by K. Bromberg
I open my mouth to call after him, to say thank you, anything, but he’s nowhere to be found. I stand on the street corner staring at the notes. Inspector Matheson just unknowingly gave me the single greatest gift anyone has ever given me.
Time.
I’m not the smartest kid in the world, but I know where I’d have ended up if the policeman had taken me in.
Foster care. Or with relatives who live on the other side of the country and away from the dreams I’m so close to achieving.
“Your presence is causing quite the buzz as it should. I think you’re the one to beat right now.”
I gave up praying years ago, but I pray anyway.
God, help me get that scholarship. Help me use what Rory’s dad gave me to make it. Please let those dreams come true.
RUSH
I’M ON EDGE.
My life is about to take a drastic turn, and I’m scared to fucking death that once it does, it’ll take me one step further away from everything I know. And that I’ll never be able to find my way back.
I exhale a loud sigh as my agent drones on in my damn ear. “I’ve got to be honest, mate. You lost me about two minutes ago. All I need to know is if you’ve heard anything from management yet.” I stand at the edge of Johnny’s backyard and take in the view below me. Once you look past overpriced houses stacked upon overpriced houses, the valley and its greenery-hiding glass and concrete falls away to the city beyond.
The rising sun at my back reflects off the skyscrapers in the distance and beyond that is a sparkling blue strip of the Pacific.
If it’s so bloody gorgeous, then why am I missing the gloomy skies and dark pubs from home so much? It’s only been two weeks.
Because you miss the pitch. The stadium rising around you as you train. The history that you’re now a part of and afraid to lose.
Being here I feel disconnected . . . like it’s all slipping through my fingers and I can’t do anything about it.
But I’m trying to be patient, to listen to Finn, to do exactly what is being asked of me.
“Have you gone online? Looked at the papers from back home? I mean, I get you’re ignoring your publicist right now—she’s told me that much—but you know better than anyone that this is a total shitshow and shitshows take time to blow over,” Finn says. “If it does blow over.”
I roll my shoulders at the last comment and pinch the bridge of my nose.
Did I fuck up by doing this? Did I ruin everything I’ve worked for? Should I have said screw it to loyalty and paying things back and been the arsehole I’m known for?
Isn’t that ironic?
“This shit takes time, Rush. It’s not every day my client causes a riot within their own team.”
“And I already told you the answer is there to find if people look close enough.”
“What in the fuck does that mean? I’m your agent and you’re giving me this cryptic bullshit when I’m the one who’s supposed to be on your side, who’s supposed to be fighting for you.”
Then why am I here in the States?
I ask the question to myself over and over.
“I’ve been placed under a gagging order not to speak about anything else.”
“This is fucking bullshit, Rush, and you know it. I can only do what I can do with the information I have,” he says for what feels like the millionth time. However, I still remember how he came at me upon hearing the breaking news. How he shouted and yelled at why couldn’t I keep my dick in my pants and just play the damn game.
He assumed the worst, just like everyone else. “I’m the one on your side, who’s supposed to be fighting for you.” Sanderson should be the one person I don’t have to prove myself to, who believes in me as a man and a player . . . and yet . . .
“I’m here, aren’t I? I’m doing what you asked of me.”
That seems to soothe him, as he clears his throat and reins in his temper. “I know it sucks, but lying low for a bit is your best bet right now.”
“You’re in contact with the club though, right? Management? I’m in the best shape of my life, mate. At peak performance. I can’t risk not playing this season.”
“You’ll play all right, just not for—”
“No. I belong with Liverpool. It’s where I want to play,” I say, my tone letting him know I’ll accept nothing less.
“Then maybe you shouldn’t have fucked a teammate’s wife.”
I sigh and scrub a hand over my face in frustration. “I told you I didn’t—”
“Yeah, yeah. I know. You didn’t do it.” He chuckles and it grates on every one of my nerves. Its sound says I don’t believe you. It says I hear what you’re saying but it’s total shit. “Besides, it doesn’t matter if you did or didn’t, it only matters what the public thinks and unless you can prove otherwise, then you’re guilty as sin.”
“This is so fucked.”
“It is, but that’s why you’re in Los Angeles. That’s why we’re going to keep your face visible, show you’re doing good for the sport, and then we’ll get them back to the negotiating table and see what we can do. Trust me on this.”
“I do . . . but this is my life.”
“And it will continue to be, it’ll just take time for the ashes to cool off.”
“Okay.”
“Call me later and tell me how everything goes today. I promise it won’t be as miserable as you think it will be. It’s a paycheck—”
“I have more bloody money than I could ever spend, Finn. I don’t need a paycheck unless it’s from Liverpool.”
“Or the like,” he adds again, then goes silent as his words settle on the line and hit me harder than expected.
I’ve played with LFC my entire career. Starting with that damn scholarship when I was fifteen, I worked my way through the ranks, until I got to where I am today—starting center forward for LFC and next year’s captain.
If there is a next year.
