by Alison Bond
Of course she didn’t understand, but number eleven had the home crowd all fired up.
The inspired way he played football reminded her of England striker Wayne Rooney at his very best, but with a grace more usual in a South American or perhaps African player. The ball seemed to stick to his feet and no matter where he picked it up he would turn and run hell-bent at goal, pulled towards it on an invisible thread. Defenders might try to stop him, but he would sidestep them as if he was merely dancing, keeping the ball close to him, twisting first one way and then the other.
He couldn’t see the opponents. He only had eyes for goal.
During the second half she saw him flick the ball high over the head of a bullish defender, almost mocking his attempts to steal possession. And when he casually controlled the ball so that it fell back to earth precisely where he wanted it she could have sworn she saw Josef flash a cheeky grin.
Wow.
For the first time in weeks she stopped mulling over the three hundred thousand, she stopped obsessing over the enemy that had orchestrated her demise. She lost herself in the beautiful game.
He was the kind of player that made you love football, even if you never thought you would.
Gabe was waiting for her in the players’ lounge afterwards. What had once been a grim, depressing place reminiscent of a staff canteen could now, thanks to Lubin’s revamp, compare with the hippest bars in Central Europe. For a bar in Poland owned by a Russian, this place did a mean coffee. This country where she felt utterly foreign was starting to get under her skin in a way she couldn’t quite fathom.
‘So what did you think?’ he said.
She could hardly tell Gabe that she hadn’t been watching him, that her eyes had been glued to another man. A boy. And, as every agent knew, the younger the better. So she nodded and said something encouraging, while keeping a keen watch on the door, waiting for the kid. Gabe noticed.
‘Looking for someone?’
‘I, er …’
‘Are you and Lubin having a fling?’
‘What? No. Where did you hear that?’
‘He was asking about you.’
She was flattered, but decided to tell Gabe the truth. ‘I was looking for number eleven. The striker.’
‘Josef Wandrowszcki?’
‘That’s right.’ She’d read his name in the flimsy match programme.
‘Little Joe. Good, isn’t he?’ said Gabe. ‘Special.’
‘He can’t pass,’ said Samantha, trying to be pragmatic, trying to contain the feeling of utter infatuation, like a girl with an inappropriate crush, ‘and his finishing could be sharper. Plus, he didn’t score, did he? And for a striker I’d say that’s imperative.’
‘But he’s the best young player you’ve seen for years, right?’ Gabe motioned to one of the passing waitresses who looked like a supermodel. A moment later he had a beer in his hand.
‘I think,’ she said, willing to concede, ‘that he’s the best young player I’ve ever seen.’
Gabe’s spirits sank. She saw them go and she knew why. Joe was better than Gabe, a lot better, and they were essentially chasing the same spot on the first team. His first professional contract, and probably his last, and he was outplayed by a kid young enough to be his son.
‘He’s a smashing kid,’ said Gabe grudgingly. He cheered himself up a bit by watching the supermodel waitress from behind.
Samantha saw the line of his sight and frowned. She was used to having to keep a close watch on her young players, to make sure they didn’t misbehave, not too much, but she had hoped Gabe would be mature enough to realize he didn’t have to change just because his pay packet had. But then she hadn’t really known him before. Maybe he’d always had a roving eye and, as she watched him make short work of his beer, a sizeable thirst. But she had an instinct for these things and it was telling her that Gabe Muswell might be one to watch. And not in a good way. She pulled the conversation back to the boy wonder.
‘He’s a friend of yours? Josef?’ she asked. ‘How’s his English?’
Gabe paused, his glass halfway to his mouth. ‘What? He is English. Didn’t you know?’
That’s when she suspected that Joe might just be a megastar.
Joe gave himself a pep talk in the empty changing room.
So you didn’t score, so what?
It must have been his nerves. Gabe had told him that Sam Sharp was in town and knowing that the powerful agent lady was out there somewhere watching him, the kind of person who could take him out of this poxy team, out of this poxy bloody country and into the beautiful game for real, had put him off.
