Oh damn.
Two women, one blonde and one brunette, both on their knees. Finn Lennox, pink-haired flanker extraordinaire and our newest acquisition, sitting between them on a couch. The picture is grainy but clear enough.
‘Bloody rugby players,’ I mutter under my breath. ‘Someone’s got to stop these man-babies making a mess, wrecking their careers, and giving their agency grief.’
‘Switzerland.’ She pushes away from her desk. ‘That’s where he disappeared over the holidays. That’s why he didn’t answer any of my calls, texts, or emails.’
She paces, her heels stabbing the floor. I keep scrolling through the images, each more incriminating than the last. But… he’s got an impressive piece of kit, I have to give him that.
Highly inappropriate. Moving on.
‘When did you last speak to him?’ I ask quickly to steer my thoughts in any other direction.
‘Christmas Eve. His text said he needed some space after a family bereavement. Then he went AWOL.’
‘Right.’ I reset my posture and square up. ‘First, we need to verify these photos are real.’
‘They are. Look at his hair and tattoos. God, the headline. They’re calling it “The Double Snow Job”.’
A hysterical laugh bubbles up my throat. I swallow it down in the last second. ‘Bad, but catchy.’
‘This could torch everything.’ She stops pacing and braces herself against her desk. ‘The car dealership contract I’ve been negotiating. The Rebels’ current sponsorships. His reputation. Their reputation. Our reputation. Hell, this entire agency! Lord Dalcrieff is a sitting Tory MP, and he’s not going to be amused.’
My brain clicks into crisis mode. This is what I do, I fix things and make order from chaos. But even I feel cold sweat breaking out across my shoulder blades.
‘We need to contact Finn.’ I say. ‘Get his side of the story. Did he know about the Tory MP connection? Did he know they were sisters – stepsisters, whatever? Was he…drugged? We need information. Where is he?’
‘How the fuck should I know? Jesus! Why didn’t I go into accounting or banking or zoo keeping?’
I keep my tone level. ‘Has he returned to Scotland, do you know?’
She checks her phone. ‘According to Brodie, he’s missed the conditioning sessions, but is expected back for full intensity training tomorrow.’
‘Good. That’s good.’ I’m already scribbling. ‘We have to prepare a statement. Contrite but not admitting liability.’
‘They’ve got photos of him getting enthusiastically serviced by two women, one of whom happens to be engaged to a fucking Tory MP! How much more liable does it get?’
I pause my pen mid-word. ‘Yeah. The politics angle complicates things.’
‘You think?’ Her laugh is bitter. ‘Elite Edge is eight months old. Eight months. And I signed him just before Christmas, fully aware of his volatility. What got into me? Am I clinically insane?’
The guilt in her voice makes my chest tighten. ‘This isn’t your fault, Charlie.’
‘Isn’t it? I should have known better. But… I like the guy.’
‘He’s brilliant on the pitch,’ I say quietly. ‘Always has time for the fans, grins like a wee boy when he scores as if he can’t believe his luck. No off switch. The fans love him. So does the team.’
‘We’ll see how long that’s going to last.’ She sinks into her chair. ‘And management could drop him, although that’s unlikely mid-season.’
I drum my pen against the paper. ‘We have to get ahead of this and control the narrative.’
‘How? What are we gonna say – they just used his dick as a microphone for an impromptu naked karaoke session?’
I snort-laugh. ‘Aye, but… They’re also private and taken without consent. We can spin this as an invasion of privacy, you know? Like Hasselhoff and the cheeseburger?’ My stomach twists with anxiety, but I push through it. ‘We need Finn here.’
Charlie reaches for her phone. ‘I’ll try Scottie. They’re living together and are quite pally.’
‘And I’ll draw up three potential statements.’ I head for the door, then pause. ‘Charlie?’
