by K. Bromberg
He stares at me, and for the briefest of moments, I think he’s going to break his silence on the subject. There is a look in his eyes that tells me there’s so much more that I don’t know but true to fashion, he just gives the subtlest of nods.
“Finn says I have to be quiet because of the gagging order the management put into place after a fight broke out in the changing room.”
“That’s why you’ve been silent?” I emit a huff of disbelief. “I don’t buy it. Since when have you ever managed your career by the assumptions of others? That’s what bugs me about this whole situation, Rush. That’s what eats at me. Why were you told to come here? To save face on negotiations that don’t sound like they’re being made, or to do a favor, and for what purpose?”
“You’re the first person who’s said anything like that to me.”
Oh, this man is killing me. How can someone so gruff and strong and opinionated be gentled by simple words of truth? And how can he look at me with such deep affection as if he’s craved that? Needed that?
“The real question is, what is it that you want? Just you. Until you answer that question, everything is going to feel way off.”
And this time, when I go to walk past Rush to go meet up with Cannon, he lets me without saying a word.
RUSH
THE REAL QUESTION IS RUSH, what is it that you want?
I stare at Finn sitting across from me. He’s leaning back in his seat, a cigar is burning in his ashtray, and a pint is sitting half-drunk beside him. He’s partially buzzed, but that’s not stopping him from dishing out advice that I’m only half listening to because ever since last night, Lennox’s words are on repeat in my head.
“Word around the league is that you’re killing it, McKenzie. Charming the investors, rallying the supporters, and there’s an uptick in ticket sales for the upcoming season.”
“I feel like a sham.”
His eyes whip up to mine. That definitely got his attention. “What do you mean, you feel like a sham?”
“People are buying these tickets because they think I’m staying to play here when I’m not. I haven’t given any indication that I am, but by simply being here, it’s the conclusion they’ve drawn.”
“And that’s a problem, why?”
“Because it is. They remember when the MLS started and the LA Galaxy signed David Beckham to play in the States. Cannon is giving the same impression to fans when it comes to me and it’s bullshit.”
“C’mon,” he says and waves a hand in indifference. “You’re selling them the idea of it. That doesn’t mean it’s going to be the reality.”
I think of all the families who are spending their hard-earned money for tickets. I think of Scottie and Daphne, and how she promised him before they left after the game that he’d get to see me again. I didn’t have the heart to tell her otherwise—to upset him after an awesome day where she told me she couldn’t remember the last time she saw him so carefree, so much like a kid should be. So yeah, I’m the arsehole who left it to her to tell him eventually.
What’s worse is I know she’s already trying to figure out how she can split her money—paying a utility bill late, some groceries, hell if I know—to bring her son to one of my games. I’ve been there. I’ve watched the worry on my mother’s face as she calculated and robbed Peter to pay Paul, because the days when the younger version of me was happy were so few and far between that she did whatever she could to see it again.
Just like me, just like Scottie, there are so many more like us out there whose parents will spend the money they don’t have in order to perpetuate a dream. In order to give their child the best chance in life.
“Cannon is lying to them,” I say.
“It’s part of the game. We all play it.”
“But I don’t.” I sit forward and lean my forearms on the table as I wait for him to meet my eyes. “When I’m in my Liverpool kit, I’m not playing any other game than the one on the pitch against the opponent.”
“If you think that, you’re fooling yourself, Rush.” He takes a sip of his beer and lifts a chin toward a table full of women who keep looking our way. “You’re constantly playing a game. With the public, reinforcing their perception of you. With your endorsements, and what they’re wanting you to sell. With your teammates, and who you want them to think you are—the motivated, aggressive athlete or the guy who’ll stab them in the back and sleep with their wives.”
I stop with my glass halfway to my lips and stare at my agent. How funny that Lennox, a woman I’ve known for a whole two weeks, is all but yelling at me that she knows I didn’t touch Esme and my own agent, who has known me for years, is saying shit like that.
When my agent retired four years ago, he told me Finn was the best. He promised me that if I wanted someone who would push both my career and increase my sponsorship deals, then Finn Sanderson was the man.
But right now, I sit and stare at Finn and wonder if he’s ever really taken the time to know me other than when a significant negotiation was about to happen that would thicken the lining of his pockets. Because I’m not feeling any of the love or trust when it comes to him like I did with my previous agent. I’m not seeing faith in me or even concern to hear me. I expect an agent to mitigate problems—that’s what they do—but I’m not seeing my agent fight for me the way a woman I’ve known only a couple of weeks is willing to fight . . . and that’s a problem.
“So happy to see you addressing my concerns,” I say sarcastically.
“C’mon, man. You know I didn’t mean that last part. I was just joking.” He huffs out a breath in annoyance when he sees it still hasn’t set right with me. “You’re getting paid to stand there and look pretty. Are you going to argue with that?”
