Page 61 of Hard to Hold

“Word around the league is that you’re killing it, McKenzie. Charming the investors, rallying the supporters, and there’s an uptick in ticket sales for the upcoming season.”

“I feel like a sham.”

His eyes whip up to mine. That definitely got his attention. “What do you mean, you feel like a sham?”

“People are buying these tickets because they think I’m staying to play here when I’m not. I haven’t given any indication that I am, but by simply being here, it’s the conclusion they’ve drawn.”

“And that’s a problem, why?”

“Because it is. They remember when the MLS started and the LA Galaxy signed David Beckham to play in the States. Cannon is giving the same impression to fans when it comes to me and it’s bullshit.”

“C’mon,” he says and waves a hand in indifference. “You’re selling them the idea of it. That doesn’t mean it’s going to be the reality.”

I think of all the families who are spending their hard-earned money for tickets. I think of Scottie and Daphne, and how she promised him before they left after the game that he’d get to see me again. I didn’t have the heart to tell her otherwise—to upset him after an awesome day where she told me she couldn’t remember the last time she saw him so carefree, so much like a kid should be. So yeah, I’m the arsehole who left it to her to tell him eventually.

What’s worse is I know she’s already trying to figure out how she can split her money—paying a utility bill late, some groceries, hell if I know—to bring her son to one of my games. I’ve been there. I’ve watched the worry on my mother’s face as she calculated and robbed Peter to pay Paul, because the days when the younger version of me was happy were so few and far between that she did whatever she could to see it again.

Just like me, just like Scottie, there are so many more like us out there whose parents will spend the money they don’t have in order to perpetuate a dream. In order to give their child the best chance in life.

“Cannon is lying to them,” I say.

“It’s part of the game. We all play it.”

“But I don’t.” I sit forward and lean my forearms on the table as I wait for him to meet my eyes. “When I’m in my Liverpool kit, I’m not playing any other game than the one on the pitch against the opponent.”

“If you think that, you’re fooling yourself, Rush.” He takes a sip of his beer and lifts a chin toward a table full of women who keep looking our way. “You’re constantly playing a game. With the public, reinforcing their perception of you. With your endorsements, and what they’re wanting you to sell. With your teammates, and who you want them to think you are—the motivated, aggressive athlete or the guy who’ll stab them in the back and sleep with their wives.”

I stop with my glass halfway to my lips and stare at my agent. How funny that Lennox, a woman I’ve known for a whole two weeks, is all but yelling at me that she knows I didn’t touch Esme and my own agent, who has known me for years, is saying shit like that.

When my agent retired four years ago, he told me Finn was the best. He promised me that if I wanted someone who would push both my career and increase my sponsorship deals, then Finn Sanderson was the man.

But right now, I sit and stare at Finn and wonder if he’s ever really taken the time to know me other than when a significant negotiation was about to happen that would thicken the lining of his pockets. Because I’m not feeling any of the love or trust when it comes to him like I did with my previous agent. I’m not seeing faith in me or even concern to hear me. I expect an agent to mitigate problems—that’s what they do—but I’m not seeing my agent fight for me the way a woman I’ve known only a couple of weeks is willing to fight . . . and that’s a problem.

“So happy to see you addressing my concerns,” I say sarcastically.

“C’mon, man. You know I didn’t mean that last part. I was just joking.” He huffs out a breath in annoyance when he sees it still hasn’t set right with me. “You’re getting paid to stand there and look pretty. Are you going to argue with that?”

“Yeah, I’d much rather be back home with my trainers and coaches and preparing for the next season. It’s not the money. It’s the premise you pushed me here under.”

“I didn’t push you anywhere. That’s fucking nonsense. I guided. You agreed. End of story.”

I throw my hands up. “It feels dirty, mate.”

“How dirty does over one hundred million dollars sound?” His eyes meet mine, his brows lifted, as he runs a finger over the rim of his glass. “Because that’s what is possible here. A long term contract. Bonuses. Endorsement deals. They want you and they want you bad.”

And there it is.

The pitch. The promise. The reason he showed up in Los Angeles when he never shows up—unless Lennox is right, and he’s here because he’s afraid I’d switch agencies to hers.

And telling me he’s negotiating a hundred-million-dollar contract is definitely something an agent would do to get you to stay put.

“You have nothing to say to that?” he asks.

“It’s a lot of money.” I nod. “Are you throwing the bait out there to see if I’ll bite or are you telling me something I should already know?”

“You said you’re enjoying sunny California.”

“Have they made me an offer or are you blowing smoke up my arse?” I ask, wanting to know and not wanting to know. That’s a shit ton of money. It matches what I already have in the bank, more than any person could ever spend, and yet . . . I balk at the idea.