I sat at the bar while a lazy fan twirled overhead. I didn’t know what in the hell I was drinking, only that it made the hangover disappear in an instant. Liquid lunch worked for me.

“Another round.” I held up my glass to the man behind the counter.

He slid a cold drink across the bar. I slung it back, feeling the sting hit the back of my throat. The sweat beaded across my brow. It was hot as fuck here for winter.

Practice had ended hours ago. There was only one story that had emerged from the football world today. It was the only thing anyone was talking about. It didn’t help that we were a week out from Opening Ceremonies and the press was looking for anything to report. They were like sharks sniffing for blood.

The ticker ran along the bottom of the TVs mounted to the wall.

Lachlan Kenzie walked out on the UK football team after night of debauchery.

I glared at the headline. What did they expect? I was surrounded by pricks. They didn’t have boots or a kit for me. The pitch wasn’t ready. I wasn’t going to stand around while they got their shit together. I had played my share of amateur matches. I was done with it.

I reached over the counter, grabbed the remote, and hit the mute button. I didn’t want to hear any more speculation on why I left. I knew what a cock up the whole thing was, and that was the only thing that mattered.

“Bad day?” the bartender asked.

I nodded. The locals seemed laidback. But the last thing I needed was someone snapping my photo and announcing to the world I was in this bar. Last night I didn’t care, but my world was closing in on me today.

They couldn’t touch me inside the village. The press wasn’t allowed to enter, but out here I was fresh meat to them. A juicy story to devour one bloody bite at a time.

I kicked the stool out of the way. It was growing dark outside. I paid for my drinks and pushed the door, emerging into a blast of heat.

I shoved my hands in my pockets and kept my head down. But before I turned the corner, the flashes came out of nowhere.

“Fuck,” I muttered, putting my hands up.

“Lachlan, why did you leave practice?”

“Have you quit the team?”

“What did your mates say when you walked out?”

“Are you boycotting the Olympics for political reasons?”

I started jogging toward the village, but they swarmed me, making it a fucking nightmare to get away from them. They were on my heels. It didn’t matter if I turned down a side street or stayed in broad daylight. They tripped after me like yapping puppies.

“All right, bugger off,” I spat at them. I had enough. I finally stopped to address the crowd.

“Come on, Lach. Tell us what’s going on.”

“Give us a statement about practice,” they demanded.

I didn’t talk to the paps. There were some guys who did. They loved it. They loved this. But I fucking hated it.

“Statement? You want a statement?”

One of the photographers shoved a camera in my face, grazing my cheek, and the flash went off. I felt the warm ooze of blood trickle into my mouth with a metallic taste.

I didn’t think. I didn’t come up with a way to handle him. Everything in my body fired with instinct first. My fist reared back in a solid mass and I punched forward, slugging him and knocking him to the ground.

“What in the hell?” The photographer rolled on his side, gripping his nose. He looked horrified at the blood on his fingers.

I stood over him, clenching my fists.

If I thought it was bad before, the mayhem grew to a frenzy as soon as his back hit the pavement.

“You hit me, you bastard.” He looked up at me, startled. “I think you broke my nose.”

“You shoved a camera in my face.” I was ready to beat the shit out of him, but I was suddenly aware of what was happening around me. No one gave a shit that he had cut my cheek and I had blood splatters on my shirt to prove it. I wasn’t the victim here.

There were recorders, cameras, and a small crowd gathered on the street.

I took off in a full sprint, not looking back.

I knew I had royally fucked up this time.