“Yeah, I’d much rather be back home with my trainers and coaches and preparing for the next season. It’s not the money. It’s the premise you pushed me here under.”
“I didn’t push you anywhere. That’s fucking nonsense. I guided. You agreed. End of story.”
I throw my hands up. “It feels dirty, mate.”
“How dirty does over one hundred million dollars sound?” His eyes meet mine, his brows lifted, as he runs a finger over the rim of his glass. “Because that’s what is possible here. A long term contract. Bonuses. Endorsement deals. They want you and they want you bad.”
And there it is.
The pitch. The promise. The reason he showed up in Los Angeles when he never shows up—unless Lennox is right, and he’s here because he’s afraid I’d switch agencies to hers.
And telling me he’s negotiating a hundred-million-dollar contract is definitely something an agent would do to get you to stay put.
“You have nothing to say to that?” he asks.
“It’s a lot of money.” I nod. “Are you throwing the bait out there to see if I’ll bite or are you telling me something I should already know?”
“You said you’re enjoying sunny California.”
“Have they made me an offer or are you blowing smoke up my arse?” I ask, wanting to know and not wanting to know. That’s a shit ton of money. It matches what I already have in the bank, more than any person could ever spend, and yet . . . I balk at the idea.
It would be like selling every part of me to something I didn’t believe in wholeheartedly.
“Numbers are being tossed around, comments are being made. I simply want you to know it’s happening so you have time to figure out if this is what you want or not.”
No.
“Was this the plan all along, Finn? Did you have this all worked out with Cannon ahead of time, waiting for my next screwup to talk me into it?”
“You’re a highly demanded football player. Whether there was this little snafu or not, you were being talked about. But you being you, isn’t that enough of a reason for the MLS to want you?”
No. My head spins. I feel like I’ve been maneuvered into this. Hell, was this all a setup? Rory and Esme? The photographer? Everything? Was this a
way to twist my arm? I don’t trust Cannon for a bloody second, but I at least trusted Finn.
Could he? Is this?
What the fuck?
“You’re jumping to conclusions.” Finn holds his hands up. “I can already see it in your posture. Chill out, man. None of this was planned. Shit happened, and now it might present another opportunity for you to further your professional career.”
“Furthering my professional career would be winning the World Cup for England. Getting the Golden Boot. Having a few Premier League championships under my belt. Not coming here where football has been trying to get off the ground for over a decade and is still failing.”
“It would be a way to make a name for yourself in a whole different place.”
“I like my name attached to Liverpool F.C. just fine, thanks mate.” I pause for a beat before looking back to him. “It’s the only place I’ve ever been, and I’m perfectly happy for it to be the only place I play for a while. I’m not washed-up yet.”
“Rush.” My name is a frustrated sigh. “No one said you were.”
And yet if I played here, that’s exactly what would be implied.
“Don’t discard the possibility. It’s a great opportunity.”
“Of course, it is. I mean, is this in my best interest or yours? Because I’m thinking any opportunity where you get ten percent of one hundred million is definitely in your best interest.”
“Now you’re just being a dick.”
I shrug nonchalantly because he’s right. I am being one, and I fucking deserve the right to be when this is my life we’re talking about here.
“Any news from the club?” I ask. It’s the only thing I care about, because the longer I’m here—save for the pleasure of seeing Lennox and her long damn legs every morning—the more I miss home. The gray skies and cobblestone streets. The green of Anfield’s pitch, and the sound of the guys harassing each other in the changing room. The feel of my bed and the taste of my bloody tea instead of the weak shit they have in the States. Proper beer in pubs where you go to hang with mates, rather than swanky bars like in LA where you go to be seen. “The transfer window will be closing next month and I need to not be transferred.”
“Management is still figuring things out.”
“And you know this because you’ve talked to them directly or because you’ve been hung up on by Millie at the front desk after she informed you, ‘we’ll call you when we know something’?”
“Why are you in such a shitty mood? Huh? I got you away from the media frenzy and the club drama there and now we’re here.” He motions his hands to the sunny sky above and the beach in sight to our left. “Are you really complaining about being in Los Angeles?”
“No, I’m complaining about my agent trying to sell me a pint of piss and trying to make me believe otherwise.”
“For your information, I’ve been talking to Patrick. Several times in fact. You happy?”
“And?”
“And they’re trying to figure out how the fuck their team captain is going to play with the man who was supposed to be the new team vice captain”—he points at me—“you, without punching each other out in the middle of a game.”
“I told you it wasn’t me, Finn.”
“And I told you it damn well looks like you in the photo, so in case you can give me something else to present to the team to say otherwise, you’re the one who’s looking bad in this situation.”
“Shit.”
“You fucked up—big time—and a manager doesn’t want a problem-child messing with their team chemistry.”
And there he goes again. “You’re my agent. Aren’t you supposed to be telling me you’re fighting as hard as you can to get me where I need to be because you know the truth?”
“I am fighting.”
