Chapter Text
Lewie hates these things.
On lockdown in a banquet room in the Hilton as he drinks expensive champagne that he hates the taste of anyway. In an expensive suit, making small talk with the team CEO and the majority and minority shareholders before listening to the chairman drone on for forty-five minutes about the glory days of yesteryear.
It’s even worse when he’s only been at the club for the best part of a week and couldn’t tell you the name of most of them, instead just nodding along with a polite smile when they talk about the season ahead and ask if he’s settling in okay.
He is. But that’s beside the point.
He swigs the champagne and stands off to the side watching as the captain works the room, leading his missus through the array of tables as he shakes hands with everybody he passes, clapping them on the back like they’re an old mate.
It’s like being back at school, feeling like the new kid as everybody catches up on their summers and letting the buzz of excitement of the season opener fizzle around the room. They're at home for the first game, and the itch to finally put on the shirt in a competitive game feels like the first one all over again.
You just have to trust him on that one.
He leaves his mostly empty champagne glass on a nearby table and makes his way through the room, his hands in his trouser pockets as he’s stopped by the goalkeeping coach, giving him a few minutes to make small talk. He knew when he was a kid he’d make a rubbish keeper, deciding early on that no amount of studying and names stuck to his water bottle would ever have him diving the right way. He’ll step up in a shootout though, even if his legs feel like jelly and his heart thumps so heavily in his chest that he fears it’ll actually burst out of it as he walks those familiar steps up to the penalty spot.
“Chin up, mate, free booze,” Kobi chuckles, sidling up beside him, the champagne in his flute, sloshing up the sides. “And, if the chairman’s paying, I’ll be drinking,” He grins, sipping it as he looks over at Lewie above the rim of the glass.
“So I should be expecting you on the dancefloor in what—?” Lewie glances down at the watch carefully strapped around his wrist. “— Ten minutes?”
Kobi’s mouth curls up and he just gives him a sharp click of his tongue as he takes another glass of champagne from the passing tray, holding it out towards Lewie who graciously takes it from him.
“Not unless you’re coming with me, mate,” Kobi laughs, easy-going and knocks back a good swig of champagne.
They chat about their summers for a little while, swapping stories of Ibiza and Mallorca and at one point, Kobi is tipsy enough that he brings up going away for a few days during the international break in September. It’s nice, easy enough that it keeps Lewie from being swept up in conversations about the club he barely knows.
“You’ve not seen Lexi, have you?” Kobi suddenly asks, another champagne flute abandoned on a table and he turns to him, looking over the top of his head for a glimpse of red hair. “I love her but man, she wanders off more than my mum’s cat.”
“You should get her a bell for Christmas,” Lewie suggests, one corner of his mouth tilting up as he spins the stem of the flute between his thumb and finger.
Kobi snorts, wrapping his hand around the back of the chair nearest to him, tipping his glass towards his teammate.
“Only if Tiffany’s makes one. Found her, see you in a bit?”
“Yeah. Good luck,” Lewie grins, stepping aside as Kobi breaks out into a jog to try and catch up with his girlfriend before he loses sight of her again.
He walks around the tables, all of them with flimsy cards and everybody’s name written in almost intelligible calligraphy, he expects to find his own with the rest of the midfielders— unsurprisingly splitting the team by their positions. The midfielders are great lads though, Lewie likes them despite the inevitable competition for places. He notices that not everybody's split up by positions though, most of the players choose to ignore the order and sit wherever they feel like.
Which Lewie would definitely do, if he didn’t still feel like the new kid in school.
Gary sends him a grin in passing, two drinks in hand and asks him if he’s enjoying his night, the air around him exuding a calmness but still emboldening the leader within him, despite the absence of the armband. Lewie watches him approach his missus with a cheeky grin and hand off one of the glasses to her, sweeping her against him as soon as he’s able to.
Lewie exhales through his nose, not thinking too much of it. Sure, part of him misses being in a relationship, because coming home to an empty flat after a shit game or a long away trip, lounging in the dark wishing he had somebody to dissect a god-awful performance with, or at the very least, a distraction isn’t ideal. But, for the handful (one hand, specifically) of one night stands he’s had over the last few months, they’re just well— not cutting it anymore.
And his sisters are in the middle of settling down and having kids and sure, he’s only in his early twenties but it still feels like life is passing him by for the sake of his career and damn it if he isn’t jealous of them and being the only single sibling.
But, it’s fine. It’ll stop mattering once the bustle of the season starts. He hopes.
He drops into the seat with his namecard and drums his fingers on the table as the preparations on the stage enter a new and more, frankly, frantic level of chaos as the podium moves positions three times in a couple of minutes and the overhead lights flicker on and off. He mentally sets himself for the chairman’s speech, trying to school his expression into something that looks vaguely interested and sees how long he can hold it.
