‘MacRae.’ Her voice carries across the pitch. ‘A minute of your precious time?’
Finn whistles low. ‘Who’s that snack?’
‘My agent,’ I growl. ‘And she’s leaving.’
The heels of her ankle boots sink into the grass as she stalks towards us. ‘Actually, I’m not. Since you‘ve been dodging my calls all week, we’re doing this here. Right now.’
‘We’re training,’ I declare.
‘You’re finishing, by the looks of it.‘ She glances at Wallace. ‘Right, Coach?’
‘Aye,’ Wallace says, ‘we’re done for the day.’
The boys start filing off, but not before Finn shoots me a dirty smirk. I’ll deal with him later. I’ve got bigger problems. About five foot five, but with an attitude from here to the moon.
Charlie plants herself between me and the pitch, close enough that I catch the scent of her perfume. Citrus and honey, smoothed out by something darker. Sandalwood? Spite? Hard to tell. But it sticks, just like her.
‘You’re being difficult,’ she states sternly.
‘I’m being a professional athlete. I have to train. It’s what I do.’
‘Professional?’ She barks out a laugh. ‘Is that what we’re calling ignoring your agent’s calls?’
‘I’ve been busy.’
‘Busy being a pain in my arse.’ She pulls out her phone. ‘You’ve missed a handpicked PR opportunity, declined a photoshoot, and told theDaily Recordto, and I quote, “get fucked” when they asked for an interview.’
I cross my arms, which I know shows off my biceps. Not sure if I want to intimidate or impress her. Probably both. ‘And?’
‘And you’re doing Ailsa’s Kitchen on Monday.’ She’s scrolling through what looks like a calendar on her phone.
‘I’m doing what now?’
‘A cooking show. Local channel and YouTube, good publicity, great way to show your softer side. Perfect for your image rehabilitation.’
The laugh that rips out of me is harsh. ‘Not a chance in hell. I’m not doing a fucking cooking show.’
‘It wasn’t a request.’
‘I don’t cook.’
‘You’ll learn.’
‘I don’t do publicity stunts.’
‘You’ll adapt. Gordon signed off on this. So, unless you care to explain to the club manager why you’re refusing to do the parts of your job that don’t involve beating others up for a living, you’re doing it and that’s final.’
‘I’m not your puppet, Harrington.’
‘No. You’re my client.’ She steps in close, voice dropping to a whisper that slides down my spine. ‘And right now, you’re also being a nightmare.’
The thrum from her body reaches across the space between us. My pulse kicks hard against my ribs. ‘Find someone else to dance for the cameras.’
‘There’s no one else who needs to dance as hard as you. You want to rebuild your reputation? This is how we do it. One appearance at a time. One cooking show at a time.’
‘Fuck. Off.’
‘You’re repeating yourself. It’s boring.’
