Maybe in hindsight, that idealism was idiotic, since we never even exchanged names—a convenient fact that could have saved us in our current predicament—but at that point in time, the anonymity felt exhilarating. It had been thrilling to have fun with someone, and there be zero strings attached. I wasn’t the country’s top fly-half turned laughing stock, or the jilted party in averypublic breakup. No one was overanalyzing my words, looking for something they could stake to my chest like a scarlet letter.
I was just me.
It felt like freedom from judgement and expectation, and I can’t remember the last time I felt that. The confidence I felt in Jade’s company that night didn’t feel forced or artificial because she didn’t know who I was and I didn’t know who she was. We were simply two people in a pub.
After an embarrassingly thorough Google search that led to an extensive deep dive through her socials, I could now say I definitely know more about her than is probably advisable.
A millionaire by her nineteenth birthday, hordes of loyal followers hanging on her every well-manicured word, several companies under her belt, and a savviness for business and investing—it was no wonder she had the means to buy out a whole damned sports team.
The question was why.
One would be a fool to believe she wouldn’t succeed at whatever she put her mind to, based on her steely gaze alone, but what could have possibly compelled her to dothis? It’s the polar opposite of everything else she’s done so far in her career.
I’m five minutes early by the time I walk up to the door leading into her office. Right before I can knock, the doorflies open, revealing the team's left flanker, Thomas Wainsworth.
“Big man!” Tommy’s thick northern accent calls out as he pulls me into a bear hug.
“What are you doing here?”
“Same as you, I’d reckon. Had a meeting with Ms. McKallen this morning.” Oh.Oh.It’s dawning on me now that my assumptions around this meeting are clearly in error.
My cheeks heat with embarrassment, and I duck my head, hoping he doesn’t notice. “That’s sound. Well, I better get in there then. Don’t want to get on her bad side.” I indicate toward the open office door.
“See you on the pitch, Cap.”
I take a deep breath, trying to temper my embarrassment before I step forward and rap my knuckles against the door.
Jade is sitting at her desk, head tilted down with her phone tucked between her shoulder and ear, looking over some forms on her desk as she talks assertively to whoever is on the other line. Her midnight hair is pulled back in a ponytail at the nape of her neck, tendrils falling around her high cheekbones. From her seated position, I can see she’s wearing a champagne satin blouse that gathers at her side, accentuating her figure. Somehow, she’s managed to look severe and angelic at the same time.
She knocks me out of my open admiration when she finally addresses me, still not looking up from her work. “Please come in, Mr. Stone.” Her voice is rich, with a slight rasp around the edges that makes a bolt of heat zing up my spine.
Only when I sit in the chair across from her does she finally look at me. I don’t know what I expected to be met with, but it wasn’t cool indifference. Not a single flare of recognition lights her honeyed eyes as I remain silent, waiting for her cue as she assesses me, that bright spot of blue beckoning my attention.
“I sent out individual meeting invites to each player on the team so I can gauge everyone’s strengths and weaknesses, as well as ask them if they’ve felt supported in the past. If they haven’t, I want to know how we as an administration can better lend aid and help everyone achieve their goals for this season and beyond.”
“Where would you like to start?” I ask, forgetting about everything else in the wake of her professionalism.
“You didn’t have the best season last year.” Apparently, we’re going straight for the throat, no preamble.
“I’m aware I failed my team,” I bite out.
“I didn’t say that, Mr. Stone.” She levels me with a withering look. “Your ability to lead your team isn’t contingent on the amount of trys the team scores or how wellyouplay individually.”
“Tell that to the rabid hoard of fans and reporters.” I glance out the window, anywhere but at that intense spot of blue.
“I’m less concerned about whattheythink and am more concerned about whatyouthink, Mr. Stone.”
I hate that we’re leaning too close to her baldly perceiving all my weaknesses—hate that she’ll see me differently now than she did the night we met. “Call me Tieran.” I plaster on a cheeky smile, feeling the need to distract her.
I shouldn’t be surprised when it doesn’t work, and she raises a single eyebrow at me.
“What happened last season,Mr. Stone?”
I suck in a fortifying breath. “I got a severe case of the yips halfway through the year and couldn’t pull myself out in time to lead the team properly.” My eyes ping pong all over the office, anywhere but at her.
“Are the yips still present?”
The desire to lie, to save face in front of her, is strong, but I resist. “I hope not.”
