Sequel: 4 Devils

Chelsea Dawn

Chapter 15

Juan and Fernando looked out of the windows in dismay as the coach drove throught he otuskirts of Glasgow. both Spaniards looking out with horror. "Glasgow is one ugly feckin' place, and ugly people too", said Jack. The sky overhead was a hazy gray that obscured most of the sunset and smoke from factory chimnes just added to the gray, many of the buildings ugly cheap back-to-back terrace housing or squat gray blocks of flats that resembled hulking beasts. Listless skinny children kicked a football around a vacant lot while heavyset middle-aged women hung up the wash, the bark of a stray dog heard somewhere in the distance.

The coach parked outside their hotel as the players grabbed their bags and followed Johnny off. The hotel was a grand old-fashioned Victorian place just starting to go to seed, the edges of the carpet worn and the wallpaper peeling at the edges but clean. Juan opened the door to their room and turned on the light, glancing around to see that the place was clean even if the harsh scent of lye soap filled the air. Fernando went straight to the phone and dialed the number, tapping his foot impatiently as the operator connected them. "Bonjour?", asked Violette.

"Hola, Blanca Nieves", he said, unable to keep the grin off his faace when he heard her voice.

"Fernando, how was the trip?", she asked.

"Bueno, pero Glasgow son un ciudad mas feo. Donde esta Christina?", he asked.

"Hello?", asked the Scottish woman as he handed the phone to Juan.

"Hola, mi pequena carda", he said gallantly.

"Juan, I am so glad to hear from you. How's Glasgow?", she asked.

"Muy feo, Christina. I hope we can leave after the game", he replied.

"I hope so too, Glasgow is a very rough place", she replied.

"Verdad, hasta luego", he said.

"Hasta luego, Juan", she said befor hanging up.

There was a knock on the door and Jack entered, the bald goalkeeper dressed in a cheap tweed suit and smelling like aftershave. "A bunch of us are going out for dinner, wanna join in? It aint the team dinner, just some of us chaps", he said.

"Bueno, we'll be ready in a bit, we called our wives", said Fernando.

"I gotcha, the missus be worried", he said in understanding.

Juan took a quick shower and shaved followed by Fernando, standing in front of the dresser mirror and trimming his beard. "I can't shave it off, it will grow back in a few days. In my family, all the men are hairy", he explained.

"Blimey, you had a beard as a lad?", teased Jack.

"Si, I could grow a beard by the time I was thirteen. That's also when I stopped growing", he joked, rinsing his face with a bowl of tepid water and applying aftershave as he winced at the sting. Jack just shrugged and began reading a racing program that showed a photo of a black mare that had dwon the previous race. Juan took out a pair of slacks and a shirt from his suitcase and quickly ducked behind the screen, trying to control the blush on his cheeks. At least this isn't see-through and Jack is straight, he thought dryly as he quickly changed.

Fernando emerged from the bathroom and got his own clothes, following Juan's lead and changing behind the screen. "Lucky your ginger self doesn't have to shave", teased Jack.

"Verdad, Juan is the one with the beard", he chuckled.

Several other players were downstairs in the lobby as they approached. "All right, fellas. Let's show the new blokes a good time", said captain and defender Tom Johnson in his South London accent. He was a big man at six feet and muscular with wavy brown hair under his tat and intelligent gray eyes, his suit cut perfectly on his big frame.

"Torres, you're nearly big as I am, but you're a skinny bloke", chuckled Tom.

"I can't get fat, then I won't be able to run on the pitch", joked Fernando.

"Right on, but you need to fill out a bit, Fernando. I know this great place that has got big steaks and good ales and every kind of whisky", said Tom.

The group soon found themselves at a bar just down the street seated at a large booth as the waiter set down a tray of whisky shots and big pints of beer. The pub was still about three-quarters full with men having drinks after work and the scent of cigarette smoke and food and beer hung over them, a jukebox in the corner playing some old Scottish reel. Juan and Fernando tried to remain calm as their teammates lit up cigarettes, adding to the smoke already in the air. "You chaps don't smoke?", asked Jack, lighting up his Chesterfield and handing the lighter to Jim.

"No, Jack. But one night can't hurt", said Juan.

Jack took a drag off his cigarette and exhaled smoke rings. "I've been smoking since I was a lad, me grandda smoked and he croaked at seventy", he laughed.

After about ten minutes, the two Spaniards had gotten used to the smoke and were nursing their beers as a waiter came around to take their orders. "I'm getting used to this", said Juan with a chuckle as he drank a large gulp of beer.

"Yeah, you'll be smoking fags like an Englishman in no time, Juan", laughed Tom as he took a drag off his Camel.

Fernando said nothing as he drank his whiskey and chased it with the beer, much to their delight. "If I am going to be in England, I'm gong to drink like an Englishman", he laughed.

"Right you are, Fernando", agreed Jack.

The waiter set down another round of beers and Juan noticed a group of rough-looking young men enter the pub, all of them wearing Rangers colors. "Stay away from 'em, they don't like foreigners or Catholics", whispered Jack.

Just as they were about to leave, one of the Rangers fans came over to their table. He was short but stout with short brown hair and blue eyes in a fat red face, wearing a Rangers shirt that exposed his muscular arms. "Are ye the Spanish blokes from Chelsea? You a Papist?", he sneered in a thick Glasgow accent.

"None of your business", said Juan coolly.

"This is a Scottish bar and we don't like your kind here, you killed our people in Ulster and King Billy should 'eve gotten rid of the lot of you", he snarled.

"Go away, you bleedin' fool before we all go and kick your arses", warned Jack.

"Shut up, no Sassenach is match for a Scotsman", boasted the man.

The five Chelsea players quickly left the pub and made their way back to the hotel. "It would be no good to fight the idjit, end up in jail. People here are bloody thick", said Tom in disgust.