Winning the Game

by Leesa Bow

  “Ian has already met Ingrid and Tori. Both have experience working with clients on our reality shows. Ladies, please meet Mr Rhett Williams. He’ll be the star of our newest show, Contest … if he signs with us.”

  I nod once at Ingrid and hold out my hand for her to shake. “Nice to meet you, Ingrid.” When I step in front of Tori, our eyes lock, and again I’m drawn in, reality slipping as I imagine looking into those portals when she loses control. “Tori,” I say, a touch too eager. Jesus, I sound like a horny teenager, and I blame my bloody abstinence for my reaction. Our hands touch. Sparks shoot to my core, surprising me. Tori yanks her hand from mine.

  Something about her fascinates me. The moment is interrupted when Grant’s voice snaps me back to where I am, and why I’m here.

  “Dale and I would appreciate it if you could read over the contract, and make a note of the legal obligations, including the small print,” Grants says. I tear my gaze from Tori. Grant pushes paperwork and a pen across the table toward me.

  I pick up the contract and attempt to read the front page, but my eyes keep finding Tori.

  Back straight, she stands beside Ingrid near Grant’s desk. She doesn’t offer another glance but it doesn’t matter. Tori will have to look at me sooner or later if we’re to work together.

  “So I take this home and read over it tonight?”

  “You have time for your lawyer to read over it if need be. Have it back to me by end of business Wednesday.”

  TORI

  Every cuss word I can think of pops into my head, cursing Ingrid for convincing me to take on this client. He’s not just any client. Standing at least six foot five, with broad shoulders and strong arms, I can only imagine the perfect definition under his blue, button-up shirt. His golden skin reminds me of a surfer.

  He’s a football player, not a surfer.

  His tall, athletic, warrior-like body defines him. Yet his blond hair and ocean-blue eyes lean toward the latter. He reminds me of a certain blond surfer I met in the Bahamas. When Rhett’s gaze roamed over my body when I first walked into the room, I reacted, my nipples peaking against my bra. I’m angry I allowed myself to feel something physical for a client. Ingrid had already drilled me on Rhett’s background, said I’m the perfect person to manage someone like him.

  Someone like him.

  The door to my office opens, and I jump.

  “So, what do you think?” Ingrid looks smitten, leaning against the doorframe.

  “About our client?”

  Ingrid tilts her head at me. “Come on, Tor. We both know Mr-Fuck-Now-Think-Later affects everyone, and he’s your client. Reckon even Grant had an orgasm seeing how pretty he is for a guy.”

  I want to snort but I keep a straight face. “We deal with beautiful people every day.”

  “Not like him. Oh man, those eyes. He could undress you with one look.”

  I close down my computer and retrieve my purse from the locked drawer. “Must’ve been difficult for you to concentrate in the meeting thinking about him naked.”

  “It’s why Grant has you working with him. I’d let him fuck me the first meeting, and I can’t afford to lose my job, not with us both up for promotion at the end of the year.” I glance up at Ingrid. She has her own way of reminding me not to fail. And we both know she’s happy in her relationship with Brent. “Besides, I didn’t say anything about him being naked. Grant picked you for a reason. Try not to blow it.”

  “No chance. I want this promotion more than anything,” I say sincerely. But not truthfully about how my body responded to Rhett.

  “Yeah, but Rhett Williams has some sort of magic. He’s bloody Thor, that’s what he is. Good luck with that.” Ingrid opens the door. “I’m here if you need me, okay?”

  I nod before she leaves me to think about her words. If Ingrid and Grant believe in me, then I can make the bloody world love the bad guy. It shouldn’t be hard, because he looks like a freakin’ angel, for god’s sake. And I know better than to trust hormones. I read his background sheet, and the list of women he’s associated with sets alarm bells ringing.

  Work with him for six weeks. Dig into his private life, and find if the womanising, arrogant bastard has a soul, and then bare it for the world to see. All I have to do is wear a damn blindfold.

  TORI

  Monday morning I spring to my feet, pens scattering across my desk, on hearing a knock at the door. I know who it is. I’ve been mentally preparing myself for the meeting since I opened my eyes at four thirty this morning.

  Sure enough, Rhett’s there, his large, athletic frame taking up most of the door space. “Tori.” The sound of my name on his tongue has my thoughts wandering, and not the kind I should be thinking, especially with a client.

  “Morning, Mr Williams. Please address me as Victoria. Only my friends call me Tori.”

  Rhett eyes me quizzically yet says nothing. A smart move, surprisingly. After closing the door behind him I follow him into the room and watch curiously as he takes in my office space. His gaze darts from the lounge chairs in the corner, to the coffee machine near the wall, and finally lands on the vase of peonies on my desk. I can’t help feeling he’s assessing me, when he’s supposedly the one to be cross-examined. I point to the chair opposite for him to sit.

  “Why is your football contract important to you?” I ask, sitting and picking up a pen without a glance his way. To remain professional I need to avoid his baby-blues as much as possible.