His jaw starts to ache barely a minute in, he’s got no fucking chance.
Everybody starts taking their seats when the microphone feedback cries out towards the back of the hall, halting conversations, it’s not an invitation but the guests just assume and start filing from their groups to search for the table with their names on. The rest of Charlton's midfielders start making their way towards Lewie, each of them greeting him with a clap on the back or a quick handshake as the table fills up quickly.
“Man, I can’t wait for this to be over,” Bill groans and tosses his head back. “I love the guy, don’t get me wrong but he can talk for fuckin’ England.”
“After that 6-0 spanking last season against Lincoln, he kept us in the dressing room for an hour talking about the pride of the badge,” Ciaran adds, flicking the corner of one of the napkins nearest to him. “Should’ve heard him, mate,” He turns towards Lewie, waiting for the slight flicker in his eyebrow to show he’s listening. “He was spitting bollocks about the top-flight, acting like we weren’t sixteenth in the league.” He mutters, clicking his tongue.
“I heard the club’s putting a bid in for Edwards.” Bill starts again, voice low enough that the table can hear but not enough that anybody with any kind of relevance in the club can hear them over the flitter of other conversations. “The lad who plays for Luton, Jamal.”
Lewie almost tunes it out, a couple of throwaway comments pulling him back in.
“Bet Tom’s buzzing,” Jack chimes in, having swapped the champagne for a beer. “We all know he loves competition for the nine.” Chuckling, he takes a long swig of beer, knowing that nobody’s going to disagree with him.
“He needs it, I reckon,” Ciaran buzzes in thoughtfully, flicking the edge of a napkin with a thoughtful look on his face. “Either that or a firework stuck up his arse because last season should’ve been the playoffs. Remember the sitter against Plymouth? I could’ve wrung his neck for that.”
“We all did, mate,” Bill sighs and scrubs a hand over his face. “I think the gaffer wanted to blow a gasket.”
Jack snorts out a laugh but doesn’t say anything.
Lewie listens and flicks his gaze around the room trying to catch a glimpse of the striker in question, Tom Reynolds, his reputation precedes him— imposing striker, bigger attitude, swanning about the depths of the Championship midtable acting like he's destined for a Premier League move. The worst type of player, the kind that every fan hates until he plays for your club.
Lewie almost laughs, if last season was anything to go by, he wouldn't even be starting for Burnley. His ears follow the sound of a brash laugh somewhere near the front of the room and finds the forward with his hand clasped on the shoulder of an older man in a suit more expensive that Lewie’s weekly wages. He’s swaying slightly, his voice a little louder than some of the others, clearly schmoozing and Lewie almost cringes from across the room.
“Reckon he’ll come?”
“Jamal?”
“Yeah.”
Bill shrugs in response to Jack’s question, his reply of your guess is as good as mine drowned out by more microphone feedback and the chairman stepping up to it, squinting in the spotlight as he welcomes the team and their families.
Ciaran turns to Lewie and rolls his eyes, the corner of Lewie’s mouth tilting upwards, silently fuming that he didn’t get himself a stiff drink beforehand.
*
Lewie manages the first twenty minutes of the speech before slipping away, searching for a bathroom and letting the retelling of their Premier League days drone on and on.
The hallways are quieter, the noise from the banquet dulling to nothing more than a small pounding like the beginning of a headache, he’s grateful for it. He’s been on the receiving end of boring nights like this over the years but a chairman who is clinging to the past is much more than he can handle. Maybe it’s the lack of football, itching for the season to start, he’s never been a fan of the off-season, left to his own devices in the lull between the last one ending and preseason beginning, especially without international football.
But, that’s a thought for another day. He hopes.
Lewie glances down at his watch and lets out a small breath, his eyes falling closed for a second as he tries to see how long he’s got left before his disappearance is noticed. He just knows it’ll be Bill who would be the one to come looking for him, dragging him back by his collar, spouting some bullshit that they all have to suffer through it.
Team trauma bonding, yeah, that’s what he’s going to—
His body collides with another, knocking himself backwards but he catches himself, throwing an arm out instinctively, fingers wrapping around the wrist of the person in front of him.
“Shit, sorry,” he says, the apology tumbling from his lips immediately, snapping his head up, clearing his throat at the woman staring back at him. “Wasn’t looking where I was going.” He says, breathing the words out slowly.
The woman stares back at him for a few seconds, mutely nodding her head, glancing down at her wrist still enclosed in his hand before back at him.
“Clearly,” she replies, lacking an expected bite and the corners of her mouth curl up slightly. “I hope you’ve got better coordination on the pitch.”
The comment catches Lewie off-guard, as does the laugh she manages to pull from him.
“No promises,” he jokes, letting her hand go and holding his own up, grinning at her when she scrunches her nose at him, fighting back an inevitable smile.
