Free The Playbook by Missy Johnson, Lily Jane

there are two sides to every story.
    “My favourite line is: ‘I had to fake every orgasm because he has a baby dick.’ That is fucking hilarious. He’s not gonna pull again any time soon, huh? Unless it’s with his own hand,” Murray jokes. The other guys dissolve into fits of laughter.
    “So do all you guys from Tottenham Park all have baby dicks?” asks Pete. I glare at him. I’ve been here a week and that’s the first time he’s spoken to me.   
    “Not as small as they are here,” I snap. This is going to be a long day. Hell, it’s going to be a long season. I scan the article again, trying to find a way to track down the source. This blog needs to be stopped. First that letter to Ash, then my photo, and now this? I have no idea who is behind “The Playbook,” but they’re fucking with the wrong people.  
    Ignoring the chuckling from my teammates, I toss the iPad back at Luke. Sure, it’s funny now, but wait till it’s their names being dragged through the mud. I’m outnumbered, so there’s no point trying to defend my old clubmates, and anything I say is only going to get me in trouble. I can’t afford to fuck up again and Murray knows it. I tense as he walks over to me and puts his arm around my shoulder, squeezing it affectionately. I don’t move a muscle, because if I do my fist is going to find his face.
    “Jake,” he grins, amusement in his eyes, “I think we got off on the wrong foot. I think we need to at least try to get along; we’re teammates, after all. I’m the captain of this team and I should be setting an example for these idiots.” I’m sure he’s fucking with me, but I go along with his game.
    “Whatever. I’m here to win. That’s all. Whether or not you like me is the last thing on my mind.”
    “You really think you can just waltz in here and turn this team around?” He lets out a low laugh, his expression harsh. “You really do have tickets on yourself, don’t you?”
    “I have talent. If embracing that is being cocky, then that’s what I am,” I shrug. “You lot are useless. Everybody is going to know that because from here on, CHFC is going to win. It’s not going to be hard to connect the dots that I’m the difference.”
    Murray’s eyes blaze. He glares at me, his fists in tight balls beside him. The other guys stand behind him in support, looking equally pissed. I sigh and rub my neck. This is only going to make things worse.
    “You think you’re that good? Prove it,” Murray sneers.
    “I plan to. That’s the whole point, remember?” I remind him. “You wanna make this interesting, I’m all for it. I can wipe the floor with this entire team.”
    “Fuck, you’re unbelievable,” Murray says. He shakes his head in dismay.
    “Your mum said the same thing to me last night,” I reply, “right before she planted herself on my cock.”
    “You fucking—” He lunges at me, but Luke and Ezra hold him back. I laugh, my arms crossed over my chest. “Geez, you can’t take a joke. Which is surprising, considering you’re playing for one.”
    “You and me, Tanner. First to score three goals wins. Winner picks the loser’s punishment.”
    I shrug. “Easy. Make it five if you like.”
    Coach calls us over for a pep talk, not that I need it. I’m pumped and ready to prove myself. Murray spins some bullshit about being a team and playing to win, but I’m not even listening. I’m too busy figuring out what depraved, embarrassing, soul-destroying things I can come up with for his punishment.
    “Jake, got a second?” I look up and see Serj. I glance at Karl, who nods impatiently. Serj pulls me aside, his expression concerned.
    “Watch yourself out there, okay? I know you want this to work out because I know how much football means to you. Just go out there and play and ignore all the other shit, okay?”
    “Sure thing, Serj,” I mumble, looking straight ahead out into the stands. I spy the photographer I decked the other night standing on