Striker. Michelle Betham

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СКАЧАТЬ of journalists, reporters and photographers all waiting to hear what he had to say. All waiting to find out just why he’d finally chosen to come home and play for the club he’d supported all his life.

      Somehow or other he’d managed to shake off both Max – his agent – and the club official who was to sit in with him when he did this pre-press-conference interview with a local news programme. How he’d managed that he had no idea because they’d been stuck to him like limpets ever since he’d got out of the car not two minutes ago – a car he’d been bundled out of in a rather unceremonious fashion in some ridiculous attempt to keep news of his signing a secret until the very last minute. Which was a waste of time. It was probably old news by now, thanks to the recent Twitter rumours and media speculation that had been rife for the past couple of days.

      Taking one more quick glance around, he followed the pretty PR assistant into the room, not missing the slightly panic-stricken look that took over her face when she realised he was alone.

      ‘Oh, I’m… I’m sorry, Mr. Fisher. We need to wait for the club official, and your agent. They should be here, too. I don’t know where they’ve… If you’ll just excuse me…’

      Ryan put his arm across the doorway, blocking her exit, smiling that smile that had turned a thousand women’s heads over the years. ‘So we’re alone? Does that bother you?’

      ‘I… I could get into trouble, Mr. Fisher…’

      ‘Quit with the Mr. Fisher crap, will you? It’s Ryan. And you are…?’

      She looked at him with eyes that were still full of panic – but there was a tiny hint of excitement there, too; he could see it. A tell-tale sign that she was torn between this chance to be alone with a good-looking, extremely famous footballer, and the need to carry out her job with the utmost professionalism. ‘Erm… my name’s… I’m Ellen.’

      Ryan grinned, his arm still resting against the doorpost, still blocking her exit. ‘Ellen… well, what are you doing after all this bullshit has finished then, Ellen?’

      ‘I don’t know what she’s doing but you’re moving house then getting your head down for an early night. You’ve got training tomorrow morning.’

      Ryan groaned as Max Mandell appeared in the doorway, pushing Ryan’s arm out of the way to allow the cameraman from News North East through.

      Max Mandell was one of the most respected and revered football agents in the business, with some of the biggest names in the game on his books. Renowned for always getting his clients the best deals possible, he was a straight-to-the-point, hard-nosed businessman who took no crap, which meant he had few friends, but one hell of a client list. Max Mandell was one of those men who didn’t care much about anyone else – unless they could earn him big money. ‘And for Christ’s sake, Ryan, behave yourself, will you? For five frigging minutes. Let’s show this club the professional player they’ve just signed over millions for, not some jumped-up playboy that might just make them regret shelling out all that cash.’ He looked at Ellen as she backed up against the wall, studying her clipboard with probably more interest than was necessary. ‘Is this going to get started soon, sweetheart? Only, we’ve got a shitload of stuff to be getting on with today.’

      Ellen looked at him before quickly checking with the News North East cameraman, who gave her the nod that he was almost ready to go. ‘As soon as Ms. Sullivan arrives…’

      Ryan looked up. ‘Ms. Sullivan?’

      ‘Jesus Christ,’ Max sighed, throwing his head back. He knew of Amber Sullivan. He knew her father, Freddie, because he’d been one hell of a player in his day. And Max knew that Freddie Sullivan’s daughter was one very beautiful young woman. But he also knew that she was good at her job. In fact, from what he’d heard, she could be as hard-nosed as him at times. She had a bit of a reputation for it, apparently. He’d often wondered why she’d never moved out of the North East to try for a job on national TV – she was just as good as any of the females who were gracing the world of sports broadcasting right now, and she’d always struck him as extremely ambitious, the few times he’d met her. Not to mention the fact her father was an ex-professional footballer. Surely she had the necessary contacts that could make all that happen for her? Maybe he should have a word with her, see where her thoughts for the future lay. He was sure he could broker some kind of deal to get her into the big wide world of football broadcasting. Max Mandell was never one to say no to a potential client, even if she wasn’t the kind of client he usually went for. ‘Just do the fucking interview and no shit, Ryan. Do you hear me?’

      ‘Alright, Max. Jesus… I’m not a frigging five-year-old.’

      Max looked at Ryan, arching an eyebrow. Ryan Fisher was probably one of the most talented players in football right now but, like most other lads of his age, earning too much and becoming so famous so quickly had side effects that weren’t always pleasant. There were some, of course, who resisted the urge to have their heads turned, but there were others, just like Ryan, who chose to live that stereotypical footballer lifestyle to the hilt. And that wasn’t always an attractive trait. Still, he wasn’t there to keep an eye on their personalities. As long as they stayed fit and did their job, keeping the money rolling into both their pockets, and his, he didn’t really give a shit what they got up to. Not unless it started to affect him.

      Ryan stood at the back of the room, his hands in his pockets, his head down, scuffing his trainers against the skirting board in an action that told everyone in the room he wasn’t happy. It wasn’t even lunchtime and already he was pissed off. There were days when he felt as if his life wasn’t his own, and this was fast turning into one of them. Sitting down on a comfortable black leather bucket chair, which quite obviously didn’t belong in that room on a permanent basis, he folded his arms in an almost defensive manner as the somewhat flustered club official finally caught up with them. He smiled at both Ryan and Max before taking his seat, checking a large red book he’d had tucked under his arm, all ready to make sure that only questions the club had authorised were asked. Max had decided to take his usual, rather more intimidating stance of leaning against the wall, also with folded arms, to keep an eye on things. Ryan was just bored. He hated interviews, and he couldn’t even remember agreeing to this one, but then, how many times had he found himself ‘agreeing’ to things just to humour some sponsor or to earn a few thousand extra pounds for a public appearance?

      ‘Ah, Ms. Sullivan. You’re here.’

      Ryan looked up as he heard Ellen – maybe he could still corner her somewhere along the line and grab that date – welcome the reporter whose heavily vetted questions he was about to spend the next ten minutes answering. And, as his eyes met hers, all thoughts of that date with the beautiful but nervous Ellen flew right out of the window.

      Amber diverted her eyes away from Ryan Fisher’s gaze to check with Alec, her cameraman, that he was ready to record this interview before looking down at her list of questions. About half a dozen of them had been edited by the over-exacting club official, with many not being deemed suitable to ask at all, although Amber had no idea why. It was hardly as if she was asking for his bank account details. But she’d done this enough times and knew enough about this game and the way it worked to know that even the smallest thing could be considered far too personal to ask. So, it was just a case of gritting her teeth and getting on with it. As usual.

      ‘Hey, good to meet you,’ Ryan grinned, standing up and holding out his hand, not waiting for anyone else to introduce him. Not that he needed any introductions. Even if you weren’t overly familiar with the world of football, most people knew who Ryan Fisher was. He’d been on the cover of enough glossy gossip magazines or the front pages of the tabloid newspapers, for a variety of reasons. СКАЧАТЬ