“Is he planning to make a public announcement now?” And if he did, how would that change Simon’s relationship with Jessica? She obviously wanted to keep her identity a secret from him, but she had to know once her father claimed ownership of the Waves, Simon would realize he’d been shagging the boss’s daughter. Did it matter?
He didn’t want the other players to accuse him of trying to kiss up to the boss by kissing his daughter. They wouldn’t believe he didn’t know who she was at the beginning. Damn, why didn’t she just tell him from the start?
She must have some kind of ulterior motive, and when a woman had an ulterior motive it usually meant trouble.
“I have no idea if he plans to go public.” Evan lifted his broad shoulders. “At the moment, your plans concern me more.”
“My plans?”
“Practice starts next week. Are you ready?”
“I’m always ready to play football.” Simon shifted in his chair.
“No offense, Boss, but you’re not as young as you used to be. Hell, none of us is.” Evan patted a small paunch beneath his tailored shirt. “I played some college ball and I do what I can to stay in shape, but age has a way of creeping up on us.”
“Your point is?”
“Look, Kauai isn’t exactly a desert island. I saw news of your exploits, and it didn’t look like you were preparing for a long season of soccer.”
“That’s not Jessica’s fault.” Simon sat up and pounded Evan’s desk, causing a silver-framed photo of a pretty dark-haired woman to tremble.
“Did I mention Jessica?” Evan’s eyes narrowed
“No.” Simon unclenched his hands, feeling like a bloody idiot. “I just want to make that clear. I engineered all those stunts. I came to the States to garner some publicity, generate some buzz. I thought we agreed on that, Evan.
Did someone forget to tell the new co-owner of the Waves?”
Evan steepled his fingers and swiveled his chair toward the sprawling view of L.A. out his window. A muscle ticked in his clean-shaven jaw before he swung back around to face Simon. He tipped back and settled his expensive loafers on the desk, crossing his legs at the ankle.
“Roger Brett is old-school.”
Was that an edge of contempt in Evan’s voice? “Which means what exactly?”
“He still believes athletes play the sport for the love of the game.”
Simon winced. He once believed that too.
“When you first contacted me to represent you in the deal with the Waves, we both had the same goal. Get you name recognition, endorsements, and millions. I think Casellas was on board with that too, but when Brett stepped into the picture, he changed the rules.”
“Brett’s less interested in raising the profile of soccer in the States than he is in getting a first-rate player for the Waves who can lead his team to an MLS Cup, right?”
“Right, but we don’t always get what we wish for.”
“What are you implying, Evan?”
“Let’s face it, Simon. You’re not the player you once were.” He held his hands out as if to soften the blow.
“Hell, who is?”
Simon’s gut tightened, and his teeth ground together behind his ready smile. He could believe that, but he’d be damned if he wanted anyone else to believe it. “If I changed my lifestyle and my image, I could lead the Waves to twenty MLS Cups.”
“I’m sure you could, Boss, but who wants to work that hard when you can pluck the money from low-hanging tree branches?”
“What are you driving at, Evan? Sounds like your expectations are different from Brett’s.”
“My expectations are your expectations. Make lots of money. In today’s world of celebrity athletes, that doesn’t always mean playing your best game on the field.
Sometimes it means playing your best game off the field.” Evan rubbed his hands together in what looked like a parody of Scrooge. “Your playboy image catapulted you to fame in Europe, not your soccer-playing skills. I propose that you stoke that image here and reap the benefits.” Half of Simon’s brain felt relief at what Evan proposed.
After all, it’s what he’d planned from the get-go with this move. But the other half rebelled at the image of himself that Evan painted. A dilettante. A loser. A failure.
He dragged in a breath to clear his head of his father pointing a finger at him. “What about Brett?”
“What about him?” Evan flipped open a carved wood box and withdrew two cigars. “He gets half his wish—butts in seats at the Waves games and ringing cash registers at the souvenir stores.”