England. Where players earned millions and got all the pretty girls.
Where every young boy dreamed of being a footballer, where he would be a hero to thousands every Saturday afternoon and on telly every Saturday night.
Where his dad would be able to see him on the back page of the papers and say, that’s my boy.
So he didn’t score. He had still played well. He thought he’d shown off some pretty silky skills, especially in the second half when he could tell some of the more experienced players were tiring while he still felt like he could go for hours. He’d run up the left wing at top speed, clocking a sixty-metre time that must have been right up there with the very best athletes; he’d weaved and dodged tackles like a rugby pro. But he hadn’t scored. And football was about balls in the back of the net. That was the only score that counted.
Idiot.
It was Joe’s dream to play football in England. He wanted to move in with his nan, play for Arsenal and marry Layla Petherick.
Dickhead.
Sometimes when he was drunk he amused himself by trying to decide which he wanted to do more, play for Arsenal or marry Layla Petherick. He never could come down on either side. He couldn’t play for Arsenal for ever, whereas wedded bliss with Layla would last a lifetime. On the other hand, he didn’t stand a chance with Layla unless he did something, was something, incomparably impressive. So where did that leave him?
It was simple. He’d have to do both.
How often did a top football agent come all the way over to this European outpost? Never. Hardly ever. Except today one had. And he hadn’t scored. And his dad wouldn’t be able to say, ‘that’s my boy’ at all.
Shit.
She saw pound signs flashing in front of her eyes when she saw Joe walking towards them. The kid was gorgeous, talented and above all English. He was a rough diamond, but his potential was unmatched on the English football stage. He was the kind of player the country had been waiting for, hoping for, praying for. The kind of player you’d take out to a tournament as a wildcard, a playmaker, somebody to bring on in the last fifteen minutes when you needed a flash of creativity, when you needed a miracle.
Her head was spinning. What could she do? How could she play this? Nobody influential would have seen this kid yet, otherwise he would have been snapped up. She had him exclusively in the palm of her hand, but for how long? White Stars had made it through to the last thirty-two of the UEFA Cup. If they made it to the last sixteen then it was only a matter of weeks before his talent was exposed to a wider audience and then surely others would come calling.
Think, Sam, think.
What could she offer him? Her brain felt stiff from lack of use. It wasn’t fair to be given this opportunity if there was nothing she could make from it, yet her options were few. She could introduce him to an old friend, someone at Legends whom she liked, except there was nobody there she felt inclined to do a favour for, not even Jackson. Especially not Jackson.
A club manager then. She could make one last deal. A blistering, headline-grabbing deal that would sweep the bad press away and remind anyone who cared that she was Sam Sharp: Superagent, not some drug dealer running out of luck.
Think.
She could set up on her own. Her stiff brain flexed in response to the good idea.
That’s exactly what she should do. There was nothing to stop her.
She still had her FIFA licence. But who would trust her? Perhaps if she was to set up out here she could put enough distance between a new venture and her soiled reputation in England. She would have Gabe still, and maybe Joe too, unless he knew how good he was, because if he knew how good he was then why on earth would he want to sign with a disgraced and fallen agent like her when he could wait and see what other offers he might get?
‘Good game,’ she said.
‘I didn’t score,’ said Joe woefully, rubbing his nose as if he was embarrassed.
‘I did,’ said Gabe.
But she hardly heard him. Was her idea to relocate really feasible? It would be like starting over, but with all the skills and contacts she had taken half a lifetime to accumulate. She could keep her ear to the ground, employ some Slavic assistants who spoke the languages and tap a market that so far had produced few stars, save for a couple of Czechs and Croatians. Who else was looking out for the new players? A few scouts spread thinly across the region – that would be her only competition. They were all EU now, weren’t they? One big happy European family. So there wouldn’t even be work-visa issues (it was surprising how much red tape could hamper a deal for months).
