A/N: Inspired by AU artwork I made and by the people who badgered me to write it – thank you to them, I'm enjoying it. I've never written an AU situation before and I know very little about football, but I hope you enjoy reading Ste and Brendan in a different setting. Each chapter will be from the POV of either Ste or Brendan. Contains supporting characters known and a few original ones.
United
Prologue - Brendan
The sweat still clung fresh to his back when the coach tapped him on the arm for a chat. The training hadn't been his finest, but he still reeled from the events of the night before. Eileen was late. Sipping celebratory champers, late. He'd been thrilled, toasting his new transfer, her new magazine column and now the baby. Then he'd fucked himself deep into some young thing half the night. After checking the nameless lad had no clue who he was.
Cigarettes were banned, but that didn't seem to matter to Jack, who lit up at the edge of the pitch. The clocked ticked closer to retirement and there was already someone lined up to replace him. He eyed Brendan from the side without shifting.
"How are you finding it so far?" The team was larger, higher profile, than he was used to.
Brendan spat the pool of saliva that had collected in his mouth onto the pitch by his feet. "Bit of a change of pace, I suppose."
Jack nodded. Brendan Brady, the seasoned player plucked from the obscurities of an Irish team, was about to be the name on everybody's lips. His name went to the press that afternoon. Life was about to change.
::: :::
::: :::
Part One - Ste
Finn – Scouse as he was more commonly known – gave a hearty laugh. "Three years you's been nominated for Sports Personality and the year you win some Leprechaun takes up half the back page!"
"I know. Twat." Ste tossed the newspaper to one side of the changing room, squirting the sponsor's new sports water over his head and into his mouth. Too fucking hot to play football.
Scouse wheezed with laughter and Ste told him to fuck off again and packed his kit away. His award win coverage would barely cover a parcel of fish and chips, but this newbie Brady's photo, his steely eyed intensity glaring from the paper, was big enough to be seen from space. This Brendan was all anyone could talk about. It was natural – they sussed him out, they analysed his game and called him a bender when he had a better match than they did. But their season was just as strong, if not more successful than United's and some Irish twat with a porno tash wasn't about to change that.
So what, Brady had made history and beat The Blues with a mortifying result? They all had their good days, maybe it was beginners' luck.
Except Brady wasn't a beginner and Ste might have claimed indifference to him in front of his team mates but he wasn't stupid, he'd done his research. Brendan Brady was something of a sensation back home in Dublin. He had the sob story to die for (dead mother, using football to escape undisclosed family trouble) and the longterm girlfriend lined up to be Mrs Brady when Hello! Magazine came calling. He defied leg injury and age to impress the United manager – a transfer to such a high profile position was unheard of over thirty – and came bounding over the waters to be thrown into the lifestyle of the rich and famous in England. He was already the poster boy for United. Even the fans stuck fake moustaches under their noses in solidarity.
They had a Friendly next Saturday and with the column inches in mind – Ste had a point to prove.
::: :::
"You've got a date on Thursday night," Anne said. Ste could hear down the phone she was filing her nails. Sometimes he wondered why his agent insisted on keeping her for PR – she was more obsessed with her own image than his.
"Who with?" Ste said, he smuggled the Big Mac out of its wrapper like he was about to snort a line. His personal trainer would have him hanged for less. In fact, he'd probably rather Ste was an addict than touch processed food. He'd have to air the car out before he went to the gym.
"Oh I don't know," Anne said, a whine in her voice as she shuffled papers around, knocking over a bottle of nail polish in the process. "Some girl from a reality show. She's got boobs. That's all I know. I'll email you the details."
Ste managed to cough down a chunk of burger before attempting to sound vaguely grateful. "Great, yeah. What does she know? Cos I'm getting fed up, right, of these girls thinking they know my business."
Anne tutted down the line. "She's not got enough brain cells to work it out. And anyway, she's only interested in the fame. Get her papped and she won't care when you send her home in a separate cab."
"Fine, whatever. Send me the premiere tickets or whatever it is," Ste said ending the call and diving back into the McDonalds.
