Dethroning Crown Read online

  Chapter One

  Crown

  To be haughty is to be heavy.

  I’d do anything—anything—to further my career.

  As I looked into the mirror, my moving jaw resembling a cow chewing on cud, I spoke the oath to myself.

  The coach did a shit job of pumping the team up before a game. He always quoted someone or told a stupid-ass open ended story. Those things didn’t give me the warm and fuzzies.

  He could’ve reminded me of how I never miss a goal.

  He could’ve told the story about how I was the shit.

  That would be uplifting.

  Because Crown Sterling didn’t lose—ever.

  I reached in my bag for some pre-game hydration. Chewable electrolyte replacements—that’s how little time I had to myself and in general. I didn’t even have the time or gumption to open a bottle and down a drink. Thank God, I’d never been signed to be sponsored by the company that made this shit. I wouldn’t ever be able to chew it on camera without gagging.

  Popping one of the tangerine flavored, Starburst-looking cubes into my mouth, I finished lacing up my cleats. I hated my cleats. I didn’t hate cleats in general, obviously. I hated the ones they made me wear. They were neon green, the tint of some radioactive shit you’d see on TV. It looked as if I’d kicked in the head of a Ninja Turtle. They were so damned bright and ugly, I nearly regretted signing the contract with the shoe company in the first place—nearly. That was probably why I’d not been shown the shoes when they handed over the check, the glare would’ve blinded me. Not to mention, they hurt like a bitch. Each stud indented itself into the bottom of my feet while I played, even though I’d padded the bottom with those orthopedic shoe inserts meant for old geezers with bunions. They also swindled me into wearing a fake tattoo with their brand on my damned arm like I belonged to them—like some cattle brand.

  Like a tramp stamp.

  But since they’d paid up and I’d bent over—maybe a tramp stamp was fitting.

  Hell, I’d sold my soul to soccer a long time ago—might as well give up what was left to the sponsors.

  I’d signed onto a professional team right after my eighteenth birthday. I was set to go to college on a full athletic scholarship to the University of Akron. My mother had died during childbirth and my father had not taken up drinking or bouts of madness as a habit to cure his woes. He made me and my training his habit. I took up every free minute of his time.

  The first time I kicked a ball was when I was two—he filmed the whole thing. Ever since then, I’d joined every local team and soccer association he could get his claws into. I spent my breaks and summers in various soccer camps and training facilities. I knew nothing else. Those shirts that read ‘Soccer is life. The rest is just details’ were made for me. So when the contract was placed on the grand oak desk, even though I’d wanted to contemplate the choice—my father had put the pen in my hand and bought out the team’s internet fan store before the ink dried. There was no choice as far as he was concerned. I was born and bred for the game that he loved with all his heart—the same game that his body refused to play up to standards.

  Sometimes, I wished for my body to fail me.

  But who would I be?

  No clue—no damned clue.

  Play on mothereffer—play on.

  He’d tried as a kid and in high school to play as well as he could, but he just couldn’t hack it. Hailing from Brazil, soccer was in his blood. Except a few thing: his reflexes weren’t swift enough—his legs not fast enough. So he watched it on TV the way most Americans watch football. He called American football, handball. He scoffed as people around him got up in arms about American football. He’d cackle and complain, ‘They call it football but their damned feet never touch the ball.’ The World Cup, in our home, was a life stopper. All activities—church, practice, and even school, came to a halt every four years so we could watch the world celebrate the sport.

  How could I not play soccer?

  He oozed pride and I soaked it up.

  Soccer consumed me.

  I felt like my jaw would soon break as the taffy-like energy candy’s flavor diminished into something that had the consistency of those wax lips I used to chew as a kid. I hocked the wad onto the floor in front of me and watched as it melted against the floor and stuck to the locker. I ignored the glare of the old guy who cleaned up after the team as he unfolded a napkin from his pocket and picked up my mess from the floor. It was his job. He could get over it. If I didn’t do shit like that, he wouldn’t have a paycheck.