She could bide her time and wait for the important transfer window. From the first day of January players could be bought and sold for one month and one month only. She could launch back into the business on a flurry of lucrative deals. She would have to fund herself until January. If she missed the transfer window she would have to wait until summer to transfer players and that would put too much strain on her finances. She could lose everything.
So until January. Two months, a little less. It was no time at all. Then one day if her name was cleared she could go home. What better way to win a war against some unknown adversary than refuse to be cowed? To come home a bigger success than ever? It would be two fingers up to everyone who had doubted her.
Sam Sharp: International Superagent.
Could she? Could she really?
The important agent lady was hardly even looking at him. She looked like something was funny. Him probably. Joe cursed himself for getting all worked up about an opportunity that was probably all in his head.
What did he expect? That she would swoop in, be dazzled by his talent and fly him off in a helicopter to Arsenal HQ where he would have a one-to-one with the manager, sign a contract on the spot and drink champagne to celebrate? Yeah, maybe in Poland he was a pro footballer, when both the first-team strikers were out through injury, but that didn’t mean anything. Look at Gabe, for heaven’s sake: a non-league player who was as old as his dad had made the team. That should surely tell him something about standards.
He immediately felt bad. Gabe was a decent enough player, and running him down wouldn’t make Joe feel any better.
But he had been unable to sleep the night before with a sense of anticipation that within a few short hours he might be that inch closer to his dream. ‘My agent is coming to see me play,’ Gabe had said, and since he’d said it Joe had thought of little else. Without someone else’s intervention he wouldn’t have the first idea how to get a trial for an English club, how to even make sure that the right people knew he existed.
In his imagination Samantha Sharp had become a kind of fairy godmother who made dreams come true.
And he hadn’t even scored. But he really wanted her to like him.
She asked Joe small-talk questions about his background. He was the product of a passionate fling between his Polish mother, Ana, and his father, Simon. Seventeen years ago Joe’s father was watching the fall of communism on the news and knew with a true hedonist’s instinct that one of the greatest parties the world had ever seen would be kicking off all summer long in Eastern Europe.
‘The way he tells it,’ said Joe, ‘you’d think he knocked the Berlin wall down on his way. Mum says he was five days too late and everyone was already hungover by the time he got here.’
Great story. Samantha was already thinking of the glossy magazine that might pay for such a tale.
Joe had been around White Stars first as a dogsbody, then as a junior, now finally as a player. Every spare moment of his life for as long as he could remember had been spent with a ball at his talented feet. ‘I’ve always spent summers with my dad,’ he said. ‘I love England, but I was lucky to be born Polish. I’m not good enough to play for Man United. I know that. But out here, I make the team. Now we’re in the UEFA Cup. Dad’ll be able to tell all his mates.’
This wasn’t the time to tell Joe that she thought he was wrong. He was good enough to play in England, and the fact that he didn’t know it yet was part of his charm. Seventeen years old and oozing enough raw talent to ensure that somewhere soon they would be chanting his name. He could be hers, but she had to play it just right. If the kid knew how good he was he could be running off to Legends in an instant.
‘Listen, Joe,’ she said, ‘I’d really like to see you again.’
Gabe sighed. ‘Will you two cut it out? You’re acting like a couple on a first date.’ Impatiently he poked Joe in the back to make him move closer. Then he reached out for Samantha’s shoulders, turning her so she faced Joe dead on. ‘That’s better,’ he said with satisfaction, reminding her of a photographer arranging a shot.
‘Now, Joe,’ he said, ‘just before you came out Sam said she thought you were the best young player she’d ever seen. Sam, Joe was so worked up about you being here today he put his boots on the wrong feet.’
They both said, ‘Really?’ at the same time.
Joe had a really sweet grin, and she had a prescient flash of all the prepubescent girls (and boys too) who would have his poster on their walls when he was a big star.
‘Thanks, Gabe,’ she said. ‘I was trying to play it cool.’
‘Me too,’ said Joe.
‘Just get it on, will you? You’re making me feel like a right gooseberry.’
