by Leesa Bow
Winning the Game
By Leesa Bow
Copyright 2017 Leesa Bow
This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold. If you would like to share this eBook with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. No part of this eBook may be reproduced without the permission of Leesa Bow. However, brief quotes in reviews are allowed. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
This novel is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places and incidents are products of writer’s imagination or have been used in a fictitious manner.
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ISBN13: 978-0648024927
ISBN10: 064802492X
Editing by Philip Newey at all-read-E
Book design by Swish Design & Editing
Cover design by Najla Qamber Designs
Cover Image Copyright 2017
Troubled Aussie football star, Rhett Williams’ infamous off-field misdemeanours land him in front of his club’s board with an ultimatum: clean up his bad-boy image or lose his contract.
There’s one catch: appear on a reality show to reinvent himself.
Football is Rhett’s lifeblood, but his family and the orchard farm in the country where he grew up means more, especially as his family relies on his wage to keep the business afloat. So Rhett puts his opinion of reality shows aside to concentrate on doing whatever it takes to be re-signed.
Career-focussed TV mentor, Tori Winchester doesn’t have time for men, or a social life, which suits her fine. When Rhett Williams arrives on set with his blond beach hair and his mesmerising blue eyes, her resolve begins to crumble. He’s not the spoiled bad boy casting had told her to expect.
Getting involved with someone like Rhett could not only damage her long-term career prospects, they could both lose everything.
In a game of cat and mouse, Rhett is playing the one game he doesn’t want to win…
To the two favourite men in my life, my husband and my father.
For always being strong when I needed you, and doing what was right for the family.
Thank you for teaching me the purest form of love.
Blurb
Dedication
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Connect With Me Online
About the Author – Leesa Bow
RHETT
“You’re not bloody serious?” By the blank expressions I receive from the three men in the boardroom, I may as well be playing poker. “Christ, the answer is no.”
Bill Fontaine—president of the Blackbirds Football Club—folds his arms over his barrel of a chest. Twisted knuckles curl over the large sleeves, war injuries from playing league football for over three hundred games. I remember sitting in the stands with my dad watching him play, thinking he was the greatest player of all time. Over my ten years at the club we have built a solid relationship, like father and son, and this is one of those times we’ll clash because we’re that comfortable with each other.
I meet Bill’s gaze with determination, waiting for him to respond. He stares down his long nose with a look telling me his hands are tied in the matter.
His controlled bloody silence is killing me. Leaning forward, I focus before opening my mouth. “Okay, yeah, I fucked up. But seriously, is this the best idea you three can come up with?”
Ian Jamieson, my manager, rubs the side of his neck. After five long seconds I realise he, too, isn’t going to back me. The bastard has always crawled under a rock whenever it comes to standing up to the president, and more so to the CEO—who I’ve nicknamed Dickhead—of the Blackbirds Football Club.
Bill walks over to a small, round table at the side of the room, holding a decanter of whiskey. He pours more than a standard drink and downs it in a single gulp. I narrow my eyes. He’s uncomfortable with the situation—with me—but I withhold any comment. Even before Bill became president, he was someone I’d listen to, but today I have reservations.
“You’ve left us with no option,” he says. “Look at it this way, it’s an opportunity to redeem yourself.”
I know from experience not to get into a full-blown argument with Bill. He’s gotten me out of a sticky situation on more than one occasion, but I have to pick my fights, know when to step away from the ring. Leaning back, I fold my arms. I’m not falling for their bluff that this reality show is the only way they’ll re-sign me, or I can go play elsewhere.
I’m not going anywhere.
Bill downs another shot before switching his focus to me. “You’re a valuable player to us, Rhett.”
A few words, and my resistance crumbles. “I don’t want a speech. Just tell me what I have to do.”
Peter Weeks, the CEO—Dickhead—clears his throat. “You make it sound like it’s our fault you’re in this position.” He peers over the rim of his spectacles, disdain clear in his voice. “No one forced those drinks down your throat.”
I glare at Peter, hating that he’s sitting in on this meeting. My coach is on his annual holiday with his family, so Peter was summoned to the emergency conference. Without a doubt, Peter is voting against re-signing me. The rest of my team is on an end-of-year football trip in Bali, so none are here to back me. I’m already pissed off about being banned from the team trip to sort out my alleged mess. “I’m not the only guy who drinks during football season.”
Ian holds up a hand, ready to break up a verbal boxing match. “Mate, they’re not talking about having a few drinks here. You know that. The Melbourne incident is always going to come back and bite you in the arse every time you fuck up.”
“And that incident wasn’t entirely my fault. When are you guys going to believe me?” Christ, even my voice sounds hoarse with desperation.
“I suppose it wasn’t your fault those girls ended up on your dick,” Peter says dryly.
I hold Bill’s gaze, ignoring Peter’s remark. Bill is the only guy I need to convince. The memory of a certain photograph makes me lose my train of thought. I cringe at the image in my head—my naked rear and some topless chicks at a hotel in Melbourne. The photograph was splashed across the front page of the Australian newspaper for the entire country to see. The offensive body parts blurred. I close my eyes briefly and push away the memory.