“It doesn’t seem like it.” I look back to him. “You told me this would blow over.”
So did Archibald, Rush. And despite his blasé attitude when he asked me to take the hit, Archibald still calls or texts every few days to make sure I stay the course. To remind me how he’s seen me as another son, from taking me in, educating me, feeding me, taking me on family holidays . . .
But he’s a father figure who lets another son stuff his own future and then calls in a marker . . .
He messages me to tell me the story has fallen back in the pages and is slowly dying.
Good.
Fucking great.
But that doesn’t mean it’s been forgotten by my club and team. Or by Seth.
That’s the part I underestimated when I agreed to this narrative.
That’s the one thing I can’t change.
A chance encounter. My stolen meal lost under the boots of some interfering policeman. The man who sent his son with the policeman to learn about real life and responsibilities . . . but then sent that same son an easy get-out-of-jail-free card eleven years later. Quid. Pro. Fucking. Quo. All so Archibald Matheson can ascend to his own throne. Easily done, because it costs him nothing.
Was it worth it?
That’s what brought me to this moment. To this quid pro quo.
Was it worth it? I stare at Finn and repeat Lennox’s question in my head.
I have much to prove that it is—wealth, a place in sporting history, the chance to play a game that I love, and make more money than I ever dreamed I could. I’ll never have to worry about being hungry or cold or unclean again. I didn’t go to jail that day, I didn’t miss the scholarship, and I didn’t spend the rest of my teen years growing up alone because of them. The Mathesons became a family where a seat at the dinner table was always set for me.
Then there’s Archibald. A man I possibly hero-worshipped, until I saw how his career came before his family. How rising through the ranks—and his need to feel important at all costs, including supporting my career—was accomplished mostly to the detriment of his flesh-and-blood son, who still hasn’t grown the fuck up.
Rory. My brother. Often someone I consider my best friend.
And Helen. She made space for me in her heart, not replacing my mum of course, but certainly filling the large hole Mum left since she died.
She’s spent so much time trying to right Archibald’s wrongs and shortcomings. She’s fought so hard for Rory’s success—not professionally, but emotionally—as she has mine.
How could I let her down now?
Despite their weaknesses, they’ve never turned their back on me when almost everyone else had. Sure, I know Archibald did it to attach his name to the closest thing he could find to a rising star . . . but she did it out of love. She did it because she cared. And part of that has helped me be the man I am today.
So that’s why I can do this.
He first saw me.
That’s what brought me here.
She first loved me.
That’s why I can hold out on this.
He became my brother. One I won’t abandon.
But then my debt will be paid in full. End of story.
“How about you get a royal pregnant? Then everyone would be so excited that you’d be forgiven.” He chuckles.
“Funny,” I say dryly before becoming dead serious. “I don’t want to leave the team, Finn. I don’t want to be transferred. That’s where I belong and I’m good enough, sought after enough, that my agent has the right to tell my team that. Seth is good, but he’s on the tail end of his career while I’m in my prime.” I take a sip of my designer lager and when he doesn’t respond, I continue. “I’m getting calls left and right. Media asking for interviews and the like. I’m beginning to think I should talk publicly.”
Maybe I’m baiting him about breaking the gagging order. Maybe I’m seeing what he says compared to what Lennox suggested. I know I have no plans to speak to the press, but perhaps I’m trying to figure out where his true allegiance lies. His paycheck or his player?
And he fails miserably when he answers.
“It wouldn’t be smart to go against the gagging order. We shou
ld stay the course.” We should stay the course. Archibald’s words . . . exactly. He lifts his finger to the server for another round that I no longer want to sit here and drink with him. “And in the meantime, you should soak this shit up. The sun, the surf, the women who will eat up those tattoos and that accent of yours.”
“Yep,” I say, mind completely disengaged at this point. I want to tell Finn to piss off, but I’m knackered and can’t be bothered.
“Where are you staying again?” he asks the question I dodge every time he asks.
I don’t think it’s the best time to mention I’m staying with Johnny . . . and Lennox. That won’t go over well at all.
“I already told you last time you asked, a friend’s house.”
“Good for you. A bit of advice, Rush,” he says, leaning forward as if he’s going to tell me the secret of all secrets. “Enjoy all that this city has to offer and tell me it wouldn’t be a hardship to live here.”
LENNOX
“FUCKING HELL,” RUSH SAYS AS he saunters into the family room where I’ve set up shop on one end of the couch. My laptop is on my legs, a few contracts are on the cushion beside me, and a bottle of wine is half gone on the end table opposite me. “I have stamina.” He winks, adding that grin I’ve been trying to ignore. “You know that, of course, but this press thing is bullshit.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, how many meetings and press briefings and circus shows do I have to go to where I smile wide and stand there beside Cannon but don’t say anything other than sing the MLS’s praises. These people don’t love football. Not like back home. They think they do but they have no desire to put the funds and the marketing in to make it what it could be here in the States.”