  After a few seconds, I look up from my notebook. At first, I think he doesn’t hear me. His sour expression tells me otherwise, and it pushes me to press on. “I believe you do want to play football, Mr Williams?”

  “What has any of it got to do with you coaching me to say the right things on the damn show?”

  I offer him a small smile, one that implies I understand his apprehension. “There’s a series of questions I need to ask you, and I expect you to answer truthfully. For me to mentor you, and for you to perform on the set with confidence, I require personal information. You may not like the questions I ask, and you may not like me …” I shrug one shoulder as though it’s irrelevant. “Regardless, this is protocol, and for me to help you as best I can, I need honesty. We don’t have to like each other for me to do my job, but you have to cooperate. Period.”

  “I have to cooperate with you?” he says with defiance.

  After reading his notes earlier this morning, and learning a little about his history, I ignore the first impression that I’m dealing with a child. “Yes,” I say flatly.

  “Do you always follow protocol? Do what you’re told?” The way his eyes twinkle under the lights I sense he’s baiting me, but I’m not going to play his game.

  “Yes. Now, can we get on with the session? We only have an hour to—”

  “Why? Why do you always follow rules? I can tell there’s something stuck up your rear, and if you’d only relax a bit I’m sure you’d be a lot more fun to work with.” He grins at me as though he’s told a joke.

  My pen hits the desk and bounces.

  His eyebrows pinch, then he folds his arms. “Want to explain what that was about?”

  I sit back, while forcing the thoughts of my miserable high school days out of my head. “Not really.”

  For years I’d blocked out the hurt, even studied by correspondence rather than attend a university.

  I take a deep breath. “Nothing. This isn’t about me, and I’d rather you not waste time with juvenile comments.”

  “You think I’m wasting your time? I apologise, Victoria, if I’m not in the practice of telling a stranger my business. You should know it takes time to build trust.”

  It is one thing I do know, since I trust very few people in the world. It’s a big ask for him to confide in me so early in the program, but we have little time to prepare for the show. I’m staring at his beautiful face, the rawness in his expression. “Yes, of course, but I need you to understand I’m on your team.” His eyes widen and lock with mine.
“What I want is for the audience to see the man standing before them stripped of his protective armour. The softer side of a man not in uniform.” His expression relaxes. I must have said something right.

  We exchange a long stare.

  “I’ll make you a deal,” he says. “I’ll answer your questions if you’re honest with me. And since you get to know everything about me it’s only fair I get the same from you. Tit for tat. The best way to build trust.”

  My heart misses a beat at the thought of Rhett Williams wanting to get to know me better. Most girls know where that would lead, and I need to be mindful of my accountability as his mentor. It reminds me to draw the line neither of us can cross.

  “As much as your interest in my business flatters me, Mr Williams, we don’t have the time. I’ll remind you I’m not the one going in front of the camera in a matter of days. And if you’re serious, as your manager says you are, about keeping your football contract then it’s best we get to work. So, back to my question … Why is your contract so important to you?” Satisfied with my reaction I lean back and wait for him to respond.

  He rolls up the sleeves of his sky-blue shirt once on each arm, and I notice how it highlights the hue of his eyes even more. My gaze scans over him. Snug jeans. Designer shoes. Clean with no signs of scuffing. A good sign. Then our gazes collide once more and he’s eyeing me quizzically.

  “Make time,” he challenges. “Have a drink with me after work. I assume you don’t sleep here, Victoria?”

  I roll my eyes. “Of course not.” Although some days it feels like I do.

  “Tit for tat. Agree to have drinks with me, or even dinner, and I’ll tell you everything you need for your show.”

  “I do not need to agree to anything. You’ve signed a contract. I’m curious why you would do that when I’m getting the vibe you’re against the idea?”

  His fingers rap, making light sounds on the leather armrest. “Didn’t have a choice, really.”

  Interesting. “Everyone has a choice. By your notes I see you’ve made some questionable ones.”

  Those blue eyes narrow. “You think you already know me? So go with what you have and save us both some time.”

  “I only know your type.” I throw him a discerning glance before flicking through the pages Ingrid delivered last night. Newspaper articles and photo clippings, some in precarious positions. Both of us know this information isn’t enough. I want to know why he’d risk everything he values, including his dignity, for a night of fun. And if I’m the least bit curious, then so are millions of viewers who watch reality television. I drop my pen, losing patience, yet challenged to make Contest a success. I glance up, and my heart skips a beat at the way he’s staring, no, glaring at me.

  His eyes are now the dark shade of a storm. He pushes up from the chair and stalks to my desk. I lean away, not sure what he has in mind, and raise a solitary hand. “What are you doing?” Rhett leans over so both his hands land on the chair arms either side of me. The chair swivels so I’m caged between bars of muscle. I’m shocked into silence. When he speaks its low, controlled, and matter of fact.

  “Let’s get something straight. You don’t know me, and I don’t have a type.”

  I flinch at the disgust in his tone. Did I say that out loud? I stare back into those piercing eyes, drawing me in one minute and lasering me the next. I swallow hard. “I’m sorry,” I rasp out. “I didn’t mean for it to come out the way it sounded.”

