A kiss was pressed to my shoulder. “I wish we could do that.”
“Me too.”
But we couldn’t.
He left the suite first, his flight rescheduled before mine, heading back to Manchester. Neither of us suggested exchanging numbers or meeting up when we got back to England. Our time was in this room, with the storm going on outside.
Until it wasn’t.
Mork & Mindy
August
CHAPTER3
Ryan
The River Irwellwas once a trade route into Manchester, goods being shipped into the city during the Industrial revolution, polluting its waters as well as making the economy boom. Today, the River Irwell was one of the key features of Salford Quays, home to Media City where the studios of several of the big TV companies were, as well as one of Manchester's five-star hotels.
That was where I was now, waiting in the bar area for my agent and a representative from a sports clothing company to show up. I was early; nothing new there, which meant I was entertaining myself by looking through a list of properties Genevieve at the club had sent me.
The club had been relaxed about me arriving there a few days later than planned to sign the papers. The contract had been extremely favourable and locked me in for five years, which told me everything I needed to know about the club’s ambitions. I had a place to live; an apartment owned by Athletic that they let out to players who’d moved to the area. I had a housemate, Rowan Reeves, the club’s star attacking midfielder who kept himself to himself pretty much, apart from when the media decided to find some clickbait by posting photos of Rowan doing what he shouldn’t. Rowan was a decent bloke; he just wanted to get on with it, training hard and not keeping up the stereotypical footballer lifestyle with random women and partying when he could.
He also didn’t mind my weird protein shakes that I stocked in the fridge, even though I had to admit they were pretty repulsive. I never said that to him though. There were some things that we didn’t talk about, protein shakes and our sex lives being the main ones.
Rowan didn’t want to be a wing man and I didn’t want one either, so we were good.
I sat down on one of the sofas in a private reception area. The company had reserved a table for dinner and I was expecting a couple of their reps, along with my agent, who had already told me to accept their offer.
It was a high-end brand, which fit with the image I’d worked on over the last couple of years. I could’ve picked up better paid endorsements from more commercial brands and fashion houses, but they didn’t fit with what I wore normally, when I wasn’t in my geek uniform. I like smart suits and upmarket shoes. When I was trying not to look like me, I’d dress like the computer nerd I actually was, but that felt like a different identity.
Today I was in a suit, a dark brown one made from Italian fabric, and a cream shirt, the top button open. I’d let stubble take over my jaw, and my glasses – now fixed – stopped me from resembling any part of the footballer I actually was.
“Ryan.” My agent, Rhys, couldn’t be there today. It was the summer transfer season and he was up to his eyeballs in big money moves, meaning things like endorsements were being delegated to his team. Cal McGoldrick, one of Rhys’ minions, called me when he was a few metres away, not drawing attention to us, which was why I’d picked him as my agent.
Cal didn’t just represent footballers, which was unusual. Cal also had jockeys, cricketers and a few non-sports people, and he tended to rep a certain type of client, ones who kept a low profile, which was exactly how I wanted mine to stay.
Football wasn’t my passion, but I was a good enough player that it didn't have to be. As a kid, I’d been gifted, picked up by scouts and started with Chelsea’s academy. I did what I was told in training, developed my strength and conditioning and treated it like a job. Chelsea signed me when I turned sixteen, but I kept up academics, studying for A-Levels, meeting Lotte, who was two years older and studying for her degree, moving to England from Denmark. There, I'd found my passion, the science of computing, developing programs, finding solutions when none looked possible.
Between the two, I was set for life financially. I didn’t need this endorsement but I kept up the appearance of a gentleman footballer. I’d appear on a few billboards and in one or two magazines. I’d make a couple of planned appearances wearing their clothes, and it would give the media something to talk about.
Rhys had taught me well. If I stayed a recluse, the media would dig. I’d scored too many goals for England, with predictions that if I carried on, I could be the record scorer before I retired from international football, so my relationship status was speculated over like the Duchess of Cambridge’s wardrobe. If my side-line was discovered, mine and Lotte’s business would be in jeopardy. There would be too much questioning over whether a footballer could have such a venture and it be legit.
“You’re early.” Cal sat down opposite me. “As usual.”
I nodded, sitting back and quickly scanning around the bar. Memories of Penny came back, and I knew I was looking for her, like I did in every hotel bar now. “Habit.”
“A good one to have. This should be wrapped in an hour or so. Enjoy the free feed.” He nodded to a woman and a man walking towards us. “That’s them. Had a video call with them last week.”
We both stood up, me following Cal’s lead to greet them and shake hands. January – I’d never met a January before – was the vice-CEO; Gareth was the marketing director. Both looked to be dressed in outfits from their latest range.
“Ryan, it’s good to be able to finally meet you.” January held out a hand to shake mine. She was a striking woman; tall and slender, straight chin length hair and high cheekbones. “We’re really pleased that you’re here with us today.”
Cal’s greeting was quieter, letting January do the talking. We weren’t here to agree on a fee; that was already done. This was the polishing of the deal, the final tick in the box before we both signed.
“Old Green is a traditional brand with a modern outlook, which we think really fits with your image. I’d like to show you some of our catalogue for next season, and maybe you can tell us which you could see yourself wearing.” She sat opposite me, leaving Gareth to gesture to a waiter. My guess would be that he was ordering water and champagne.
I nodded, sitting forward to at least look interested, which I wasn’t particularly. There had been a glitch in something we were coding for a new project, and I was itching to get back to it as I had a feeling I’d worked out what subroutine was giving us grief.
