Chapter 2 Devil in the Manchester Rain

ZIZO

My name is Luizio ‘Zizo’ Dos Santos Ferreiro, and this is how I almost ruined my life over a tin of coffee.

“Fuck off,” I yelled at the shadow behind me, the words swallowed by the rain.

I had just gone to get some coffee from the corner shop.

But God definitely had jokes today: The shop was out, and the mild drizzle had turned into a rainstorm that I was going to have to brave, because I had the brilliant idea of ‘walking to clear my head’ in Manchester.

You would think that was the worst of it. I was going to get drenched, but at least I would be home in a few minutes.

Wrong.

I was being followed.

People trailing me wasn't anything new, but it's been thirty minutes, and the rain should've at least scared him off. It had gotten so bad I could barely see in front of me.

He was screaming something. I ignored him and continued walking until I felt something on my shoulder, then the distinct sound of a shutter. I snapped.

I spun around and yanked the damn thing from his hands so fast that I made him stagger backwards onto the wet stones.

All I could see was red when I tossed it to the ground and stepped on it until it was just a mangled mess of black plastic and glass, mixing in with the Manchester sludge.

It was the devil, I swear.

Because once my bloodlust was finally sated, pure horror washed over me as I realised that looking back at me wasn’t some seasoned journalist, but rather the eyes of a very terrified, cowering teenager.

“Hey, mate. Please don’t hurt me.”

Unfortunately, 'I was possessed by the devil' wasn’t a defence the press, or my club, accepted apparently.

**

“Are you crazy? Why would you smash his camera? Do you know what your foolishness is costing this club?!”

The Don was manic. I could see his carotid artery pulsing violently under his red skin, with good reason too.

My little tantrum had gone viral, and it was costing the club a pretty penny in damage control.

A fresh wave of shame washed over me. I was used to negative press, deserved and undeserved. I had accepted that not everyone was going to like me. But I wasn’t a violent person. I didn’t attack journalists— physically at least.

And contrary to what the British press thought, I wasn't a monster either. I really did love my fans. They were my family, and I would never harm any of them. And it hurt to watch them join the hate train, even though I knew I deserved it.

That’s why I said it was the devil. It didn’t feel like me.

Sick at myself for the mistake, I immediately tried to make amends. I apologized to the lad and replaced the camera. I even took as many pictures as he wanted and mailed him a boxload of signed merch and pitch-side seats to the derby next week as an apology for my error. But that didn’t matter.

“Don, I—”

“Shut up! Just shut up! Don’t even think about defending yourself. Not this time.”

One look at Sir David, who had always defended me, leaning by the window jamb beside the furious owner, his head bowed low, made me realize he was right. There was nothing I could say. Not this time.

“You are a walking PR disaster. And I feel your coach has enabled your nonsense," Don Patrick continued, furiously pacing the room, only stopping to shoot Sir David a dirty look.

"Sir, the lad has been going through a rough stretch lately—" Sir David started, only to be cut short.

“Rough stretch?! His little nightly escapades, brawls on the pitch, antagonizing the fans, and now breaking their things apparently. All of it has been overlooked because he is the best player in the world. And you have put it in his head that it didn’t matter as long as he showed up on the pitch...”

He stopped right in front of me and looked at me dead in the eye.

Silence. The only sound: the drag of the ceiling fan above us.

"But no longer....”

I had 15 goals in the Prem alone, and it was only January; I was on course for another Ballon d’Or. But I knew that for the first time, my on-pitch performance couldn’t protect me.

Taking a deep breath, Don Patrick finally took a seat at his desk right across from me. The wild anger in his eyes vanished, replaced by a cool, serious deadpan:

“Zizo…” he started, his voice calm. “…You think you are the best player on this team, and you're right. But you also think you are untouchable. Unfortunately, you are wrong, and if you can not extend that discipline you show on the pitch to your image outside it, I will terminate your contract.”

The words hit me like a bucket of cold water.

Terminate my contract?

Never in a million years would I have ever imagined that the word ‘termination’ would ever be an option.

A suspension or fine. Sure.

But termination?

I was the reason they won the league last season. I was the only reason Manchester Club even had a Champions League.

Even Sir David seemed shocked. “Sir, surely that is a bit harsh. He is our top scorer. The boy only lost his head. I’m sure the lad has learnt his lesson—”

But the owner just put up his hand, cutting him off halfway. “No, David. He always ‘learns his lesson’ but this time he has gone too far…”

He sighed: “…I sincerely hope it doesn’t get to that point. Losing a player like you would undoubtedly harm the club, but my hands are tied. We can’t let you ruin the club's image. You need to do something to get back into the fans’ good graces.”

“Like what?” I wondered aloud.

“That’s for you to figure out…” Don Patrick leaned back, his tone flat.

“But we’ll start with the London Gala next week. You will be there.”

His voice left no room for protest, but I protested anyway.

“But Don, I hate the gala. It's boring and pointless. Plus, it's sure to be packed with paparazzi who will definitely be swarming me all night!”

He shrugged his shoulders.

“Well, you should have thought about that before smashing a fan's camera. You have lost your privilege to skip it. Consider it the beginning of your penance."

My Nike Air Forces suddenly became very interesting as anger started bubbling up my throat.

“May I leave now?” I all but spat.

He folded his hands. “I suppose so—”

I made to leave, but his last words halted me in place.

“— but listen to me, lad. I expect you to attend that gala. And I expect you to represent the club properly with no drama. Or else, the front page of The Sun will be the least of your problems come Monday morning.” The threat in his tone was clear.

I nodded, jaw tight, already dreading a room full of cameras I couldn't afford to lose my temper in front of.