“Playing elsewhere isn’t an option.”
“It might have to be.” He sighs and I hate the sound of it, because I always know something more is coming. “You being here is a public but not public way to show that you’re not hiding. It comes off like you’re here in the US for a job rather than the truth—that you’re trying to ignore everything till it dies down. It’s passive-aggressive in a sense, but says you’re not afraid to show your face and that you have nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I’m just on edge.”
“I know, but you can practice anywhere. You don’t have to be back home to stay fit.”
But I need to be back home to live my life.
We finish the conversation and when I hang up, I don’t feel any better about the current situation. It doesn’t help that when I go to close out the apps on my phone, the image sitting front and center on Instagram is his, the reason I’m in this current predicament.
It sours my mood even more.
I start to head back into the house when I see her—Lennox—the woman I haven’t been able to shake from my mind since the pool yesterday and the bathroom last night. She’s standing in the kitchen with a tea towel balled up in her hand, laughing at something Johnny said.
What’s her story? What’s their story? Obviously, they’re close because one doesn’t just pick up the phone and ask to stay somewhere if they’re not.
Are they exes? Do they like each other but are dancing around the notion of it? Or are they just what they seem? Good friends.
But there’s the flirting—like what I’m watching now and what I observed when they were on the patio last night—that muddies the water.
The pang of jealousy is quick but fleeting, because it doesn’t matter what they are or what they aren’t. I know the way she looked at me last night, and I know interest when I see it.
And she was interested.
It takes a lot more than that to impress me.
I call bullshit on her comment.
The attraction was mutual. The need was there and ready to
be tested.
As I watch her slide her ass onto the kitchen counter and swing her legs over its edge as she listens to something Johnny says, I run a hand over my jaw, thinking of the look in her eyes last night—confidence and want. I think of her perfume—light and flowery. I remember the goosebumps that chased over her arms when we were inches apart.
Sure, she was sassy and sarcastic, but damn it to hell, all of that mixed together was a heady mixture that begged me to test the waters.
It took everything I had not to kiss her last night.
It was even harder not to knock on her bedroom door and ask if the lacy pair of barely-there knickers that she “accidentally” dropped in the bathroom are part of her normal attire, because if they are . . . damn.
But there was something that stopped me from doing it. And now that I stand here and watch her through the glass—her blonde hair falling down her back, her tan legs swinging, her full lips smiling wide—that something just became so much clearer.
I want her too.
I’m in a world that feels so out of control. My every movement is calculated, planned by someone else, and the consequences of every action determined before I even act.
Public perception managed.
Does anyone know how hard that is for someone like me who’s fine at following the instructions every coach and manager football has thrown at me, but living my life outside of football? That’s been mine and mine alone. Do they realize every part of me wants to rebel against this order?
But then there’s her—Lennox. A rival agent to my own. A bad decision. A complication I shouldn’t risk.
An itch I suddenly have.
Shit.
I chuckle. What is it they say about itches? They need to be scratched.
Since when do I care about perception or what’s deemed right?
Isn’t that partially what got me into this mess?
Isn’t that why I know I shouldn’t touch her?
Then again, she looks like a woman you can have uncomplicated sex with. Who can deal with two people crossing paths without ongoing expectations.
So maybe, good sex with a gorgeous woman won’t hurt anyone at all.
LENNOX
“SO IT’S SIGNED,” I SAY as I push the employment contract across the desk toward Cannon and his slight smirk. “Now are you going to tell me what more I’ve just agreed to? I assure you I read the fine print and noticed its mention of two main goals, yet you seem to have only mentioned one.”
“Don’t sound so enthusiastic. This isn’t a prison sentence, Lennox.” He chuckles as he taps the papers on the table to square their edges before setting them to the side.
But his comment hits home. There are job duties with vague descriptions that he’s simply explained away as legalese that’s not pertinent to me specifically.
And yet, the longer he sits across from me with that cat ate the canary grin, the more I think I may have just made a mistake.
I force a swallow. “Cannon?” I prompt. “Details.”
“A woman who’s assertive. I like that.”
I ignore the comment and the flirty wink he gives after it, covering it with a tight smile. “It’s necessary in my line of work. The contract states I have to make players happy, win them over. I took the bait and signed, now you do your job and give me details. That’s how this is going to work.” I add on a saccharine-sweet smile to the end of my words.
He grunts crudely and I internally cringe, thinking of Dekker’s warning about his reputation.
“Your job is to make players happy. The first part of that is what we talked about—contracts, benefits, determining what they’re looking for. The second part is that I want you to make one player in particular especially happy so he decides to leave his current club and come play for the MLS.”
And the other shoe drops.
“I’m not following you.” I huff out a sigh because clearly I am following him, but choose to play dumb so he’s forced to spell it out for me. It’s never wise to assume.
“That comment alone tells me you are.”
I lift my eyebrows in response, my mind immediately homing in on the especially happy bit of his comment. Maybe after coming off Finn’s bullshit the other night, I’m sensitive to any implication that I use sex or my looks to win over clients, but I swear to God, that’s what Cannon is implying. “I’m afraid to ask what you’re asking of me.”
