Authors: Kat Latham
Liam roared again and spun in a slow circle. The hangers-on tightened their grips, throwing back their heads and grinning at the sky as their feet flew outward and they became part of his human helicopter.
Finally, a whistle blew and Liam lowered the kids to the ground.
“Match is over!” shouted Chloë, the Legends’ community liaison, from the touchline. “Legends, you did fairly well, but Bethnal Green Primary won by three points.”
Liam and his team did their best to look sheepish as the kids jumped and shouted all around them. It was hard to keep a smile off his face, seeing kids from a neighborhood that wouldn’t normally be populated with rugby supporters enjoy the sport. Once Chloë gave them permission, the kids rushed to their kitbags and pulled out stuff for the team to sign. Only a couple had official Legends shirts, several had illegal knock-offs, but most had nothing but paper. One scrawny girl with overly big Harry Potter specs brought him a folder, which she opened to display a maths exam with
7
/
10—Excellent improvement
,
Brita!
scrawled across the top in bright green ink. Brita blushed as she shoved the test toward Liam and asked in a voice so quiet he had to stoop close, “Could you sign that for me?”
“Your exam?” He glanced at her teacher, who stood behind her beaming as Brita nodded. He balanced the folder on his knee and signed. “Do you like maths?”
Brita’s blush deepened, her shoulders hunching up as if she wanted to disappear. Or, more likely, as if she couldn’t admit her loathing for the subject in front of her teacher. Liam leaned in and whispered, “I hated maths. Least favorite subject ever. Well done for getting seven right. You must’ve worked hard.”
Brita’s smile stretched across her face. “Hours and hours.”
“Good on ya. That’s the kind of commitment you need to get better at things you don’t find easy.” Handing her folder back, he winked at her teacher, a matronly woman in her fifties. She blushed too. “And always mind your teacher. Here you are. Good luck.”
Brita ran off and found another player to sign her prize. Ten minutes later, after Chloë had corralled the tykes and escorted them off the Legends’ practice pitch, Liam and his teammates gathered in the team’s meeting room for one last session before their first friendly of the pre-season. When the head coach finished up his analysis of the opposition’s strengths and weaknesses and announced a few last-minute changes due to injuries, he nodded to Liam, signaling that it was time to wrap up.
Liam leaned forward in his seat, resting his elbows on his knees. The team turned toward him, and he looked at each one of them. No matter how many seasons he had the privilege of captaining his team, he didn’t think he’d ever get used to this: the massive responsibility of leading a group of men he admired the hell out of. Each time he dug down to find words to inspire them, he secretly feared it wouldn’t be enough. Nothing he said would be enough.
“Last season was great, lads,” he started, “but we’re about to embark on something even bigger. Our greatest season ever. With the World Cup starting next month, the world will be watching all of us—whether we’re chosen to represent our county or not, and no matter what country you play for.” He took in the expressions on his teammates’ faces. They came from as far away as Samoa, Tonga and South Africa to play for London Legends. Most of them were world-class and had little doubt of being selected to play for their home countries, but several would start this season fighting to prove themselves on the pitch so they had a chance. “A month from now, some of us may face each other as enemies on the battlefield. But today, and tomorrow, and every day that we put on our green-and-whites, we are a team. We are champions. We are
Legends.
”
The team roared, a ferocious noise that matched the feral faces surrounding him—faces marred by bones and cartilage that’d been beaten into submission from years of playing a brutal sport. They stood and huddled while their coach reminded them when to arrive at the stadium in the morning. Liam spent several more minutes with each of the coaches going over details before he could finally grab his kitbag and leave. Just as he was heading out the door, though, eager to kick his feet up, the CEO huffed and puffed down the hallway. “Cally! Wait a minute. I need to talk to you.”
Liam bit back a groan. Never a good thing when Frank Swan needed a word. If it was about something unimportant, he’d get one of the lower-level managers to ask. A conversation with Frank usually meant Liam having to glad-hand some corporate giant Frank wanted to get into the team’s bed, Liam’s least favorite part of being the face of the team. But he waited anyway. Of course he waited. He’d sever an artery and bleed green and white for his team. “What’s wrong, Swanny?”