“What if he releases me if I don’t perform up to standards?”
“Who gives a shit? We have an iron-clad contract, baby. He owes you those millions whether you play out your contract or not.”
He gave a shit. He’d never been fired from a club yet.
Sure, Coach Heinrich had booted him from the starting roster, but he would’ve never removed him from the club.
He’d bollocksed his way through that humiliation, and the humiliation of being demoted from the first string National team, but could he weather this? Would his charm, good looks, and money be enough to carry him through a failure with a second-rate U.S. club?
Failure. The word reverberated in his head like a bowling ball dropping in an echo chamber. Gnawing on the inside of his cheek, he stared out Evan’s window. And what about Jessica? What did she expect from him, a rollicking good-time bloke, or a man she could respect?
“Cigar to seal the deal?” Evan held out a sweetsmelling cigar in one hand and a pair of silver clippers in the other.
Simon escaped the embrace of the soft, comfortable chair, almost knocking it to the floor. He snatched the cigar from Evan’s fingers and shoved it into his breast pocket. “I’ll take it for later, mate.”
Simon flung open the office door and clicked it shut behind him.
Evan snipped off the end of his cigar and ran the tightly rolled tobacco beneath his nose. Simon, The Boss, Bosford had more surfaces than that twelve-carat squarecut diamond he just bought Gina.
When he first met with Simon in Germany, they had identical goals—create the same image for him in the States that he enjoyed in Europe and capitalize on it for the bigger and better monetary gains. What happened to sway him from that shining beacon of light? Roger Brett? Just because the old man had different expectations of his star soccer player didn’t mean squat.
On the five-hour plane ride back from Hawaii, Evan decided not to let Brett control his modus operandi. They had to strike while the iron was smokin’ hot, and right now that iron sizzled for The Boss. Who cares if he could play soccer? That sport would never reach the same level of popularity in the U.S. it commanded elsewhere in the world, no matter how many Peles, Bests, and Beckhams the MLS
dragged into the picture.
No, The Boss was pure gold off the pitch. Why wait until public interest waned? He was hot property now, and Evan had to make sure he stayed that way until he could bleed that popularity dry. Simon could always retire on the proceeds, if he didn’t gamble, drink, or whore them all away.
And he had just the tool at his disposal.
Obviously, Simon didn’t have a clue that his own personal gofer, Jessica Jones, was Roger Brett’s daughter, and he seemed mighty interested in protecting her. Ha! That woman needed protection about as much as a great white shark in a kiddie pool.
He’d been livid when she went against direct orders and splashed Simon Bosford all over the tabloids. Poor girl, just couldn’t help herself. He’d read about her own wild and crazy exploits but was willing to use her to get to Roger Brett. Now that he had Killer all signed, sealed, and delivered to the Condors, he didn’t need Brett anymore.
That arrogant bastard got on his nerves anyway. Evan Chase didn’t come this far to take orders from some Yale man with a silver spoon up his ass.
Now he had other uses for Jessica. As long as she kept The Boss on the tabloid covers and off the soccer pitch, Evan
would keep her employed. Could he count on her to convince Simon to take the road littered with easy money? Because it would seem that boy needed convincing.
That handsome face of his had formed into some hard lines when Evan dissed his soccer playing abilities. Who knew? Simon had given him a different impression at their first meeting. Yeah, he just might need some weapons in his arsenal to make Simon see the world through dollar signs, like he did.
Someone rapped on his door, and he dropped his cigar where it rolled to the floor. “Shit. Come in.” Megan poked her head into the room. “Evan, can I come in?”
He waved her in, forgetting about his cigar, as she sashayed into the office, leading with her brand new storeboughts.
She’d used the money he paid her for getting Jessica Brett onboard wisely.
His mouth watered momentarily as his gaze skimmed her shapely legs on display in her short skirt. Too short for the office.