  He gives me one last look in warning before pushing away, and my chair moves back slightly. “Whatever.” He stalks back to the chair opposite my desk.

  No one has ever confronted me that way.

  I want to say, ‘You can’t do that to me,’ because isn’t there some rule about getting up in your boss’s face and turning her thoughts to mush? Even so it would be void, since I’ve already established Rhett doesn’t play by the rules. I offended him, so it’s up to me to make the first amendment, despite how fast my heart is racing. “I mean it, I’m sorry. It was unprofessional.” He gives a curt nod. “May I say, though, if I have misjudged you then the audience will also. Unless you allow me to assist you in portraying the real you, and not the guy they’ve read about in the media.”

  He crosses his legs and leans back in the chair. His gaze levels with mine once more. “I need my football contract because it’s all I know,” he says dryly.

  I enter the information into his file on my computer. “Meaning?”

  “I was drafted at seventeen and left home. I lived two hours away. When I arrived in Adelaide, I stayed with a host family for my first year as a rookie. Then one of the players took me under his belt. I learned some good and bad habits from him. For the past ten years I’ve lived and breathed football. I know nothing else. The city, the players, the fans, they’re my second family. If I lose my contract with the Blackbirds, I could be drafted elsewhere. But Adelaide is close to my mum and brothers. I don’t get to visit them often, and if I moved interstate I’d see them less. They need me to come home to help when I can, so moving elsewhere is out of the question.”

  My fingers pause on the keys. I ask the nest question, ready to enter his answer into his file. “They need your help? How? And how often do you get home?”

  “My family is off-topic, and I’m not going to argue with you on this.”

  “Okay. So do you mind me asking what they think of all this?”

  “Yes, I mind.”

  The seriousness in his eyes makes me even more curious. I make a note without dwelling, as there are other questions requiring answers in the short time we have together. “Have you ever thought about a career change?”

  “Nope.”

  “Does the club offer training in other fields?”

  “Yeah, I have other qualifications. At this stage, I’m not ready to use those qualifications.” I open my mouth to ask what they are but he doesn’t give me a chance. “Next question.”

  There’s more to Rhett Williams than he’s disclosing. Maybe it’s a trust issue.

  Leaning my elbows on the desk, I hold his gaze. “I want to delve further into how you’d react if you lost your contract. More, how it would make you feel and what you would do to keep it.”

  “That’s obvious. I’m here aren’t I?”

  “Yes, Mr Williams, you are, but it doesn’t help me. I want you to analyse your emotions, feel the regret or no regret, backtrack your life the past five years and think about every decision you made that led to where you are today. It’s going to take some time, and a lot of energy. Tonight I have four questions. I want you to think about each one and answer it truthfully, with as much detail as possible. It’s important to answer the first without looking at the following question, as it might sway your answer. Tomorrow we’ll discuss your answers. Then I’ll give you another four questions.”

  The printer dings. I collect the questions from the tray and secure the pages in a folder before handing it to him. He follows me to the door. “I’ve included files about the network, and some other topics of interest. Please make note of the rules. Peruse them at your leisure over the next couple of days.”

  There’s a hint of a smile. “Thanks. So, same time tomorrow?”

  “Yes, Mr Williams, same time.”

  He hesitates at the door. “Another thing. I prefer to be called Rhett, and if we’re going to be meeting regularly, I’d like to call you Tori. It sounds less … stiff.” He smiles nervously as though he’s said the wrong thing.

  “Fine. I’ll see you tomorrow.” I close the door and let out a long breath, rolling my head from side to side to ease the tension in my neck. Finally, I can breathe freely again.

  RHETT

  Rules. You have to be fucking kidding me.

  *No partying in public places.

  *No attending nightclubs.

  *No dating women outside the show.

  *No alcohol or banned substances in public.

  Do they think I’m an adolescent struggling with self-contr
ol? Tossing the booklet aside, I pace to my living-room window, taking in the sprawling lights of Adelaide below. Usually, the view helps calm me. Tonight I doubt anything will rid me of the gnawing pain in my gut. I pick up my phone and call Ian.

  “This is bullshit.”

  “Mate, I’ve been told to say ‘it’s in your best interest.’ I can’t give you any other advice.”

  “It’s an embarrassment, that’s what it is. To me, the club, to you …”

  Ian pauses before he responds. “The board wanted you to see a psychologist independent of the club. They want you to be accountable for your actions. Over the past two years you’ve made some unprofessional decisions and not considered how the aftermath will affect the club, yourself, and me. This show is about repairing your image. The club’s image.”

  “The shrink would’ve been less humiliating. What if it all turns to shit, and I say the wrong thing on national television? Surely there are other ways …” I run a hand over my head.

  “The club’s willing to take the risk. They expect you to follow protocol, and if you do the right thing then everyone will back you. If you don’t then the onus falls on you, not the club. Look, it might sound like you’re in the firing line, but do what’s expected and you’ll be re-signed.”