“Come to my office a minute.” Frank wrapped his beefy arm around Liam’s shoulder—a reminder to Liam that he would need to work extra hard to keep in shape after he retired. Frank had never been at the top of the game, but he’d been close enough until he’d blown out his knee and decided to get an MBA. Apparently all that sitting on his arse had jellified his muscles.
Frank steered him toward the lift, but when he caught Liam glancing at his watch, he changed direction and shoved open a meeting room door. “Won’t take long. Why don’t we chat in here instead?”
“Sure.”
Shit
, he was going to be late...again. He’d promised to pick Samantha up at Heathrow. They’d met a couple of weeks ago, when she’d been in London shooting scenes for a film. She’d had to catch a flight to L.A. a few hours after they’d met, but she’d phoned him last night to say that she would be in London for the weekend and was desperate to see him.
Desperate
sounded a little too...well,
desperate
to Liam. But he liked her well enough, they seemed to have decent chemistry—not that they’d tested it out much yet—and he needed to get a certain lying pixie out of his head. Plus, he’d promised to be there. He despised failing people, but surely she’d understand why he was a little late, especially when he described how sweat was running rivers down Frank’s ruddy cheeks.
He took a seat at the round meeting table and Frank hefted himself into a chair across from him. Folding his hands on the table, Frank stared at him with a grave expression. “We have a problem. A major problem.”
Fuck.
Liam didn’t bother cataloging the possibilities. He could always count on Frank being candid with him.
“Have you seen the news today?”
“No. Been a bit busy.” Ten hours of intense training, interviews with the press, team meetings and messing about with the kids didn’t leave much time for TV.
“Well, Sharecore has gone into receivership. They’re fucked.”
Liam jerked back in his seat. “They what?”
“They’re so far in debt the bank’s administrators have stepped in. They’re breaking agreements left, right and center.”
“Where does that leave us?”
“We’re either left, right or center, but who the fuck cares? They’re breaking their sponsorship agreement. Our corporate funding for the season just sprayed the porcelain bowl.”
A sharp pain throbbed behind Liam’s eye. Although much of the club’s funding came from ticket sales, they relied on sponsors like Sharecore to provide a steady, reliable stream of income. Without it, they’d struggle to pay back-office staff salaries, utilities and a whole host of other bills. Finance wasn’t an area Liam normally got involved with, but management did like to trot him out whenever they needed to schmooze a sponsor, and his contract included getting involved in their events to promote the partnerships. “What about our other sponsors? Can any of them step up?”
Frank’s face screwed up into a grimace. “Most of them have said no, but a couple are still checking. I only got a call from Sharecore’s CEO last night—right as I was cuddling up with the wife. Fucker said he wanted to tell me in person but hadn’t done it sooner for fear it would hit the papers before they could make an official announcement, as if I couldn’t be trusted to keep my yap shut. I’ve been here since six this morning calling everyone I know to see if they want to become our principal sponsor, but so far I only have one lead. And here’s where I need your help.”
Liam perked up. “Anything.”
“I’ve arranged a dinner with their CEO. He made it clear that this is a lot of money for them, so he needs to be sure they’ll get enough publicity out of it.” Frank grinned, showing off the extensive dental work he’d had to replace a few knocked-out teeth. “You’re our best asset in these situations, Cally. I need you to kiss their arses so hard your nose is imprinted on their cheeks for weeks.”
“Absolutely. I’ll be there. When is it?”
“Tonight. Seven sharp. Julie can give you directions.”
Liam checked his watch, even as his gut tightened with sickening disappointment. He would have barely enough time to get to Heathrow and back, maybe not even enough time to drop Samantha at her hotel. He cringed as he imagined what her reaction would be to finding herself abandoned on the first night of her visit. What would be worse—doing that or calling a car service to meet her at the airport in the first place? Either way, she wouldn’t be happy. “I don’t suppose we can push the dinner back a couple hours?”
