CHAPTER1
Rowan
Nothing could turn a warm,summery Mancunian morning into a shit-tastic fuckery of a mess like a nine o’clock meeting.
With my manager. And agent. Plus, no hint of what this meeting was about, although I could guess. It wouldn’t take a genius to work out exactly which parts of the last two weeks they were pissed about, and it wasn’t the photos of me doing extra training on the beach where two of the lads and I had been on holiday.
Oh no. There would be no pats on the back for that, or the fact I’d had more goal assists than anyone else last season, or sold more shirts with my name on than anyone else at Manchester Athletic, including Nate Fleming, who was the team’s golden boy.
I was about to be torn a new asshole, and then have it rammed without lube.
Nothing good came of Monday morning meetings when you were still meant to be on holiday, enjoying a leisurely morning dreaming up how to spend the rest of the day without being bored. A trip to the gym maybe, or a dip in the indoor pool to stretch a few muscles. Perhaps lunch somewhere given that my usual rigid diet plan was slightly less rigid with just another few days to go before pre-season training started. Didn’t mean I could go completely rogue with carbs and sugar, just that I was less likely to get a rollocking off from our chief meal spoiler, also known as the club’s nutritionist.
We never asked her out for team meals, or to parties, but I don’t think she cared. I wasn’t entirely sure what she cared about.
The stadium was the shining diamond in the campus Manchester Athletic’s new owners had built when they took over half a decade ago, investing money into an area that needed to be developed. It was now the place I spent most of my time, enough to wonder why I didn’t just live in one of the suites at the hotel there.
I nodded at Mandy, the woman who ran the reception at the entrance to part of the building dedicated to offices and the business side. She didn’t like footballers, despite her job existing because of the football team, but then I didn’t think she liked most people. Still, I was never rude to her when I saw her on the few occasions I came in this part. In fact, I made a point of being especially friendly to her, because I figured that pissed her off even more.
The team’s manager, Guy Babin, had an office on the second floor, with a meeting room next to it. I’d been here exactly four times before: the day I came for talks about joining the team, the day I signed, two days after I scored my first hat trick for the club, and after I ended up in the media for being thrown out of a bar for fighting. That last time was admittedly the most uncomfortable – the fight was with a bloke who just happened to support our main rivals, and it looked bad.
In reality, that fight had nothing to do with what team I played for and everything to do with how he was speaking to his girlfriend. Unfortunately, that wasn’t the take the press had, especially after he sold his story to a Sunday tabloid.
The door to the meeting room was open revealing Guy and my agent, sitting opposite each other, a huge, polished rosewood desk in between them. They were both laughing.
Until they saw me come in.
“Rowan. Good of you to be on time.”
Only Guy Babin could make being on time sound like you were late.
I looked at Rhys, the man I paid to have my back. He folded his arms and sat back in his chair, expression grim. He had a suit on too, which made me take a deep inhalation. A cleansing breath, something our yoga instructor would be proud of.
Shit was about to hit the fan, and that fan was about to spread it all over me.
I sat down next to Rhys, bracing myself, not sure what to say. There was no point going on the defensive – that would just make me sound guilty. Or more guilty than I actually was.
“We have a problem.” Guy didn’t sit back. He didn’t look relaxed, but he did look tanned.
I fucking hoped he hadn’t come back off his holiday to wherever it was just to deal with this.
The door opened again, and Genevieve Casson, our Head of Player Support waltzed in, looking like she’d just stepped out of a modelling shoot. “So sorry I’m late. I had to deal with a call from the press.” She sent a look my way. Something that was obviously my fault.
“Not an issue.”
Clearly Guy didn’t have the same standards about tardiness with her.
I glanced at Rhys again, who just shook his head, opened his mouth a few times and then closed it, as if he didn’t have the words to express how utterly I’d disappointed him.
If we’d been elsewhere, I’d have laughed – Rhys was only a couple of years older than me. We’d played on the same football team back when we were kids in Newcastle, only he’d ended up shattering his knee coming off a skateboard, so he’d found another way to be involved in the game.
Guy’s gaze was back on me, his eyes piercing. “Rowan, the last two days have been something of a shit-show. Since Saturday morning, I’ve had phone calls and emails asking me for comments about the story in the press, and the photos of you in the pool with the young lady have added an additional layer of difficulty. We have to look at how this situation is managed.”
He wasn’t wrong, apart from the young lady part. There had been nothing lady-like about the girl in the pool, whose name I’d only found out when I’d seen the picture on social media, but she had been all woman.
I didn’t smile at the memory. I wished it hadn’t happened.
“I had no idea Jade was going to go to the press.” Which was the truth. We’d split at the end of the season when I’d gotten tired of her being so fame hungry. There were more photos of me on her Instagram than there were on mine, and the pressure from her to spend all of my free time doing stuff that involved being seen.