A picture of the kids flashed up when the call finished and he spent a brief moment wondering how much harder the cover up would be if his past wasn't the press-loved tale of a teenage dad from a council estate.
::: :::
Kylie, the pop-princessed name of his date, was the exact miniature sized (and brained) reality whore that he was used to dragging out in public. Truth be told, he had fun taking out these girls. Once he might have been drooling over them in the lads' mag, so he could muster the type of attention they and the press were expecting, but they were usually from the same background as him – same rocket into the public eye – so he could tell them which celebs were pricks and he knew they'd have a laugh over it.
He grinned for the cameras, posed behind iPhones for the fans and kept his arm around Kylie's waist at all times. The red carpet questions veered from wanting soundbites about the movie, to dating such a gorgeous TV "personality" (a girl who got her boobs out to endear herself to voters) and then when they broached the topic of his career, it wasn't the Sports Personality Accolade they cared about.
"Ste, what are your thoughts on your opposition's new talent? Are City quaking in their boots?"
Ste laughed dryly, face puffing into annoyance. "You know what – City don't give a shit about Mr Big Tash I Am. Not interested."
"What's the vibe like about next weekend's match?" The reporter stuck a long mic in his face. He scoffed at the word vibe, like the game was a Glastonbury gig.
"The vibe is, we're gonna kick their sorry arses. And if Mr Irish thinks we're bothered about his lucky streak then he's wrong. End of."
Kylie steered him away after, having seen a lurking journo from one of the magazines, and squealed in his ear. "Why do they keep asking you about the other team?"
Ste groaned. "Uh they've signed some old guy from Ireland. Porno tash."
"Ohmygod, him! You know, without the tash he'd be pretty fit." Kylie stopped to pull her dress up over her nipples.
"Not you an' all," Ste said, rolling his eyes. He stood back as Kylie licked her teeth and posed for the cameras. He looked around the red carpet, surrounded by reality fodder, game show presenters and brothers of a boyband member. He was never going to get anywhere if he was the most famous person in the room. During the movie and slowed by his dyslexia, he typed out an email to his agent.
::: :::
They took a cab further into the city to milk the publicity and because on a Thursday he could throw back a few lagers and had no one to answer to the next morning. Since Brady's arrival in Manchester, he'd focused more and more on the promotion to captain and recognition for a better signing and done less and less to achieve it. With his motivation came the crushing sense of being overtaken by the dark horse from the other team. And with the impending, and he thought – inevitable disappointment, came the desire to pump his body with booze. He had his mother to thank for that.
Kylie fluttered her hand at the window, telling the driver to stop. They pulled up outside a blank wall with a set of spiral stairs heading down to a club that thumped with music. To her delight there were press already outside, but it looked as if they were packing up and leaving.
"What's the hurry boys?" she chimed, throwing her arms out for a pose.
They laughed and snapped regardless, a little more enthused when she flashed a hint of bum cheek. When they noticed Ste they ribbed him.
"Hey Hay!" they shouted in that sing-song way that set his teeth on edge. Of course some of them knew, they'd got pictures of him and a guy, but the photos were embargoed which they loathed. One leak and it'd cost them millions. "Another night, another blonde?"
He posed robotically, mechanical smile.
"Your mate was just here to open the joint," one of the paps called out. He signalled under his nose as the recognised sign for moustache.
"He ain't my mate," Ste said, giving Kylie's arm a yank to get inside. "If you want a quote, I think he's a knob."
Out of earshot, Kylie said, "I thought you said you'd never even met the guy."
"I haven't. But I know he's a knob."
::: :::
When they crashed out of the club at one and Ste had Kylie's lipstick all over his face – he'd kiss her when they were drunk – he had several missed calls from his agent. He sent Kylie home, gentlemanly, and she seemed more focused on instagramming their night out than the fact he wasn't going to sleep with her.
His agent called again.
"I thought we were working on your attitude problem, Ste," Mark said, the caffeine-alertness harsh in his tone.
"What problem?"
"Exactly. I was hoping we'd ironed it all out of your since you last altercation on the pitch."