Frank hooted with laughter. “If you saw how far I had to bend over just to plant this idea in their minds, you’d never ask that. Look, I know it’s shitty timing, but I’m begging you here. Finding a new principal sponsor weeks before the regular season starts is bad enough. Redoing half the promo we’ve got lined up once we sign the agreement is what really has me cacking my pants. We need this. We need you.”
Liam bit back his groan of frustration and capitulated with a terse nod. “Have Julie text me the details. I’ve got a few things to take care of, so I’ll meet you at the restaurant.”
“Good man.” Frank stood, walked around the table and clasped Liam’s shoulder. “Remember, charm the pants off them tonight. They need to know we can do more than just provide eighty minutes of entertainment every weekend. We can help them sell themselves to our adoring fans, but first you need to sell
them
on
us.
”
Frank led him out of the meeting room and toward the front door. Inside the training ground, Liam belonged two hundred percent to Legends. Once outside, he would have to figure out how to handle tonight without hurting Samantha. Having her own career, she would hopefully understand that his time was devoted to his team—one of the benefits of sticking to women whose careers demanded as much as his. Still, he constantly walked a tightrope of not making it insultingly obvious when a woman was little more than a pleasant diversion.
Legends were his priority, no question. He hated letting someone down when he made plans with them, but tonight he really didn’t have a choice.
When Liam reached the front door, Frank slapped a plastic envelope against his stomach. “Here. Take these and study them as much as you can. It’s everything we know about the company.”
Liam popped the flap open and reached inside. “Who are they?”
“An eco-travel company. They arrange adventures in exotic places, all designed to benefit local economies somehow. Sounds pretty good. I might look into taking the family on one of their trips, if we end up signing them.”
The skin on Liam’s neck prickled, his short hairs bristling. As Liam drew the papers out, Frank continued, “They’re called Kijani Adventures. I think it’s Swahili or something. We’re having dinner with their CEO, Charlie Chambers.”
Chambers?
Suddenly, thoughts of Samantha dissolved, replaced by the pink-haired pixie who’d cracked him wide open and left him bruised and battered.
Chapter Seven
Today the guys in the office played their usual game of Snog, Fuck or Kill. J. stood on his desk and waved his arms about like a sweaty ape, shouting for attention. “Snog, fuck or kill?” he yelled, holding up a picture. Usually it’s of a celeb, a client or one of the unfortunate women in HR, and I bite my tongue as the men debate whether a woman’s too fat/thin/ugly to be allowed to live. Today, though, a weird silence fell over the office, and I turned to see J. sneering in my direction as he held up a photo of me wearing face paint at our teambuilding paintballing session. Then the chants started. “Kill, kill, kill...”
—Sexists in the City
blog
The shrill shouts of her former colleagues morphed into the ring of a phone as consciousness gradually wormed its way through Tess’s sleepy brain. The sun threw sharp rays over her bed, and agony arced through her head.
She fumbled for the mobile vibrating on her bedside table, accidently knocking over the wine bottle that’d helped her fall asleep last night. Fortunately, it was empty. Or perhaps that was unfortunate, since its emptiness was the reason her head was about to split wide open. She felt like mythical Zeus, whose head hurt so badly he had to crack it open with an axe. Unlike Zeus, though, the goddess of wisdom probably wouldn’t emerge from her head. The goddess of all hangovers, more like.
She hit a button to answer the phone and collapsed back into the pillows, covering her eyes with her arm. “Hello?”
“Tessy? You all right?”
“Hiya, Charlie. Yeah, I’m fine.” Not a lie, as long as
fine
could be defined as
drinking oneself to sleep...alone.
“You sure? You sound all croaky.”
She muffled a groan as she forced herself to sit up straighter. If she wasn’t careful, word would get back to her mum that she was still asleep at—what time?—shit, 2 p.m. on a weekday, and she’d find herself fending off an overbearing visit and tankards of chicken noodle soup—or worse, an intervention. “I’m fine, promise. Is everything okay? Are you calling from work?”
Work
—that thing she desperately needed to get or she’d slip further into a depression from feeling so bloody useless.
“I’m great, love. I was just calling to see how your job hunt’s going.”