“I want you to recruit a player for us.”
“Just one?” I ask as he nods.
“We’ll get to that.” He leans back in his chair and studies me for a beat. “I want you to use all of your skills, persuasion, and knowledge to convince said player that moving to our league is a decision worth considering.”
“So I’m posing as an MLS ambassador under the guise of being a player advocate, but what you’re telling me is that’s all a ruse because this player and getting him to commit to the MLS is the real end goal.”
His smile widens almost as if he’s proud of me for reading between his unspoken lines. “Yes.” Unabashed. Definitive.
“That’s . . . shady. A fox in the hen house kind of shady.”
He snorts in dismissal. “I like to think of it as being proactive and a tad aggressive. You’ll still be carving your niche with the first task, but the second one, this player? He’ll be your added bonus.”
“Why not just go through his agent? Wouldn’t that be simpler than paying me to negotiate with his agent?”
“I don’t want you speaking to his agent at all. Any and all conversations will be strictly between you and the athlete.”
“Does he know this is the endgame that you have in mind for him?” I ask.
“Not at this time . . . no.”
“So is it my job to tell him outright or is it more, ‘rah, rah, go MLS’ all the time until he sees how great the league is and never wants to leave?”
His laughter echoes through the room. “The latter.”
“Again, this would be easier if you just went straight to this agent. Cut out the middle man,” I explain.
“His agent doesn’t have the pull and influence that you do.” He clasps his hands in front of him and leans forward. “I’ve done my research on you, Lennox. You’re persuasive, firm when you need to be, but likable too. You don’t take no for an answer.”
I open my mouth and shut it, ignoring his praise as I run every scenario through my mind. There are so many ways this could go wrong.
“So, you’re paying me to circumvent his agent and lure an athlete away from his existing team.” That would piss me off if someone did that to me. But . . . at the end of the day, the agent still gets paid.
Unless of course, he wants me to steal the client as well.
“Don’t get all ethical on me. You agents do it every day when you trade players, so don’t get all high and mighty on me now.” He gives a sharp nod. “Think of it more as I’m paying you to influence a player to play here.”
“Smoke and mirrors.”
“Your words, not mine,” he says.
“For clarification’s sake, when it comes down to it, obviously after the end of the “ambassador” deal, which clearly is a ruse to help sell him on the league, you make a contract offer to him. I’m the one wooing and selling him, so how is that fair that you’ll then give the offer to his agent? That agent will present it to his client and then make a commission on it, when I’m the one who has done all the work. Don’t you think that’s convoluted—”
“Then steal him for yourself.” He lifts a brow as I startle. “That solves everything, right? And wouldn’t that be a nice, shiny feather in your cap? You took this job when I know for a fact your father told you not to take it.”
“No, he didn’t.”
“I talked to him last week, Lennox,” he says and it does nothing more than reinforce the puppet strings I felt controlled by yesterday. “I know he wasn’t thrilled with the offer. Bright side? You went against his wishes, took the job, and when y
ou steal this new client, look what you win in the process? A shiny, new star athlete any agency would kill to have on their client list.”
I rise from my chair and walk toward the windows looking out to the offices beyond. He has a point. A huge point.
“You get a huge win for you and KSM”—why the shady sales pitch when I’ve already signed the contract?—“and then get a little victory in the process.”
“What do you mean by that? A little victory in the process?”
“Finn Sanderson is his agent,” he deadpans. “Do you know him?”
Son of a bitch.
And the hits just keep on coming.
I try to mask my surprise. There are so many pieces to this puzzle right now that I’m having a hard time lining some of them up, but damn, I should have known.
“Of course, I know him.” I clear my throat. “In fact, he was at the conference in Vegas too,” I say as my mind mulls over the notion that Finn teased me about taking this job. A job where it would put me shoulder to shoulder with his client.
I rack my brain, running through Finn’s clients, but his list is longer than KSM’s and there’s no way in the midst of this conversation that I can concentrate to do it.
Something doesn’t sit right with me.
“And?”
“We’ll just say he’s not my most favorite person.”
“Good. Then it seems you won’t be worried about the ethicality of stealing his client out from underneath him.”
Does he know about the other night? About Finn and his bullshit? Why would he think I’d feel victorious?
Cannon smirks. I’m not sure if this is a pretend or real deal. “Finn Sanderson is an all-around prick. I’ve dealt with him, and everyone I know who’s dealt with him hates him too for his shady tactics.” The irony.
I twist my lips and stare at Cannon as I weigh the pros and cons of this. Score a big win for KSM. Redeem myself in my family’s eyes. Screw over Finn.
Cons?
And just as I start to go over them, something catches in my mind.
“You said earlier, he—the athlete—would be my added bonus. What did you mean by that?”
“His signing a contract to stay is the only way you earn one hundred percent of that bonus you agreed to.”