‘You crushed everything I worked for. I was geared up for the national team.’
‘No, Brodie.Youdid that when you couldn’t stop gambling. And when you punched a reporter. And then again when you told your coach to go fuck himself.’
Each word slices deep. Because she’s not wrong, is she? I did all that. I mean, those twats had it coming, but…aye.
She watches me, still waiting for me to crack. When I don’t, she exhales and leans back against her desk. ‘Here’s the deal. You sit down, shut up, and let me save your career. Because like it or not, I’m the only one willing to.’
I glare at her, every molecule screaming with rage. ‘I hate you,’ I say calmly.
‘You do you.’ Her smile lights up her entire face. ‘Now listen up. We have work to do.’
‘Fine. But this doesn’t mean I trust you.’
‘Trust is earned.’ She walks back behind her desk, sits down, and opens another folder. ‘Same as respect.’
I’m not an eejit, I catch the implication. She doesn’t respect me. Why would she? I’m the cautionary tale. The man who had everything and pissed it away because he couldn’t resist the thrill of chasing win after win.
‘So, what’s your grand plan, then?’ I drench my question in as much sarcasm as I can muster.
The Stirling Rebels are new. The Canadian billionaire owner who founded the team thinks money solves everything. But you can’t buy chemistry and trust. Or history. Or instinct. And I doubt Charlie Harrington can change any of that.
‘First, we address the gambling.’ She clicks her pen once. ‘You need to be clean. Completely clean. No poker, no betting on anything, not even a friendly wager with teammates. One hint that you’re still gambling, and everything we do is worthless.’
‘Don’t be dramatic. I played a bit of poker, I’m not an addict. And I haven’t done that in seven months.’
‘Good. Keep it that way. Anything else I need to know or be prepared for? Any illegitimate children with disgruntled baby mommas that could run to the press and make a fuss?’
I would like to shake some fucking sense into her. Instead, I crush the armrest in my grip. ‘Not that I know of.’
‘I guess that’ll have to do. But glove up, understood?’
What the actual fuck? How dare she?
I mean, she’s probably been dealing with horny athletes her entire life in her father’s fancy London sports management agency. I reckon she knows what money and fame can do to a lad. Or a lass. There’s a reason they want us married by twenty-one.
She continues outlining her strategy. Community outreach. Carefully managed interviews. Promo tour. Social media overhaul. Sponsorship meetings with brands that align with a ‘redemption narrative.’
Each point is logical, well-thought-out. She knows what she’s doing. I hate that she knows what she’s doing.
‘You also need new headshots.’ She eyes me critically. ‘And a haircut. You look like you’ve been living in the woods. Get rid of that mullet.’
‘I said it before, and I’ll say it again: fuck off, Harrington.’
‘Not very eloquent.’ She makes a note. ‘We’ll work on your media training, too.’
For the next ten minutes, she talks, and I listen, seething quietly. I’m tuning her out, looking around her office. Clean and cold. Not a single personal touch, except one framed image on her desk. Can’t see who’s in there. No posters of athletes. No trophies. Not even a plant to break up the sterile space. Who doesn’t have plants? Makes me wonder if she’s really like that or if she’s just playing the part in an effort to look cool and successful and unbreakable.
This woman holds my future in her manicured hands. And there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. Except needle her a bit.
‘One question.’
She cocks a brow. ‘What?’
‘Did you really not know Callum was balls-deep in someone else, or were you too busy managing his image and ruining my career to care?’
Low blow, I know.
I play dirty sometimes.
