* * *
‘Jesus,’ I mutter, scrolling through. Stomach acid eats through my gut. ‘They’ve been busy.’
‘So have your sponsors. The car dealership pulled their offer for you this morning. And the Rebels’ leadership demands a meeting first thing tomorrow.’
The walls of the office shrink inward.
‘Look.’ I pitch my weight forward. ‘It was all consensual fun. Everyone was having a great time. I swear, I had no idea who they were.’
‘That’s actually worse.’ There’s a flash of disgust on her face. ‘And the sisters angle?’
‘Stepsisters,’ I correct. ‘And no, I didn’t know. It’s not like I planned it. I hardly remember the details. Too bad, judging by these pictures. Looks like a proper belter.’
Now I get a rage-fuelled look, but she immediately reins it in. Her face is the picture of neutral professionalism. You’d think she wasn’t looking at human garbage.
Damn, she’s good. That’s why she’s my agent.
‘You’re taking this well,’ I say. ‘I expected more…shouting.’
‘Would shouting help?’
‘Might feel more normal.’ That and random smacks to the back of the head. My mother’s MO.
She sighs loudly. ‘Finn, I’m not angry. I’m disappointed.’
Uh oh.
‘Aye, well. Get in line.’ I scratch at a scab on my knuckle until it bleeds. ‘So what’s the plan? Sackcloth and ashes? Public flogging?’
‘How about taking this seriously?’
‘Fine. And then?’
‘Not sure yet. Community service or charity, a fundraiser. Something that shows contrition without undermining our positioning.’
I nod, throat tight. ‘And the Rebels?’
‘I’m meeting with Coach Wallace later. Brodie’s coming too.’
Great. Captain Perfect to the rescue.
‘He’s on your side, Finn,’ she states, as if she could read my mind.
‘Everyone’s on my side until they’re not.’
‘Spare me the lost boy routine.’
The door opens again, and a woman walks in. Dark ponytail and a fringe cut with military precision. Deep red on lips that are too full to be fair. She looks like a pin-up who hasn’t slept in a week and bleeds espresso. Curvy and vibrating with an energy that makes it hard not to stare. She has a glittery purple travel mug in one arm, a stack of papers in the other, and a step like she’s marching into battle.
I sit up without meaning to.
‘Sorry I’m late. Printer jammed again. We have a hate-hate relationship.’ She turns to me. ‘Theo MacMickin. I don’t believe we’ve met in person.’
Her eyes are violet-blue and sharp. Like they’ve already decided what I am. And whatever it is, they’re not wrong.
‘Finn Lennox. Professional cock-up.’ I hold out a hand.
She sets the papers and mug down before taking it. Her grip is firm and no-nonsense. ‘Professional rugby player who went off track. There’s a difference.’