‘So let’s talk,’ she said to Joe. ‘Who looks after you?’
‘My mum,’ he said, and she thought he had misunderstood and rephrased her question.
‘Your career, I mean. Who looks after your career?’
‘Still Mum.’
‘Bring her then. Tomorrow? Say twelve noon? I’m staying at the Sheraton.’
‘She has to work,’ he said. ‘Wednesday’s her day off.’
‘Wednesday then,’ said Samantha. In England, a player of Joe’s calibre could ensure that his mother would never have to work again.
There was a buzz at the far end of the bar. The boss had arrived.
Aleksandr.
Without thinking about it, her hands smoothed her clingy black top down over her waist and hips and she stood a little taller in her black spike-heeled boots, both items chosen with care. Just like the stockings and suspenders she was wearing underneath. She had been waiting for him. Even as she watched the match and talked to Gabe and then to Joe she had been waiting.
She took two steps towards him and then stopped.
He had an exquisitely formed blonde draped over his arm. Of course he did. He was a beautiful, extraordinarily rich young playboy, the same person he was last time, but she wasn’t Sam Sharp: Superagent any more. Three hundred thousand dollars had seen to that.
She turned back to Gabe and Joe and tried to ignore the Russian.
Yet she could sense him getting closer. The sound of his name on others’ lips drew nearer, the hum of his presence pulled all eyes to him and it was impossible not to turn and watch him come.
Slowly (or perhaps that was just her perception of his achingly measured movement) he made his way across the crowded bar towards them.
‘Another great goal, Gabe,’ he said. ‘And, Josef, what’s that? Two games lacking your name on the score sheet now?’
Joe ducked his head, suddenly fascinated by the tops of his shoes.
She felt a defensive stab of outrage. He was being unfair. The ball wouldn’t even have been there for Gabe if it hadn’t been for Joe’s lightnin
g run up the wing and deft lob into the area. Besides, Gabe’s goal really wasn’t that great, a scrappy effort a few feet off the goal line. It was as much luck as judgement that put the ball in the back of the net.
‘Is comparing two performances really the best way to motivate your young players?’ she said.
He looked at her, momentarily taken aback. She had a humiliating sense that he had forgotten who she was.
Oh shit. She’d meant it light-heartedly, but it hadn’t come out that way. Her rush of jealousy had tinged the comment with bitterness.
Then he lifted her hand and pressed it to his mouth. ‘A pleasure to see you again, Samantha,’ he said. ‘Why don’t we ask him? Joe, do you feel motivated to score goals?’
‘I … er …’ He looked from Samantha to Lubin, his eyes wide, torn between two people he needed to impress.
‘Every player does,’ she said smoothly, saving him. ‘Every player worth knowing about.’
‘And you know all there is to know, isn’t that right?’
‘I like to think so.’
He dropped his voice to murmur into her ear. ‘I have been thinking of you.’ He hooked her in with those dark and dangerous eyes and she hoped he was picking up the scent of Dior on her throat. She arched her back slightly as the shockwaves from his breath on her earlobe travelled south.
‘Not too hard I hope,’ she said.
‘Hard enough.’ He turned her gently away from the two players to make their conversation more private. Gabe latched on to Lubin’s blonde without a hope.
‘I read these terrible things in the newspapers,’ said Lubin, ‘and I wonder how you are coping.’
‘I can handle it,’ she said.
‘I’m sure.’ He nodded thoughtfully. ‘You have your nice boyfriend to help you to handle it? He is with you on this trip?’
She smiled thinly at the way he made a nice boyfriend sound like a bad rash. ‘We aren’t together any more,’ she said.
‘I see.’
Gabe glanced in her direction and said something to Joe and the blonde, who both laughed. Were they laughing at her? She turned firmly back to Lubin and tried not to feel so paranoid. Most paranoid people, someone wiser than her once said, are merely self-obsessed. Just because you’re constantly thinking of yourself doesn’t mean anyone else is.