George crouched forward and started picking up the rubbish on the floor. I winced.
‘You don’t have to fucking clean my house.’
He scoffed, then wrinkled his nose when he picked up a Tupperware container with mould growing on the outside of the lid.
‘Get in the shower whilst I douse the place in Dettol.’ He wandered towards the kitchen, holding the offending container at arm’s length.
I tried swallowing past the lump in my throat. I wasn’t anidiot. Despite what many online news sites said about me,I knewI was pissing my life away. But I wasn’t sure whether I had the energy to care all that much. How do you get over it when something has been taken away from you brutally and cruelly? How do you move on to something else?
You don’t.
A fizzle of anger stirred in my gut as I shuffled to my bathroom and entered the shower, standing under the hot spray, letting the water splash down my toned stomach. Why did I have to be the only one to suffer? I rested my head against the cold tiles and closed my eyes. The alcohol was leeching out of my system, uncovering the stabbing pain that made me screw my eyes shut. I turned off the cold tap, allowing the scalding hot water to burn a trail down my back. I gritted my teeth and let that pain replace the one tearing out my heart.
Present day
I walked away, still feeling Fallon’s eyes on my retreating form. Now I was facing away from her; I let a smirk curl my lips.
Why was I even smiling? Dealing with that situation put a dent in my morning. I should be irritated as hell. Yet, I couldn’t get the image of her out of my head. Her hair was a dusty pink that looked like she’d doused her head in bleach one night on a whim. It was entirely at odds with the pantsuit she wore. Her stomach was round, but her waist was cinched, so it looked quite flattering on her, yet she was obviously uncomfortable in what she was wearing. That was partly why I’d asked her where she was headed, half hoping she was going home to get changed. Not that I cared about her comfort.I didn’t. But it was infuriating to watch someone attempt to be something they're not.
You could say many things about me, but I was always myself. I never adjusted myself to make others feel better or to fit in. If you didn’t like me, I couldn’t give a fuck. Earning the kind of money I did afforded me that luxury.
Or at least it used to. It was getting harder and harder to shake off the media’s unrelenting assault on my character.
Turning down the street, I headed towards a small café. Blue framed doors and distressed wood ushered me in. A specials board sat on the sidewalk, highlighting their infamous hash browns, which I could attest were bloody fantastic. Now I wasn’t in training I’d foregone the rigid schedule of healthy eating and working out, finally letting my body have everything it craved.
My mouth started watering at the thought of those crispy fried potatoes.
I ran my fingers self-consciously through my hair before I pushed the door open, and scanned the room for my brother. It wasn’t hard to spot the burly motherfucker. His floppy brown hair and thick beard gave him the lumberjack vibe. Total opposite to my clean-cut, streamlined image.
Not that it was that clean-cut anymore. My beard had grown out slightly, giving me a five o’clock shadow. I’d considered shaving it off this morning. Apart from not being arsed to put that much effort in for breakfast with my brother, it would hopefully make it harder for people to recognise me. So the scruff had stayed.
George lifted a hand in greeting in the far corner of the nearly empty café. I took one step forward, stopping when I saw the person sitting opposite him.
Fucking hell.
My PR manager—whom I’d attempted to fire multiple times but continued to stick around like a bad smell—sat beside George in a trendy grey business suit wearing a smug smile.
I considered turning around and leaving, but George fixed me with a stare that screamed loud and clear,don’t you fucking dare.
Plastering on my best mask of indifference, I strolled over. Thankfully not many people were in the café this early, so if I needed to flip a table over or curse out my twat of a brother, there wouldn’t be many people to witness it.
‘What a remarkably unpleasant surprise to see you, Tony,’ I said, hands in my pockets, towering over the two men.
George rolled his eyes. Tony smiled serenely, not put off by my gruff tone.
‘Since you’ve taken to ignoring my calls and emails, and you won’t answer your front door. I resorted to subterfuge to get a meeting with you,’ he said smoothly, leaning casually back in the wooden chair.
‘If this is how you houndme,I feel sorry for your girlfriend. Please remember to let her out of your basement. Poor thing must need some fresh air.’
The only sign my comment had struck a nerve was the vein protruding from Tony’s neck. The veil of charm he could usually muster with conviction faltered for a second but he rallied himself. It was bad for business if you had a PR manager incapable of putting up with athletes’ shit.
‘Sit down, Oliver,’ George ordered, swiping a hand down his face.
I turned my attention to my brother, glaring full force. Usually, my stare would have the desired effect on people, either getting them to shit themselves or getting a woman into bed. George, however, was immune. That’s the problem with being siblings; they knew you too well, and George knew that no matter how much crap I threw at him, I would never intentionally hurt him.
I conceded, sliding into the booth beside George and muttering, ‘Traitor.’
‘It’s for your own good,’ he replied with an undertone of what felt like concern.
