Placing the printed team roster against the Google search, I allow myself a small infinitesimal bit of forgiveness, because it’s no wonder I didn’t recognize him. He’s virtually unrecognizable.
His team photo is a far cry from the man I met at The King’s Swan.Thisversion has long hair down to his chin and an overgrown, unruly beard. The version I met in the warmly dim bar has hair cropped short, faded on the sides and longer on top, with a five o’clock shadow at most—short enough to see his dimples.
Stop thinking about his dimples.
Shoving the document back into its folder and cramming it into a bottom drawer of the desk, I decide that strongly disassociating is the only logical course of action. That’s always been my coping style when anything in my life goes awry. This was just one of the tiny messes in life I have become an expert on dealing with. The situation with Tieran wasn’t any different than a business deal—complicated but easy to compartmentalize. I would simply file him, and that night at the pub, in the very back of mind and move on with my life. I doubt I’ll even see him that much, outside of team meetings or the individual ones I plan on having with each player tomorrow.
After that, I can avoid him and his dimples at all costs.
A curt knock sounds on the door to my office before a man of average height, a receding hairline, and a sportscoat lets himself in, barreling into my office like it’s his own house.
“Lawrence Chapman,” he introduces himself, and I bristle as he plops himself down in one of the chairs across from me, back ramrod straight and distaste written clear across his face.
“One of the additional shareholders,” I acknowledge him and his position within the organization alongside a nod of my head. “Will Ron also be joining this impromptu meeting?”
He bypasses my question completely. “I’m going to shoot straight to the point and not mince my words, Jade.” The informality with which he uses my first name, despite not knowing me, is highly intentional, a pointed attempt to assert dominance because he’s insecure about having less power than me.
I lean forward and fold my hands on the top of my desk. “You may call me Miss McKallen.”
Chapman keeps his composure, but I can see a subtle lick of anger flare behind his eyes.
“You swooped in out of nowhere and offered Landry over his asking price. He was going to sell to me.” His jaw grinds as the words squeeze out between thin lips. “They should have been my shares.”
I relax back in my seat. “And yet, they’re mine. Money talks, Mr. Chapman, and I have a lot of it.” Very rarely do I feel the need to flaunt my wealth, but in times like this, when a man like Lawrence Chapman feels like he’s entitled to something I acquired fair and square, well, it makes me a little combative.
“What’s it going to take to get you to hand ‘em over?” His tone is cocky, accent thick.
“They aren’t for sale.”
Spit spews from his mouth. “I had a verbal agreement in place.”
“A cleared check holds more weight than a handshake, Mr. Chapman.” His face continues to burn with every sentence out of my mouth. “I won’t apologize for going after what I want, if you have a problem with this business deal, you can speak to Landry, but it won’t change the fact that this ismyteam now. It’s probably best if you make peace with it.”
He seethes before abruptly shoving himself out of the chair. He places his hands on the edge of my desk, staring me down as if the height difference will intimidate me into submission.
“Do you even know anything about the sport?” he sneers down at me.
Apparently, the joys of men underestimating women is a global epidemic, not limited to back home.
Despite what everyone here seems hellbent on believing, I know rugby quite well. Since I grew up in coastal Maine to divorced parents, my mom had me on the weekdays, and I spent weekends with dad. They were always my favorite. For as long as I’ve had memories, Dad would always wake me up early with a steaming hot cuppa and a slice of strawberry jam toast, and we’d watch whatever match was happening here in the UK, a piece of Dad’s homeland that he brought to the States and shared with only me. It was magic—screaming at the tv whenever a bad call was made or when our team lost possession of the ball. That kind of behavior wasn’t allowed at my mom’s house.
Going to Dad’s was a haven from the intensity of staying with her throughout the week. He became my best friend, and our time spent watching matches, learning about the sport, and seeing how much he loved it…it was the best. He always let me be me. He was the one who encouraged me to start making videos online after seeing me watch a hundred on his decades-old computer. I think hewas worried I was too disconnected from the world at such a young age. He was probably right.
“I know there’s a ball involved; running too, I think.” My stare is flat, unamused.
Chapman scoffs. “One day, you’re going to prove you’re unfit for this responsibility, and I’ll be waiting to swoop in.”
“Right—well, until then, please leavemyoffice with this fantastic view.” I motion toward the floor to ceiling windows and the players beyond warming up. “I’ve got some work to do.” I turn away from him, a slight he won’t soon forget. I can hear him stand, and the spiteful demon inside me decides it wants to poke the bear a little further. “Oh, Lawrence!” I call out to him before he can leave. “You wouldn’t happen to know where I could get a new desk, would you? This one’s not quite to my taste.”
He slams the door on his way out.
Trudging up the narrow staircase to my second floor flat feels impossible after the day I had. Each step feels as if I have cement cinder blocks attached to my feet, and I’m dying to wash my face, take off my bra, and crawl into bed.
After being blindsided by Tieran’s presence, myfriendlychat with Chapman, and a day’s worth of meetings between the team and my personal brands back in LA, I need to cleanse this day from my psyche and find time to eat before my call with the head of production for Jaded the Label, the clothing sector of my brand.
I’ve just made it to the landing outside my new home when the door opposite my flat flies off its hinges, and a beautiful young woman with brown skin, rich mahogany eyes, and dark curly hair that fades into a deep caramel steps out. She pays me no mind as she reaches back into her home and drags a man over the threshold by the chain around his neck, giving him a push towards the stairs.
“You and your furry fetish have got to go. Idokinkshame, and I will not tell you for a third time that I’m not putting on an animal mask. I’mclaustrophobic.”