  Let’s face it, if I weren’t here, this team wouldn’t even exist.

  I thought his name was Ellis—or maybe Elmer.

  I wasn’t really good with names.

  A tinge of guilt swept through me as I realized how much the older man resembled my grandfather. He was the one person who wasn’t incessantly interested in how I played or how many goals I’d made that day.

  He was long gone.

  Ignoring the janitor’s scowl and disapproval, I listened to the coach and the owners feed us their repetitive line of crap while I checked out my hair from different angles. There were mirrors all over the locker room and from where I sat I could see my hair’s every dimension. I’d gelled it up just right. The spikes were in all directions and my hairdresser had shaved my hairlines perfectly. That’s what I paid her for. With the cameras constantly on me, I had to keep up my appearance. Half of the reason I’d gotten so many endorsements was because of my looks—no argument. It was just a fact—I was a fine assed man.

  A clearing of the throat got my attention and I knew who it was. My gaze flicked over to Davey. He was gunning for my position on the field and in the coach’s good graces but he’d get nowhere with that pansy hair of his. He’d become one of those players who grew their hair out long and now sported one of those stretchy headbands.

  He stretched out the tongue of his equally ugly cleats and popped his chin out at me in some semblance of greeting.

  I rolled my eyes and went back to looking at my hair.

  It’s not like his hair impeded his playing. He was a good player, but lazy. That’s where I had the advantage in life and on the field—I was a machine through and through. I was the first to show up at practice and the last to leave. I ate only out of necessity and always strict on the carb to protein ratio. Food didn’t even have a taste anymore. Even though I was sure the Kobe beef I had delivered in from Japan was cooked to perfection by my personal chef—I wouldn’t know. I forked it into my mouth along with whatever other regimented portion of food was on my plate and left the table within ten minutes. Then it was back to working out and running hard.

  I was a goddamned machine.

  My life was stacked with employees who made my life easy. I had a personal chef and a maid. Since becoming a pro, I hadn’t touched a piece of laundry, picked up a stray sock, or even bought soap. It was all done for me so I could focus on my career.

  My career was my life.

  We made it out to the field and I focused on the crowd. I smiled, feeling the swell of pride as several signs and other fan-made praises were waved in the air.

  That’s right, ladies and gents, I’m a god in this arena. Shout my name, clap and gasp when I make a brilliant move. Fuel me with your worship.

  Headband elbowed me in the ribs, “Yo man, the national anthem.”

  I scanned the crowd to see they were now standing, right hands over their hearts.

  Shit.

  I quickly slammed my hand over my chest and pretended to mouth the words to the anthem of the United States even though I had no clue what most of the words were. I knew ‘home of the brave’ but that was about it. And I knew after they sang that part I’d get my couple of hours of glory.
After that was my favorite part. The parties for the team were unrivaled. Cold beer, loud music and hundreds of females clamoring for my attention and my bed. Which was fine by me, a guy’s gotta get his aggression out somehow.

  I didn’t even have to try, they just flocked to me.

  Point to the bedroom and they file in.

  We broke free from our line-up and began to warm up on the field. I saw the coach waving for my attention, sidled up by Davey. I bet that douchebag wanted my spot.

  Over my dead body.

  “Crown, I want to save you for the last half. Take the bench, Son. Davey’s gonna take left forward this half.”

  Letting my best smile gleam, the one that made them question my sanity, I seethed, “The hell you are. That’s my position. I’ll play the whole game.”

  Davey patted my shoulder, “Hey man, we all want a shot to play. Take one for the team.”

  I wanted to rip that hand from its socket and watch it bleed all over his shitty white cleats.

  “You’ll regret this, Sanders,” I growled at the coach who was now nearly trembling. His damned chin was waggling like a kid whose ice cream cone had just fallen to the ground. Stomping over to the bench, I grabbed my team hoodie and threw it over my head. It wasn’t cold out, but I wanted the hood to cover what I knew was a deep frown of anger and disappointment.

