‘You haven’t even heard it yet.’
I shrugged. ‘Don’t need to. The answer is no.’
Fallon rolled her eyes,again. ‘I’m going to tell you anyway, so shut up for a minute.’
I obliged her purely out of curiosity; I had no intention of accepting any scheme she proposed.
‘You have a clear resentment towards the media, justified or not.’
‘Extremely justified.’ I ground out.
The number of lowlife journalists that invaded not onlymylife but my dad’s and brother’s lives was disgusting. Reporters would go through my father’s trash bin to try and find some incriminating evidence. The paparazzi would follow my brother to and from work and bombard him with questions that boarded on harassment. When I tried to take it to court after a pap followed my father in a car and nearly ran him off the road, the judge told me that this was the price of fame. If that was the cost… it was too fucking high.
‘Shush,’ Fallon glowered. ‘But since you have beenindefinitely suspended from the club, going on record would surely help your case… however, your winning personality would likely make whatever interview you did a complete and utter bonfire. So I’m proposing something else.’
‘Skywriting? Hot air balloon with my name plastered on the side?’
Fallon’s jaw clenched, but she kept whatever snide remark she had to herself. ‘A book.’
I cocked my head. ‘You want me to write a book?’
This brought a smile to her lips, and I didn’t stop to focus on how much it brightened up her features. ‘Since I’m pretty sure you’ve never read a book in your life, I doubt very much you’d be able to accomplishwritingone. That’s where I come in.’
‘Firstly, that’s just plain fucking rude. And secondly, after insulting my intelligence you want me to agree to you writing a book about me?’
Her head bobbed. ‘Yes. With your input. You’d have complete creative control. Everything we’d write would be in your own words. I’d just arrange them so they were readable and not a string of incoherent caveman grunts.’ She shot me a wry smile.
She had balls. I’d give her that. Or what was the female equivalent? She had a strong vagina? Tight labia? Ovaries of steel?
‘You know, buttering someone up usually involves less insulting and more flattery.’
She sighed. ‘A book would help you tell your side of the story without dealing with the press directly, and it could help with your future in football. If you don’t want a career anymore, then you really should have stopped me sooner so I didn’t have to go through this long-winded speech that I may or may not have practised a dozen times in front of my bathroom mirror.’
My brow shot up. I could picture her standing in her bathroom, reciting everything she’d just told me. It made my lips twitch in an almost smile.
‘You’re a writer then?’
‘I’m…’ She hesitated. ‘Uh, yes. So what do you think?’
I raked a hand through my hair. Fallon watched the motion momentarily before snapping her attention back to my face. Her head tilted as she waited for my response.
I plucked my phone out of my pocket, glanced at the screen with a dozen messages and missed calls from the last ten minutes and took one last look at Fallon.
‘No.’
I headed towards the door to the main area, my shoulder gently nudging hers as I passed.
I opened the door, holding it open for her. Fallon’s gaze wasn’t on me. It was glued to the floor, a hint of dejection on her face. I didn’t need someone rifling through my life and turning it into a story that people would thumb through on the toilet or gossip about in changing rooms. I waited, telling myself to stay still and not go back over to her and apologise for being a dick. This was my life. I wasn’t going to apologise for protecting it.
So why did this woman make me want to go over there and wipe that expression off her face?
Luckily, before my body betrayed me in the most horrendous way and I barged over there to comfort her, Fallon scooped up her confidence and squared her shoulders again, swivelling in my direction. She pulled something out of her bag. She held a napkin and grabbed what looked like a pen from her bag, scribbling something on the flimsy material.
Waltzing towards where I stood, one foot keeping the door from slamming shut, she thrust the napkin at me.
‘If you change your mind and realise this is an incredible idea.’
I scanned the napkin on which she’d written her name and number in… was that eyeliner? The words and numbers smudged, all the lines crossing over each other until it was barely legible.