“Hold that thought.” He ducked under his desk to retrieve his cigar. He valued his balls, and Gina would serve them to him on a silver platter, make that a Tiffany platter, if he strayed. Besides he couldn’t afford a sexual harassment lawsuit, and Megan, with her bright, darting eyes and grasping hands wouldn’t hesitate to use anything in her power to get ahead.
He grabbed the cigar and settled back in his leather chair. “What can I do for you, Megan?”
“It’s not what you can do for me, Evan, at least not right away, but what I can do for you.”
“What does that mean?” The blood drained from his head to his crotch, and he frowned to make sure she knew her invitation fell on barren ground.
“I couldn’t help overhearing a bit of your conversation with Simon Bosford.” She perched on the edge of his desk and crossed her legs.
“Is listening at keyholes in your job description?”
“I had some filing to do in the cabinets outside your office door.” She fluttered her eyelashes.
He swallowed as his gaze drifted to Gina’s picture on his desk. Sure, she looked happy now... “And, what’s your point?”
“I think I might have just the leverage you need to give Simon that little nudge to your way of handling his career.”
“I’m all ears.” This one had talons but if she could deliver Simon, he’d reward her generously.
“May I?” She gestured toward the chair Simon had just vacated, and he waved her into it. Anything would be better than watching her swing her leg back and forth.
She plopped down into the chair and leaned forward, displaying way too much cleavage for the office. Didn’t he have a dress code?
“Go on.” He found the refreshing slap he needed when his gaze lit on Gina’s picture.
“Well, I was at a club the other night...” Chapter Twelve
Sweat dripped off the end of Simon’s nose as he leaned forward, grasping his thighs. His hamstrings ached as he squatted, extending his leg to the side to stretch the muscle. Heart hammering in his chest, he breathed deeply through his nose and exhaled out his mouth to avoid a stitch. A smile pulled at his parched lips. God, he felt good.
Alvarez jogged by on his way to snag a water.
“Awesome goal, Simon.”
“Brilliant pass, mate.” The Waves had a lot of talent.
After the first few days of practice this week, he couldn’t fathom why they had a losing record. And then he figured it out. They needed a team leader. Individually each man played a great game, but the teamwork concept got lost among the acrobatics. Did he have it in him to fill the gap?
Evan’s words had hit a nerve. They did more than hit a nerve. They poked and prodded at a fleshy wound that never scabbed over no matter how much money his agent plastered over it to staunch the trickle of blood.
He wanted to play soccer like he did when he first started with London United. No, not like that—all flash, all posing, sort of like Ivo. He wanted to be The Boss again, the footballer who’d led the English National team to its first World Cup victory in over forty years.
But at his age, he’d have to work hard to get there.
He’d have to give up the late nights, the partying, the booze, the women. Not that there’d been many women since he’d arrived in the States. Just Jessica.
He froze in mid-stretch. He’d have to give up Jessica, or rather she’d dump him. She’d soon grow tired of the early bedtimes, dull evenings at home, and the smell of muscle cream.
He hadn’t had the time or the energy to accompany her out on the town this week, except for one night—and he paid for that night dearly the next day at practice. She’d agreed to meet him for lunch today, but how long could he keep her happy with lunch?
“Hey, Boss, can you run that last play with me again?” Zikomo stood over him, tugging on his goalie gloves. “If I can stop that ball curling into the corner of the net, I can stop anything.”
“Sure.” Massaging his calf, Simon hoisted himself up from the grass. “If I tell you which way it’s coming, you’ll get it bang on. But during a game you’re not going to know which way it’s coming, and you might guess wrong. I’ll show you a trick that will guarantee your guess is right sixty percent of the time.”
He scooped up a sports drink from the cooler and chugged half of it down before screwing the top back on and tossing it to Franco on the sidelines.
Franco narrowed his eyes and nodded as he watched him jog back to the goal with Zikomo. Simon could tell Franco liked what he saw this week. Would he send a favorable report to Brett? Would Simon have to choose between pleasing Jessica or her father?
