Striker. Michelle Betham

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СКАЧАТЬ her feet? Or have her falling at his? He was going to have a long wait, then. ‘Are we all ready to go?’ Amber asked, directing her question at the club official, knowing only too well how tight a schedule these events were run on.

      Ryan was even more pissed off now. Was she blanking him? Jesus! She might look hot, but she was one cold bitch. Mind you, that was actually a bit of a turn-on. Ryan had never been one to shirk a challenge, although, to be honest, he’d never really been challenged all that often. In fact, he’d be hard-pressed to think of a time when a woman had blanked him like this.

      ‘Okay. Mr. Fisher…’

      ‘My name’s Ryan, sweetheart. Can we lose the “Mr. Fisher” crap? I’m a footballer, not some fucking businessman in a board meeting.’

      Amber’s eyes bored into his. Who the hell did he think he was talking to? She was all too aware of this man’s reputation – both on and off the pitch – but she was more than ready for him. Fixing him with her best smile, she crossed her legs and sat back in her chair, glancing over at her cameraman again. He gave her the nod – he was ready to go, so she might as well get this show on the road. ‘Okay then… Ryan. Shall we get started?’

      Ryan smiled, too, although he was finding it hard to make that smile reach his eyes. She was one hard-faced cow. It was just a pity she was so attractive because, despite the fact she was quite obviously not in the least bit impressed by who he was, he still found himself drawn to her. Not that he had any intention of acting on it. Why put himself in a situation that would only succeed in denting his delicate ego when there were women out there who would quite happily massage it – and other parts of him – with just the click of his fingers? He’d get this over and done with then go see if he could find Ellen. She was a dead cert, whereas this one wasn’t even going to get off the starting blocks.

      ‘Fire away,’ Ryan sighed, sitting back and clasping his hands over his stomach.

      Amber looked down at her notebook, mainly because she had no real desire to look at this man in front of her, although, as a professional, she knew she’d have to, sooner or later. Even if she couldn’t really care less what he had to say. He may well be on his way to becoming a footballing legend, and even she had to admit that she’d been more than impressed with his performances on the pitch. But as a person, she could, quite frankly, take him or leave him. And preferably the latter. He was doing nothing to eliminate the sometimes misguided stereotype of the modern-day professional footballer with his arrogant behaviour, but it wasn’t like he was the first sportsman she’d come across who acted like this. She knew how to deal with them.

      ‘So… how does it feel to be back home, then – Ryan?’

      Ryan waited until she lifted her head, his eyes immediately locking onto hers in a stare he wasn’t in any hurry to break. ‘How does it feel to be back home?’ A smile spread slowly across his handsome face as he continued to stare at Amber. ‘It feels fucking fantastic!’

      ‘He’s an arrogant prick,’ Amber said, watching from the dugout as her father’s team played an evening match. The miserable weather from earlier in the day had given way to a beautiful, clear August night – conditions that were perfect for both playing the game, and watching it. The reason why, Amber suspected, the club’s modest, lower-league ground was almost full to capacity which, in terms of her father’s club, was a few thousand, compared to the fifty-four thousand that his old club, Newcastle Red Star, could now command in their new, purpose-built stadium.

      Freddie Sullivan looked at his headstrong daughter. ‘You’ve let him get to you, kiddo. That’s not like you.’

      Amber sat up straight and looked at her dad. ‘Huh? I have not let him get to me…’

      ‘I’m just saying, pet. Look, come on. Everyone knows what Ryan Fisher’s like. He’s one hell of a player, both on and off the pitch. You should know that by now.’

      ‘He’s reinforcing every stereotype there is, Dad. And it isn’t like he’s stupid, either. He’s probably one of the most intelligent players I’ve ever met.’

      ‘And he knows how to work reporters like you, kiddo.’

      Amber looked at her dad again. ‘Like me? What? Women, you mean?’

      Freddie laughed, sitting back and stretching out his legs – legs that had once been insured for quite a bit of cash back in the 1970s and 80s. ‘I didn’t say that, Amber. You did.’

      Amber stuck her hands in her pockets and sat back too, directing her eyes at the action on the pitch. The interview with Ryan had gone okay, considering. He’d answered most of the questions she’d put to him in a professional and articulate way, which had really frustrated her. More than she’d thought it would. He was an incredibly intelligent young man, yet he chose to act, at times, as though he was nothing more than an empty-headed poster-boy, full of crap and arrogance. She’d almost hoped, as she’d made her way to Tynebridge that morning, that all the rumours she’d heard about him from those who’d met him weren’t true, but it seemed they were. More’s the pity.

      ‘It was a good interview, though, don’t you think?’ Freddie commented, quickly jumping up from the bench to yell an instruction at one of his floundering defenders.

      Amber waited for him to sit back down, still staring at the action on the pitch. ‘The edited version looked fine, yeah. But he’s still an arrogant prick. And that came across in all the bits you didn’t see on TV tonight.’

      Freddie looked at his daughter again. ‘You’ve been in this business a long time, Amber. And I’ve never seen you react to any player like this before, and let’s face it, you’ve interviewed some of the biggest idiots this game has ever had the pleasure of spawning. Why’s Ryan Fisher got you so rattled?’

      ‘He hasn’t got me rattled, Dad. It’s just… it’s been a long day, and I’m tired.’

      ‘Then maybe you shouldn’t have come to the match tonight. You should have gone straight home, had a bath, watched some TV.’

      ‘I wanted to come to the match. I didn’t want to go home and sit on my own watching soap operas and drinking wine… Actually, I quite like the drinking wine bit.’

      ‘Join us in the bar after the match, then. I’ll buy you a pint.’

      Amber laughed, finally starting to feel relaxed for the first time since the interview with Ryan Fisher. ‘Yeah. You always did know how to make a girl feel special, Dad.’

      Freddie Sullivan leaned over and ruffled his daughter’s hair, pulling her in for a quick hug before jumping back up to yell yet more instructions at that same wayward defender, using language that turned the air bluer than the late-August evening sky.

      Amber smiled, leaning back in her seat for the final few seconds of the first half, a little part of her suddenly warming to the idea of soap operas and a bottle of anything cold and white. She wouldn’t miss anything here. Freddie’s team was wiping the floor with the opposition, and anyway, he’d fill her in on everything when she popped round to see him tomorrow. No, despite feelings to the contrary just a few seconds earlier, now she really fancied just sinking into a hot, bubble-filled bath with the radio on low and a glass of ice-cold wine by her side. Because, no matter how much she tried to deny it, Ryan Fisher had got to her. For a reason she couldn’t yet work out.

      Ryan rolled over onto his back and stared at the ceiling, his breathing heavy and shallow. СКАЧАТЬ