  Keeping up good appearances and all that. Otherwise, I’d get a lecture from my publicist.

  I didn’t want my fans to see him get to me.

  “He just wants to see what the kid’s got, man. Don’t let it get to you.”

  Next to me was Derrick. What was with this damned team and D names? He and I had signed with the team at the same time. I guessed we were friends. We shared an apartment and hung out when there was time. He didn’t really say much to me, though I saw him chatting it up with the other players all the time. He was from Texas and whenever he drawled out something, all I heard was ‘baked beans, cowboy, horse, taters.’

  “Yeah, no shit. But isn’t that what practice is for?”

  I pulled surveillance on the little bastard as he weaved through the other team’s defenses. He was skilled, I’d give him that much. But he faltered some at the goal and missed his shot or it got blocked by the goalie, time after time. He was excellent with the process, but his execution was shit—he got cold feet. Every time he missed or fouled up a shot, I looked to the coach to pull his sorry shit from the field and put me in. But he never did. Instead my ass just became more and more sculpted to the shape of the metal bench. If someone would pants me at that point, they’d find lines indented on my ass cheeks like a piece of lewd sheet music paper. He was royally pissing me off.

  Crown Sterling didn’t sit on the bench.

  When half time rolled around, I was ready to strangle the coach with my bare hands. How dare he bench me! There wouldn’t even be a team if it weren’t for me. We wouldn’t be on a winning streak if it wasn’t for me. Hell, half the people in the stands were there just to get my autograph and take some half-assed selfie with me in it. They came to see me dominate.

  I got up and began to warm up, the anger bubbling and boiling inside me. I approached the sideline and waited, not giving that asshat coach a chance to tell me otherwise. He didn’t have a choice. I was playing whether he liked it or not. Davey hadn’t even scored any goals. He’d attempted about a dozen, but didn’t cut it. So now I’d have to get in there and pull us out of defeat.

  I’d love every second of it.

  Thirty minutes into the second half and I’d already scored two goals and flipped off the other team’s goalie under the roof of my shirt as not to get carded. The other team’s defense was fierce—no wonder Davey couldn’t do much. But it was nothing for a player like me.

  Approaching the goal again, I showed off some tricks for the crowd. Using some stellar footwork, I got around one of their fullbacks and zeroed in on the goal. One of their hotshot players, number ten, like me, zoned in on my path and we grappled back and forth for possession of the ball. I finally broke free and lined up my shot. I could hear the hoots and hollers of the crowd cheering me on, putting me on the pedestal where I belonged. My heartbeat pounded in my ears as my foot connected with the ball I knew so well.

  I saw the ground coming toward me and the realization poured over me slowly like warm honey. It wasn’t until I felt the blades of grass against my face that it registered that I was the one plunging to the ground and not the other way around.

  And then devastating pain.

  I watched the crowd who showed me unfettered adoration stand up as I looked up at the stands..

  The whole thing took hours in my mind.

  Whistles blew and the roars got louder. Above me, I could see the robotic hovering cameras buzzing in for their close-up.

  I realized the blow, but didn’t know what it was until I tried to regain my ground and realized where the pain was emanating from.

  Throbbing pulsed along my leg and a liquid warmth polled along the back of my knee.

  Looking down in the direction of the sensation, I saw blood on my shorts and bone protruding from my leg. My knee was shot to hell, shattered beyond recognition.

  Crown Sterling was out for the count.

  ~~

  My knee wasn’t only shot to hell, it was shattered. Surgery was my only option—followed by physical therapy and tons of rest.

  I didn’t know how to rest.

  Crown Sterling doesn’t rest.

  I looked around my hospital room, knee casted up and clear, liquid-filled tubes coming out of my arms and took in the people around me.