“So you’re not the Iniesta regen? That’s a shame,” She shrugs at him, moving to press her back against the wall, crossing her arms loosely over her chest. “I thought you might be what we’ve been missing.” She says, a soft smile at the corner of her lips, running her tongue across the glossiness there and letting her eyes trail over him before suddenly stopping herself.
Lewie mirrors her and forces himself to meet her eyes, finding her looking right back at him. For a moment, silence falls over them but she’s shaking her head and apologising, for some reason, Lewie doesn’t know why— as if this is any worse than having to suffer through the all-encompassing history of Charlton Athletic. The good, the bad, the ugly and everything in-between.
Everything. He means everything.
God, and she’s fucking gorgeous. Lewie allows himself a look, drawing his eyes over her whilst she’s distracted, brown waves loosely framing her face, cheeks flushed pink under the harsh white of the corridor lights and emerald eyes that look at her, a kaleidoscope of shades and gold swirling beneath them. Her red dress accentuating the slight bronze tan to her skin, Nah, it’s not just because he’s been single for a while, she’s absolutely beautiful.
“So… liking the club so far?” She asks, tucking a lock of hair behind her ear as she pulls his attention back, snapping him out of his thoughts.
Lewie would’ve rolled his eyes at the same question he’s been hearing from anybody he’s spent longer than a few seconds with but he can’t, instead offering a half-shrug of his shoulders.
“Yeah,” he smiles. Short and a little practiced, years of PR training burned into him that it’s almost like a reflex at this point. “Lads are great. Everybody seems positive about the season so I can’t complain, really.”
“Everybody’s asked you, haven’t they?” She asks him, with a small embarrassed laugh.
“It’s alright,” Lewie reassures her, watching the slight pinch in her forehead smooth away at his words. “I don’t mind.”
“And, you’re polite. You're the full package, aren’t you?” She giggles, a teasing edge to her voice like he’s not a stranger to her, nudging her shoulder against his.
“I don’t know about that,” he brushes it off easily but it’s still a nice thing to hear and even better when a gorgeous girl is telling him such.
The conversation lapses again but Lewie can’t say he minds that much, it’s a welcomed relief against the sound of carts rolling down in a corridor nearby and mingling conversations overlapping each other in the near distance.
He’s not drunk, barely even tipsy and that’s with a lower alcohol tolerance than most lads his age, skipping out on the getting blackout drunk in a field and getting served underage in the local pub in his teenage years for focussing on trying to make it professionally. He’s not drunk but his eyes drop to her lips, plump and glossy and for a split second, he thinks he leans in.
“There you are!” A bubbly voice interrupts them, a blonde skipping towards the pair of them in impossibly high heels, not even a wobble as she reaches them, slipping her arm through the other woman’s arms.
She looks at her but doesn’t extract her arm, her face relaxing into something familiar.
“Thanks for waiting, babes but we should get back before Gary thinks we’ve run off to the bar,” she says, pointing a manicured finger at Lewie. “You too.”
Lewie blinks, making sure there’s enough space between them.
“Right.” She says, looking between the other girl and Lewie, offering him an apologetic smile as she’s pulled away but before she’s completely out of sight, she offers him a wave. Sorry, she mouths as she’s led towards the double doors.
Lewie exhales a sigh and rakes a hand through his hair as he hears the doors slot back into place, he knows the interruption was probably for the best and he should get back in there too, figuring if he’s lucky enough— the chairman will have remembered that they haven't been a Premier League club for the best part of twenty years.
He sneaks back into the hall, taking a look around at the players’ tables he passes and sympathising with the bored faces on all of them as he drops back into his chair. Bill gestures to him in greeting, his chin slipping against his palm which is doing its best to prop him up, maintaining an almost interested expression.
Ciaran leans in towards him, asking where he’s been. Lewie makes an excuse about needing a piss but he’s distracted searching the room for a glimpse of brown hair and a red dress but he can’t find her amongst the tables.
Pull yourself together, he tells himself, directing his attention back to the stage as the chairman finally finishes his speech, gesturing to the bar and reminding the players specifically, that the season is just around the corner.
“Thank fuck for that. Shots, boys?” Bill suggests, stretching his arms above his head before rubbing his hands together with danger lurking in his eyes.
There’s a collective groan from the table, Jack and Ciaran exchanging a worried glance as Bill gets to his feet, sauntering across to the bar without waiting for an invitation.
“Don’t know what you’re smiling about,” Jack mutters and points the neck of an empty beer bottle towards Lewie’s face. “You’ll be sorry in the morning.”
Ciaran hums his agreement, looking over his shoulder as he tries to look above the throng of people waiting at the bar to try and discern what kind of shots Bill is about to torture them with and with a turn of his head, he grins smugly at Lewie as if to insinuate that he has no idea what he's in for.
Lewie though, arches an eyebrow carefully, he’s always enjoyed a challenge.