“What do I have to do?”
TORI
Pressing my spine into the support of my ergonomic office chair, I fold my arms over my chest. “So I’m expected to fix this guy’s image?”
Ingrid disregards the contempt in my tone. “In a nutshell, yes. But only because
you’re good at damage control.”
Of all the tasks I undertake as a mentor of reality stars, fixing a bad-boy image is my least favourite. Give me a nerd who’s nervous around girls, or a workaholic who doesn’t have time for love, any day. Resigned, I sigh loudly. “So, when is the meeting?”
The door to my office swings open before Ingrid responds. “Ladies, Grant wants you in his office pronto,” Paige, one of the assistant junior producers, announces. The door closes before I add anything further.
Ingrid gives me one of her pitying looks as I follow her out the door.
“Does the network need another reality show? I mean, how many versions,” I say with emphasis, “of eligible bachelors does the audience want?”
“This show offers something different. The screenplay was written specifically for troubled athletes because … well, you know, Aussies love their sport heroes.”
The one thing an audience loves more is when a bad guy is transformed into the good guy by true love. One lucky contestant has the potential to find her happy-ever-after, and her Prince Charming will be so swoon-worthy the hot seat will shift to the female contestants, who will appear as opponents rather than love interests. We want viewers to bat for our bad boy. Hell, I could write the script.
Ingrid leans in close, as though she’s sharing exclusive information. “When Dale heard about the Blackbirds’ football player’s fall from grace, he modified the script with his idea to redeem the player’s image before contacting the club.”
Dale Ford is the creator of the reality show, Contest. I have worked with Dale before, and although the show is his baby he allows Grant, the executive producer, to take the reins.
“The fact he made Australia’s Most Eligible Bachelor List benefits the show because the country already loves him, despite the mess he’s in.”
“You know him?”
“I’ve seen photos …” Ingrid shrugs. “Sexy, blond bed hair, piercing blue eyes, an impeccable jawline, ideal for the screen. All perfect for ratings.”
“Wouldn’t expect anything less.”
“Grant is excited about this one,” Ingrid adds, “so be careful what you say, because I can tell by your face you have reservations. You don’t want any slip-ups to come out of your sweet mouth because, you know … a certain upcoming promotion.”
I note the sarcasm. “Wouldn’t dream of it.”
“Right,” she says, dismissing my equally sarcastic response. “There’s big sponsorship too. Some large sport corporation from overseas is backing the show. Go figure.”
RCP is not one of the larger broadcasting corporations in the nation, so that is surprising. The show is filmed here in Adelaide, which is awesome for our network. I focus on the bigger picture because Ingrid is right. We’re both up for promotion at the end of the year and I don’t want to mess up.
Ingrid waves to Patricia, Grant’s PA, sitting at her desk.
Patricia picks up the phone and alerts Grant to our presence. She nods for us to enter. When Ingrid pushes open the door, Grant stands from his desk, adjusts his tie, and points to the two empty seats beside three men who sit opposite him. One is Dale, the other two strangers.
“Tori and Ingrid, you both know Dale. Please meet Bill and Ian from the Blackbirds Football Club.” The men stand and hold out their hands, ready to greet us in a business-like manner. I stare at Bill’s large palm, and swollen knuckles. I hesitate, before shaking hands with him. It’s a deal I’m not convinced will benefit me, or my career. In fact, I’m sure it will be detrimental to both.
RHETT
“Reassure me I’m doing the right thing,” I choke out to my manager.
“You are, mate.” Ian loosens his tie. “For everyone.”
Yeah, everyone.
I’m not the reason the club is losing memberships.
My eyes skirt around the office where Ian and I were directed to sit and wait. My foot taps out a nervous beat, as I take in the fancy mahogany furnishings and expensive art on the walls. Not that I know anything about art. It’s not my thing. Football is. And the only reason I’m here is to save my career.
“What’s keeping them?”
“They’ll be here. Relax. I know you have reservations about being on the show but I want you to trust me on this. Trust the club. If you do the right thing over the next few weeks of production then the fans will come back to you, believe in you again. And the club will benefit.”
“And if I don’t?”
“No guarantee you’ll get another contract. Peter will make sure of it. And, with the latest accusations, I doubt any other Adelaide club will pick you up.” Ian runs a hand over his thinning, dark hair. “I can’t see any way around it, mate. Say yes, and do the damn show. It’s only six weeks, and then you get to keep doing what you love.”
He’s right. I have to suck it up and do what the damn television producer wants. Several weeks of this scripted drama, and I’ll no longer be suspended. I’ll be free to begin the gruelling preseason training.
The door creaks open behind me, and I spin around to a middle-aged guy wearing a suit. I size him up in two seconds. It’s what I’m trained to do when standing an opponent on the field because for now, that’s what he is to me.