  Publicists and their assistants, my personal assistant and the team’s publicist are in a fury, dodging interviews and making sure perfectly placed information is accidentally leaked. These were not the people I wanted to see when I woke up, so for a while I just kept my eyes closed and pretended to go back to sleep. I could hear the deals being brought to the table, either to be taken or to be turned down—forty grand for an exclusive two minute statement—one million for an interview with me in the hospital—a hundred grand for a picture.

  Of course I’d take them all. The only deals I’d ever turned down were those that made me look like a puss.

  “I need everyone to exit the room. Mr. Sterling needs his rest and the other patients are complaining.”

  I heard a heel stomp against what I assumed was the polished white tiled hospital floor. That was Gina. The woman wore heels no matter what. I’d once seen her stomp across the newly plotted soccer field in a pair of shoes that looked like they were meant for hooking, ruining the ground in a path of anger until she reached me—to tell me about some bullshit deal for athlete’s foot cream.

  Nope.

  Puss deal.

  “We are his team. Anything you have to do, just do it. And honestly, you people should’ve put him in a more private room.”

  I could practically hear the bitch voice rear up in the nurse. You didn’t have to have your eyes open to know that kind of fury was on the cusp of being let loose. Silently, I heard the nurse, now next to me, flip papers on what I assumed was a clipboard of my medical records.

  “In this hospital, ma’am, everyone is just another patient. So, you can either leave or I can call security. I’m assuming you being hauled out by our security guards wouldn’t be good for appearances.”

  Gina guffawed at the gall of this measly little nurse, but a marching tune of heel clicking and door squeaking let me know they may not agree, but they were complying nonetheless.

  “You can open your eyes now, handsome. Cruella and the nineteen dwarves are gone.”

  Squinting against the overbearing fluorescent lights, I met her eyes. “Thanks.”

  “No sweat. You were fluttering your lids too much. Might want to work on that if you want to pull that stunt again.”

  This girl was blonde and perky in attitude and all the other right places. She paid no attention to my appraisal as she scribbled down blood p
ressure numbers and fiddled with whatever was dripping down into my veins.

  “What’s your pain like, one to ten?”

  I shrugged. “It’s getting bad. Maybe eight.” It was a bold faced lie, but being knocked out was better than facing the bullshit in front of me.

  The incapacity that was now me.

  “You’ve been here for two days and you’re not throwing up. We can move you to big boy pills. You’re eating well?”

  No, I wasn’t eating well. I, like everyone in the world, had heard the shit about hospital food and it was all true. I’d asked Gina to smuggle me in something decent, but she must’ve been too preoccupied making me deals to pay attention or follow through.

  “Yeah, here and there.”

  Naturally, she followed up the eating questions with more questions about how the food was coming out and little by little her attractiveness was fading.

  “I’ll go get your pills. You want those other pills allowed back in here?”

  I popped a shoulder in aloofness and forced my stare out the window.

  “Suit yourself.”

  Not two seconds later, Gina and the rest of the hungry pack were back in action, not even pretending to heed the noise warnings set forth by the bubbly, nosey nurse.

  I’d forgotten to close my eyes as they entered, so faking sleep was out of the question.

  “There’s our superstar!”

  Jesus. Could she get anymore cartoon mom?

  I turned a cold eye on her pseudo-elation and cleared my throat—hospital breath was a real bitch.

  “So what’s the plan here?”

  That changed the attitude in the room.

  Gina straightened her already straight, way too tight for a middle-aged woman skirt and came by my bedside to hold my hand. “Well, Crown, you’ve got a lot of recuperating to do. That’s our priority—getting—you—better.” With each word came a pat to my hand. I thought maybe I’d heard her talk to her hairless Chihuahua in the same tone once.

  “I know that. I mean, am I going to some physical therapy center? What?”

  “We’ve got some amazing options for you.” She smiled at me revealing an eye tooth marred with spot of her red lipstick.