackle in training yesterday as he poked his head out of the house and peered down the street. The coast seemed clear from the paparazzi, so he grabbed his wallet, phone, and keys and headed out of the house. The coast was still clear as he made his way down Trip Lane, but as he stepped onto the path from the road, just past the junction to Northcote Fold, he heard a voice and stopped dead. “Good morning, Mr Cole.” His heart hammered in his chest. He felt sick. This was not what he needed right now. Jürgen Schmidt strutted out from the junction, casually checking his mobile, a cigar wedged between his teeth. He wore a sharp suit with black pinstripes, a white shirt open at the neck, and shiny black shoes. His greying hair was pushed back in a pompadour, exposing a forehead with various scars from old knife wounds. But it was his bristly moustache that made him so recognisable. Paxton heard car doors slamming, and two huge lumps appeared around the corner, built like bouncers, wearing black suits. Cole scanned the street, which was dead at this time. There was nowhere to run. Nowhere to hide. He was fucked. Jürgen put his phone away. “I can’t believe I had to come out here in this, Mr Cole.” The man spread out his arms, palms up. “I guess they’re right about British weather. Always fucking raining. Am I right?” Paxton clenched his fists, but more out of habit than an urge to fight. “Nice to see you. Jurgy. How are you?” “Don’t you fucking ‘Jurgy’ me, Paxton!” Jürgen said as he squared up to Paxton. “I think me and you need to have words. That OK?” Cole looked at the muscle. “I don’t think I have much choice, do I?” Jurgy sucked his cigar, then plucked it from his mouth before nodding. “That’s true, Mr Cole. No fucking choice.” Cole gave Jürgen a polite smile despite his thumping heart and sore head. He was also feeling sick and wanted to escape. “How can I help you this fine, drizzly morning?” “I’m here about the tiny matter of your loan. Specifically, you being four instalments late.” Paxton closed his eyes. He knew it was going to catch up with him eventually. Cole swallowed down the bile rising in his throat. “You know I’m good for it. Got a game tonight. I should score, which means I get a bonus. I’ll make sure you get every penny.” “You see, Mr Cole, that’s what you told me after you’d missed the first payment. And the second and third.” Jürgen smacked Paxton’s arm hard enough to hurt. “You haven’t scored in months. Do you not get paid if you don’t score?” He turned to his men. “Is that right, boys? Star striker here only gets paid if he scores?” “Nah, boss,