Chapter1
Brodie
Islam my BMW’s door hard enough to rattle the windows. Fucking Edinburgh. Fucking rain. Fucking everything.
Puddles pool between the cobbles. Rain slicks the stone. The whole city’s dipped in grey. Not even proper rain. Just that misty, sideways shite that soaks you before you realise you’re wet.
In August.
The Elite Edge Sports office looms. Some trendy converted old warehouse. A bloody co-working space.
My new agency.
Not by choice. Not by a fucking mile.
Until seven months ago, I was Glasgow’s golden boy. Brodie MacRae, twenty-six, star fly-half with the Knights. Then it all went to shite. Poker with the lads, bit of fun. That’s how it started. Never thought it’d catch up to me the way it did.
Now I’m trudging through puddles to meet whatever suit inherited my contract when they bought out Henderson Sports Management because apparently, I’m a commodity.
Like a fucking filing cabinet.
I shove through the doors hard enough that some suited prick has to swerve to stop them from slamming back in his face.
Good. Let him flinch. Let them all fucking flinch.
A blonde behind the reception desk beams like she’s never had a bad day in her life.
‘Hi. How can I help you?’
‘Brodie MacRae.’
Her smile widens like I’ve just made her week. I used to get that sort of reaction a lot more often – before the headlines. Not that I give a toss. I’m too busy clawing my way out of the mess that is my life to bury my dick in some stranger. And I’ve had my share of hook-ups. But I’m not the type to chase it. Rugby always comes first.
‘Of course, Mr MacRae. We’ve been expecting you.’
I almost laugh. Expecting me. The gambler who never actually gambled on rugby but got crucified anyway. Who let Callum Fraser and his conniving publicist fiancée bury him alive.
‘Third floor, end of the hall,’ the blonde woman adds, still bright as a weather girl. ‘The assistant will meet you there.’
The lift is an old freight cage with steel bars and bolted-on mirrors, trapping me with my reflection. Dark circles, unshaven jaw, hair too long. Even my suit feels too tight. Wore it anyway. They’re not seeing me in joggers, licking wounds. But it’s choking me.
I fucking hate my life.
Every morning, I wake up in that fully furnished terraced house in the tiny town on the arse end of Stirling and wonder how the fuck I got here.
Not true.
I know how.
Callum made sure of it.
We’ve hated each other since the academy days, always competing, always butting heads. But I never thought he’d stoop that low. Telling the press I’ve been throwing games.
A voicemail from the Director of Rugby, ten seconds long, ending with, ‘You’re done.’ Graham didn’t even say my name. Too dirty for his tongue. A week later, the only messages on my phone were from bookies looking to cash in on the lie. Not one teammate stood up for me. Not one journalist wondered if the story made sense, if I’d really gamble away everything for a few bets.
Callum is behind that, and it’s so fucking obvious I can’t believe they don’t see it.
I hate that cunt more than I hate my life.