He tossed the ball to Alvarez and instructed him to feed him the pass. Simon curled the ball into the corner as Zikomo lunged in the other direction. Zikomo made the wrong choice.
Would he?
***
Jessica scrunched down in her SUV as, one-by-one, the players filed out of the side door of the brand spanking new stadium her father built. A few fans clustered around the exit to nab autographs, although nowhere near the numbers that gathered for the Condors.
The Waves held open practices, and she’d snuck into the nosebleed section to take a peek. She didn’t want to be recognized now that the players knew the identity of the silent partner. Not that Dad commanded the media attention of a Donald Trump with the attendant frenzy over his personal life, loves, and children. She hadn’t appeared in a publicity photo with her father for many years, although his name had come up when she married Jimmy.
Dad generated very little buzz on the gossip pages, except when he’d married Joanna, a supermodel, before the media had even coined the term. The press relegated Dad’s exploits to the business page, and that’s the way he liked it.
A whoop rose from the crowd, and she peered over the dashboard at a clutch of people closing in on Simon. He had more fans than anyone else, and her foray into the stadium explained why.
She didn’t know much about soccer, but she recognized athletic grace when she saw it. Forget poetry in motion, the man’s fluid moves on the soccer pitch more clearly resembled a symphony in motion, or maybe a macho ballet dancer, although she wouldn’t mention that to him.
He chatted with his fans easily as he signed autographs. The male fans even out-numbered the female ones. In that little boy hero-worship for great jocks some men never outgrew, they stood in awe of superior athletic talent. And Simon had that in abundance.
It surprised her.
She expected an over-the-hill, gone to seed athlete past his prime, hoping to score some bucks on the endorsement circuit. She should’ve known better. She’d seen the man’s naked body up close and personal, and there was nothing seedy about it.
When the last of the fans wandered away, clasping their little bits of glory, Simon popped up for air. He spotted her car and waved. Then he hitched his bag over his shoulder and jogged over.
She powered down the window and jerked her thumb to the rear of the car. “It’s open.”
Simon lifted the hatch-back and tossed his bag inside.
He came around to the passenger side, slid in, and landed a kiss on her ear.
She wish he’d stop being so sweet. It made waging this campaign against him harder than if he epitomized the conceited, selfish athlete she first believed him to be when he’d sauntered off that plane. Wait. She’d convinced herself last night that encouraging him to party and raise hell would only benefit him in the long run. He’d said it himself. His best soccer-playing days were behind him. He wanted the easy dollar now.
Had that changed? Her gaze slid sideways as Simon shook out the tangled seatbelt. Those moves he’d executed during practice didn’t look like they belonged to a player past his prime. Maybe she should just quit CSM. Looked like her father would get exactly what he wanted out of Simon, as usual, but she didn’t have to help him. She’d find another way to get revenge for the whole CSM debacle.
Simon finally clicked the seatbelt into place. “Don’t have many passengers in this car, do you?”
“A few. How was practice?”
“Piece of cake. Did you have a chance to watch any of it? I didn’t see you in the stands.”
“I saw a little. Simon, I thought you came out here to make a name for yourself on the celebrity circuit, not to play soccer. Sure looked like you were working hard out there.”
“What, that?” A red flush whipped across his high cheekbones before his easy grin banished it. “Child’s play, luv.”
She released a small sigh before wheeling out of the parking lot. “That’s good, because I snagged us a couple of invites to the surprise party Nico Petrakos is throwing for his girlfriend in Malibu.”
“That’s brilliant. Should be a lot of press there, right?”
“Hordes.” She glanced at his profile, as he stared straight ahead. “Nico’s girlfriend loves publicity even more than you. Making sure the paparazzi is on hand for the event is half his gift to her.”
“Sounds great. Where to for lunch?”
“The Ivy? Koi?”
“I don’t think so.” He plucked his t-shirt from his chest and let it snap back. “I’m not dressed for the public eye.”
Kick It Up Page 17
