I smooth my suit and force a cool smile. ‘Send him up. And then let him wait two minutes outside my door.’
I know how to play power games. Daddy taught his daughter well. Or did he? I’ve never beaten him before. Never even went up against him. Until now.
Theo hesitates, eyeing me. ‘You okay? You look…’ She gestures vaguely and lifts her shoulders.
I meet her gaze, expression bulletproof. ‘Like a woman about to close another contract with an up-and-coming golfer? Thanks, Theo. I appreciate the confidence.’
She doesn’t seem convinced, but she disappears.
I exhale slowly as I reach for the next folder—
And put it back down when I realise my hands are still trembling.
My gaze flicks to the chair Brodie just vacated. It’s too small for him. Everything is. He’s not a giant, not like a forward. His body is made for movement as well as confrontation. Hardly contained in that suit, broad shoulders straining against the fabric. He’s burned onto the back of my eyelids. The set of his jaw, how his nostrils flared when I told him to sit. That constant fidget in his hands, the way his throat worked when he swallowed back the instinct to throw my desk across the room.
He wanted to. I felt it. Hell, I dared him to.
My office still smells like him. Like rain and a hint of sweat and whatever aftershave he douses himself in. It lingers on my skin, in my lungs, like it’s marking me.
I close my eyes. This is becoming a problem.
Not the bare-knuckled temper. Not the straining suit. Not even the steel-threaded quiet in his voice when he told me to be careful.
No, the key problem is that I kind of own the most talented, uncontrollable player in Scottish rugby, and I don’t have the luxury of fucking this up. This agency, this office – it’s my one shot. I left London and moved to Edinburgh to be as far away as possible from my father and his cronies without actually having to leave the country. And if I let Brodie MacRae blow it up, I lose the only thing that’s mine.
He’s just a client.
Except…
Except I remember watching him play. Before everything. Before the scandal. Some players are a joy to watch, and Brodie is one of them. Because you don’t know what he’s doing next. He’s unpredictable in the best way. How he moves, like gravity is optional. Like he could shape the game around him with skill,instinct, and sheer, brute will.
That same energy was in my office today. But this time, it was focusedon me.
My phone buzzes again. Not Dad.
Callum?
Cold pressure grips my insides. I don’t want to look. Shouldn’t. But I do.
(DICKHEAD 10:02) Heard you have MacRae. News travels fast in rugby circles. Desperate much?
Naturally, the gossip mill is already turning. Word gets around when Scottish rugby’s biggest fuck-up du jour shows up somewhere.
Fuck right off, Fraser.
Five months since I caught Callum shagging a sports presenter in his house in Glasgow. I was making a surprise visit to celebrate a new sponsorship I got for him. Guess how surprised I was when I saw him pumping a woman on the kitchen counter?
And Cal is still trying to twist the narrative, still playing the jilted victim, still sneering at my choices.
The laugh that leaves me is hollow and mean. Five months ago, I’d have called him just to hear him lie to me. Five months ago, I’d have let him spin it, let him make me feel like I was overreacting.
But I’m done being gaslit. Done playing his PR girl, starry-eyed ego-booster, and trad wife-to-be. I type back:
(ME 10:04) Jealous much? Leave me alone and go crack your skull.
Then I block his number. For good. The pressure in my jaw could make a diamond.
When the knot under my sternum doesn’t ease, I open the top drawer and pull out a compact mirror. My lipstick’s still intact, but there’s a smudge of mascara at the corner of one eye. I swipe it away, fix my hair, and tell myself to look the part. Confident and untouchable.
