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Summary
“Fuckin’ Jamie Tartt,” the man grits out, his grip tightening on the glass he was holding, “You think you’re a big, tough man, huh? Think you can mess with West Ham on the pitch and now you think you can just mess with their fans in the club?”
Suddenly, the close proximity of people eases up as everyone begins to make themselves sparse. This on its own begins to send warning bells ringing.
Of course, he’s a fuckin’ West Ham fan.
“Probably should’ve bought your team Plan B with how much we fucked them.” he spits back, the alcohol making him say shit he wouldn’t have if he was sober.