A thin frame, as though he skips meals. Tired, washed-out, grey eyes. He adjusts his tie and holds out slender fingers. I stand and take his soft hand, look him in the eye.
“I’m Grant McCormack, the executive producer of Contest.” He releases my hand and shakes Ian’s. “Good to meet with you again, Ian. I’m happy to see Mr Williams is here with you. This is Dale Ford, the creator of Contest.”
My attention swoops to Dale while shaking his hand. The bags under his eyes suggest he could do with a decent night’s sleep. His hand is a dead fish within my grip. “Rhett Williams. Nice to meet you both.” Dale sits on the edge of his seat and looks eagerly toward Grant, now sitting behind his solid desk.
Grant’s gaze lands on me. I sense him assessing me like I was moments before. I fold my arms and keep my gaze steady. “Like what you see?”
Ian coughs. “Rhett, it’s not—”
Grant chuckles. “I’m thinking you look better in the flesh than in photographs, which is a bonus when you’re in front of the camera.”
“I haven’t said yes yet,” I’m quick to add.
Grant’s eyes flick to Ian, then back to me. “And rightly so until you hear what we have to offer, and how it will benefit you.”
I nod once. “Go ahead.” I sit back in the chair, somewhat weary. So damn tired of being told what to do. Yeah, I made some bad choices, but the latest attempt to discredit me came from an ex-acquaintance. Truth is, I haven’t been with anyone for three months. I briefly dated Cara last year. A month ago she wanted to hook up again at a gala ball. I went alone and intended to leave the same way. A gala fundraiser for autistic children is not somewhere I make out with chicks. I told her no, in a way she didn’t like. Cara didn’t appreciate rejection in front of her girlfriends and work colleagues. She decided on revenge by sending the club a photograph she took a year ago of us in the sack. Then asked the club to deal with me.
And this is the deal being cut for me. It was the final straw, in their eyes.
“I’m tired of all the pretence,” I tell him honestly.
“Are you telling me you’re tired of beautiful girls wanting to be with you?”
“More of the girls wanting to hook up because I wear a guernsey. They don’t give it a second thought as long as they can brag to their friends that I chose them on the night.”
Grant holds my gaze. “Contest will have the same scenario.” I go to stand. “But it will also be different,” he adds. “You have a chance to open up, tell the contestants what you want in a relationship, and, yes, I did say relationship because this show is not about another hook-up.” I narrow my eyes, hearing his mocking tone. “Play the victim. I don’t care how as long as we receive good ratings.” I sit forward but Grant continues without allowing me
to interrupt. “You have an opportunity to tell the whole country what you want, what’s important to you for finding happiness, finding love.”
“I’m not into gooey romance, mate,” I say dryly.
“Oh, but Mr Williams, you will be. By the time the show is finished you’ll love romance. And you’ll have a script to make sure you do.”
I glare at Ian. “You said I could do it my way.”
“You can. When people get to know the real you, then you’ll win the fans back. They’ll start to believe in the club again. Mate, it’s a win-win.”
Football is about winning, on and off the field.
Grant taps his pen rhythmically on the desk. “You’ll get your chance, but to begin with you need to follow the script. We know how to get ratings, and I’ve been producing shows for fifteen years. The elimination process will be lightly scripted. We’ll watch you interact with the contestants every day. The girls we’ve selected, I believe, will attract ratings, along with being a good match for you.”
“And after six weeks you believe I’ll fall in love with one of these girls?” I swallow the hard lump in my throat. My mind is already made up. No way could I fall for a girl who raises her hand to be a competitor on a show to find love with a stranger in a few weeks. That’s not love. Not the kind of love my parents taught me anyway.
I wipe a bead of sweat from my forehead. What the hell would my father have made of all this? Fuck. My mother and brothers … My team mates …
The boys aren’t going to let this shit go for a while. As for Mum, I’ll drive home and explain everything. An invisible punch lands in my gut imagining my mother’s disappointment at my contract coming down to this. Already I can hear her words about valuable life lessons.
Grant’s phone beeps. He presses a button. “Thank you, Patricia. Send them in.” He stands and walks around his desk.
“It’s time to introduce you to the ladies who will be working with you behind the scenes.” The door opens and two women walk in. The first has blonde hair, styled short around her face. She’s dressed in a suited skirt and jacket, a size too big for her medium frame. The second girl has long, dark waves tumbling down her back. I do a quick once over. The navy skirt to her knee is tight around her perfectly shaped ass. The white blouse is loose, yet full breasts are evident beneath the material covering her chest. Only the top button is open at the neckline, and there’s no chance I’ll get a peep of cleavage even if she bends over. I’m already imagining her round breasts. My gaze moves higher, lands on plump red lips, and I think of what she can do with her mouth. Then her lips part, and my dick reacts. I meet her gaze. Eyes the colour of honey stare back at me. The mere colour makes me want to discover their depths. Those beautiful eyes narrow, and when Grant speaks I snap out of the honey haze she has cast over me.