The brutal tackle which had seen him sent off last year, with the headline Hay's Headbutt and photos of him looking tight faced like The Incredible Hulk, had resulted in weeks of anger management training. That hadn't been the first incident either. Ste's tempers on and off the astro-turf were notorious, although with his spiky interviews. Fortunately he was given slack for his impressive performances and his image as a local young-scally-dun-good. And the PR alongside it.
"What am I supposed to have done?"
Mark sighed, scrolling through his news feed. "Called Brendan Brady a knob, threatened him with violent, made personal jibes about his appearance."
Ste sighed. "He's crying to his mammy is he?" He cursed as soon as he realised what he'd just said.
"See, this is your problem Ste - opening your gob before thinking," Mark wasn't the type to use words like gob. "It's running in the papers tomorrow. We thought about spinning it as competitive spirit but there seems to be little point – it's all over Twitter."
"I'm not apologising," Ste said.
"I thought you'd say that," Mark gave the indication he was wrapping up the call, "Stay out of his way during the game next week, Ste. Keep your head down, kiss his arse if you have to, just don't give us a repeat of last year. You'll seriously jeopardise your chances at the captaincy if you do. And don't even think you'll be considered for the Park transfer if you kick off again."
::: :::
He could see a light was on in the kitchen when the cab pulled up to drop him off and he could have sworn he left it off. It unnerved him as he approached, the nastier side of fame had seen his teammate's flat be broken into by a stalker, but thankfully he hadn't experienced such surreal lavishing of attention.
Calling out when he entered, he muttered fuck's sake when the intruder answered back. His hair had been chopped, free from that dark fringe that Ste had once thought made him look mysterious and cute but grew to hate, replaced with spikes and shaven sides. He looked like every other 20-something bloke in Manchester now.
"I did text," Adam explained, sleeves pulled down over his hands – again, once vulnerable and arty grew into clingy and needy.
"Changed my number," Ste said, arms crossed and face matched.
Adam nodded.
"You know the contract still stands," Ste said, unflinching. He looked at Adam coldly, the year they spent curled up in the flat felt alien now.
"Don't take me for an idiot Ste. I'm not interested in selling our story to the papers. I can't afford the legal bill if I did," Adam picked up a box that was on the floor by the coffee table. "I just came for my last bits and I thought you'd be out. Date, was it?"
"None of your business."
"I'm sure I'll get to read all about it tomorrow," Adam said, pushing past him and putting the key on the side.
"N'aww you feeling bitter? You knew what you were letting yourself in for, don't make out I weren't upfront with you!" Ste snapped, lunging himself forward to jerk the door open.
"I was just hoping you might grow up and realise what's more important in life," Adam said and raised his hand before Ste was about to speak again, "And before you say it Ste, yes you paid for everything, yes your little team flutters around you so that you can lead a double life, but what happens when you get old and no one gives a shit you were once a pro footballer and no one gives a shit you're a gay ex-footballer? When you're forty and you're sitting on this pile of cash and a dead career, you'll be alone."
"Oh fuck off," Ste said, kicking the door. "What do you expect me to do you ignorant twat? Come out, cover myself in rainbow flags? I can't play football professionally and be gay. You don't get to do both. It's not gonna change. And if it does, I ain't volunteering myself to be the first muppet to get my head kicked in by every fan in the city. You've got no idea what it's like in those changing rooms – they already call me every name under the sun and they don't even know I'm a poof." Ste's face darkened, leaning on the door frame. "Yeah I might end up some sadcase with a load of cash and no one to give me a kiss good night but at least I won't be stuck with a prick like you."
"Have a nice life, Ste." Adam said, moments before the door was slammed behind him.
Ste switched off his phone, throwing It across the room, heading to the bar area of the flat where he poured himself a neat vodka into a used glass. It caught the back of his throat with a burn as he knocked it back and wiped the slow trickle of tears from his eyes.
And just as luck would have it, his eye fell on the newspaper dumped on the coffee table that Adam had been using to wrap his poncy ceramic sculptures. Brendan Brady's face stared right back at him, like he knew, as if he was mocking him from the very page.