“No one has anything to contribute?” The disbelief is clear on my face. Reaching into my bag, I pull out my laptop, powering it on and pulling up my cross-referenced notes from each meeting. “That’s interesting, because I have transcripts from at least forty meetings that would state otherwise.”
I spear them all with a look over my laptop before closing it and folding my hands on top.
Chapman finally speaks up. “I don’t know that coming in here and telling us everything we’re doing wrong is the right approach, Miss McKallen.”
“I’m not pointing fingers, Mr. Chapman. I’m simply looking for areas of opportunity within the club.” I try to soften my tone, be less combative while still asserting authority. It’s pandering bullshit, and a man would never have to jump through these kinds of mental hoops, but I do care what they think, since, whether they believe it or not, they’re a part of this team too.
There’s a cough to my right, and I look over to find Ron sheepishly raising a hand.
“Yes?”
“Did the players have a lot to say?” He looks almost scared to speak up, and it’s immediately clear why when Lawrence scoffs. I glance over to see his jaw grinding, the subtle movement causing Ron to shrink in his seat under Chapman’s unrelenting glare.
It’s curious how both Ron and Lawrence hold the samepercentage of shares, but there’s a clear hierarchy in the room. That will have to change, but that matter is much more delicate than a simple upgrade to equipment or uniforms.
“They did. First and foremost, I’ve been diving into our financial accounts and see there seems to be a surplus of charges on dining?—”
“Are we not meant to pick up the bill when we take out associates?” Chapman interrupts.
“Of course.” He looks all too pleased. “Within reason. With that said, a monthly spending limit will be put into effect, and those excess funds will be reallocated to the team’s daily per diem while on away games.” The smug look previously taking residence on his face drops.
“But—”
I hold up my hand in a show on authority. “It’s non-negotiable.”
“Who do you think you are?”
The need to defend my place here, again, grates like nails on a chalkboard. “The team needs to know they matter to us, that we want the best for them. Rugby builds community within our city. Inside every pub that plays a match, people gather to drink a pint and cheer on the guys together. Behind television screens across the UK and the world, people watch and rally behind their favorite team. We should want to foster those connections. The fans have to love our players to show us loyalty, and for that to happen, our players need to be happy. We aren’t just here to make money; we’re here to build a legacy.” I pause and look them each in the eye. “Atleast, that’s whyI’mhere. Why are you?”
The rest of the meeting passes swiftly, with slightly less hostility from the opposite side of the table. There is a reluctance for change that will be a hard wall to breakdown, but I've never been one to back away from a challenge. If I had a dollar for every person who’s doubted me over the course of my career, I could have bought the rugby team with the amount amassed. At one point or another, that doubt would have crippled me. Now itfuelsme.
Packing my laptop into my tote bag and slipping my stilettos back onto my feet, I stand to leave for the day. Lawrence, Ron, and their assistants left earlier in the afternoon, going on about grabbing lunch and making it a point not to invite me. Not that I particularly wanted to join, but if it would help bridge this vicious gap, I’d fall on my sword and make it work.
Tracing a path through the hallways, I casually make my way toward the field. To assess the progress of the team, I tell myself. I am simply performing duties that fall within my leadership role, nothing else.
Stopping at the mouth of the vestibule that leads out onto the pitch, I stop and stare, allowing the shade of the overhang to shelter me from being seen. Before me is so many thighs encased inveryshort shorts, all bulging with muscle. Even I have to admit, it’s a sight to behold—professionally speaking.
Coach Ballard and his assistant coach consult over a clipboard while the players are scattered around the field, running through a series of cool down exercises. Stretching, they’re stretching. Hip flexors, bridges, and forward lunges make up the field as the guys chat about their evening plans. A low laugh rings out over the noise, drawing my eyes to a tall figure.
Tieran stands over Myles with a smile spread across his face, a single ray of sun peeking out from behind the clouds for the first time all day, illuminating him in golden light. My eyes trace a greedy, illicit path down his form. Sweat glistens down his neck, soaking the jersey clinging to his sculpted abdomen, and his shorts are rucked up higherthan necessary over his thick quads, showing off countless tattoos.
I can’t make out what most of them are from this distance, but a fierce dragon or snake curls around his right kneecap, slithering further up his thigh. I noticed a few tattoos when we met at the pub, but with his current state of undress, I’m realizing there is a lot more than I could see that night. It makes me wonder how many others there could be. He’s got most of one leg covered, several scattered over his arms, and my brain helpfully recollects one particularly tantalizing piece just below his ear, beckoning my mouth the night we met.
Heat settles low, and I chastise myself for indulging in these thoughts. That nightdidn’thappen, and it would do me no good to delude myself of a fantasy that would never come to pass.
I turn to leave before anyone notices I’m here and jump when I see someone hovering behind me.
“Oh! Harry, hello. I didn’t hear you walking up.”
“Didn’t mean to startle you, miss. I was just bringing out more towels for the players,” the team’s soft spoken equipment manager says.
“No worries. Thank you for your hard work.” I move to step past him, hoping he didn’t see me staring at a certain player for longer than appropriate.
Thirty minutes later, I’m stepping through the door of my flat and kicking my heels off.
I groan loudly at the sweet relief of not walking on toothpicks anymore and shuffle into the kitchen to pour myself a glass of sauvignon blanc.
Looking around my home, I make a mental note to buy a very nice gift for Aanya, because the progress the last couple weeks is nothing short of astounding. After a few glasses of wine the night we met, she told me she was a musician. She’d spent the last several years playing at pubs and in the underground scene, but that was why she had so much free time to help me. She’s currently taking every gigshe could to break into more mainstream avenues, hoping she’ll be in the right place at the right time to meet someone who could take her career to new heights. It was on the tip of my tongue that I could probably help her, but fear kept me quiet about my own place in the public eye, afraid if she knew, she'd start looking at me as a meal ticket to a large platform of exposure.
