“Totally over it, sir.” The lie rolls off my tongue.
“Good, because if you want a chance at the National Team and the Olympics, you need to be in peak form this season. Top of your game, focused, no scandals. Keep us at the head of the leaderboard and your name out of the press—unlike last year, you hear? The scouts are a conservative type who don’t value drama.” His meaning is more than clear—stay away from anything that will put my name on a headline.
“I won’t let you down, sir.” I smile wide, hoping he can’t read the apprehension I feel coursing through my body on my face.
“Alright, out on the pitch, or I’ll—” He cuts himself off. “Maybe Connor’s right. I need new threats.” He scrubs at the scruff on his face. “Let’s not tell him that, though. Bit of a shite, that one.”
Deep breath in and out, in and out.
When I step out into the hallway, I look around for any sign of Jade and fight the twinge of disappointment to find it empty. I guess it won’t complicate anything if she doesn’t remember me, but just the thought of her not recalling the best night I’ve had in ages, the possibility of her not feeling the same, leaves me sick to my stomach.
Focus.
This year won’t be like the last. I’ll clear my mind of any distractions and focus on the game. I owe everyone that; then, the only thing the sportscasters will be reporting on is our wins.
I shake my head free of stilettos echoing down the hall, and of burning topaz eyes with a spot of blue. As I burst through the doors leading outside, running out onto the pitch with false confidence, my heart pounds and the fear of failure chases my every step.
Paper is everywhere,and my office is pure chaos.
Why can’t I find the one goddamn thing I need to find right now? If I had every organizational item from my office range, I would’ve found the roster already. But instead, I’m tearing through every file I brought in with me when I arrived at the stadium at seven this morning, and throwing the room into upheaval.
I plop down at my desk, resisting the urge to violently bang my head against it. My new office at Knightsbridge is large, with windows facing out onto the pitch, a sturdy mahogany desk, and several empty bookshelves lining the side wall. In the very center sits two cream couches with a white marble coffee table in between. It’s a cozy space, albeit a bit too big. Who needs this much space?
Me. I do. I push up out of my seat and start pacing the length of the cavernous room. This is a fucking disaster. Just over two hours into my position here, and I’ve already fucked up. Majorly.
How did I not know? How did I not recognize him that night?
Where is that fucking team roster?
Walking into the conference room to introduce myself was a test to my nervous system. I stood outside, listening to theirrowdy voices rising to a fever pitch before I entered. Looks of shock quickly melted to skepticism when I stepped into the room. Then, seeinghimsitting there among the players, with his searing blue eyes and rich brown hair…I could feel my heart start to thunder so hard, I feared cardiac arrest was imminent. I have never worked so hard to school my expression into one of severe neutrality more than I did in that moment.
When my gaze first settled on him, I thought my subconscious had conjured him up as some sort of fucked up mirage of comfort, something safe in this unfamiliar world I’ve thrust myself into. But then, his mouth quirked slightly, that dimple started to pop, and I realized he wasveryreal, and I wasveryscrewed.
I stride back over to my desk to tear through my extensive collection of files for a third time when I finally find it.
He’s not there.
Flipping the roster backward and forward, I check the date and, yes—this is definitely the most recent version.
Bringing the page within an inch of my face, I go one by one, analyzing each player and recommitting their names and faces to my memory. My gaze snags on the team’s fly-half, and I bring the page even closer, scrutinizing every detail, flipping the paper to the side, upside down, right-side up, pulling it a foot away from my face and…isthathim?
Tieran Stone, it reads under his picture.
I grab for my laptop, waking it up and typing the name into the search engine. My finger hovers over the enter button, not ready for whatever answers the Google gods are going to give me.
Jesus Christ, Jade. You have faced down boardrooms filled with the world's most influential people. You can do this. Woman up.
My finger smashes the button, heart racing as I wait for the results to load.
Why is it taking so long? My foot starts to tap anxiouslyagainst the floor. First order of business as the new owner of this team: upgrade the shoddy Wi-Fi.
Pictures start to load, and I sit up in my seat, my heart sinking at the confirmation.
Tieran Stone, fly-half andcaptainof the London Legends, is the same man I shamelessly asked to fuck me in a pub bathroom not even a week ago. The groan crawling up my throat can’t even be contained, and I finally give in, dropping my head onto my desk and banging it heavily against the horrendously colored wood.
One. Two. Three.
That’s all the time I allow myself to have a mini freakout before I pull myself together, reaching up and making sure not a hair is out of place.
