by Holly Hart
Tackle
Holly Hart
Red Cape Romance
Contents
Copyright
1. Diana
2. Alex
3. Diana
4. Alex
5. Diana
6. Alex
7. Diana
8. Alex
9. Diana
10. Alex
11. Diana
12. Diana
13. Alex
14. Diana
15. Alex
16. Diana
17. Alex
18. Diana
19. Alex
20. Diana
21. Alex
22. Diana
Epilogue Part One
Epilogue Part Two
Epilogue Part Three
Copyright © 2016 by Holly Hart
All rights reserved.
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1
Diana
"Lopez, get your ass over here."
I looked up guiltily from my computer, which had timed out and was now fading the WBC Sports logo in and out on the screen. I turned to my right and looked at my friend Chloe questioningly. She shrugged, as baffled as I was. Grant Adams, WBC Sports' producer, and the tyrant who ran this station with an iron fist, shouldn't know my name. Hell, I didn't even realize he knew that us first-year employees existed at all.
"Coming, sir," I replied quaveringly, and hurriedly shuffled papers out of the way to find the notebook I knew lay somewhere beneath the messy stack.
"In your own goddamn time," he grumbled loudly to himself before sitting back down in his glass-walled office, doing nothing to help the sense of foreboding that was growing like a cancer in my stomach. I grabbed the notebook, cursing the fact that I'd covered the front with love-struck doodles, and hurried over towards the shiny glass box he called an office.
I had good reason to be nervous – the only reason I'd ever heard of people getting summoned to Grant's office was if they were about to be fired, or at the very least chewed out within an inch of their life. Chloe shot me the kind of apologetic look I imagined crowds might give to the victim of an unjust public hanging – the kind of look that says: I'm sorry, but there's nothing I can do.
I didn't blame her, she was just a first-year, same as me, and she was right – there was nothing she could do. I racked my brain trying to figure out what it was that I might have done to deserve a meeting with Grant, but couldn't. The only things I'd been sent out to cover so far were human interest stories, silly pieces about a minor league baseball team's new pet pig, or the eleven-year-old running back who'd had a thousand-yard season. Nothing, as far as I could tell, that was grounds for a firing.
Then again, Grant Adams had a fierce reputation for getting rid of reporters on a whim. Sometimes he didn’t even need even so much as that…
"Sit down," he barked gruffly, pointing out one of the two chairs which sat in front of his desk. There were two of them – a comfortable, padded brown leather chair and an uncomfortable black folding chair. He was famous for it within the station, and even though I knew exactly what he was doing – attempting an unabashed power play – it had the desired effect. I was nervous as hell.
"You wanted to see me, sir?" I ventured anxiously after a few seconds of silence.
"What's your first name, Lopez?"
Damn, that's cold.
I supposed that he didn't want to fire me without at least learning my name, but that knowledge didn't make replying any easier – in fact, quite the opposite. It felt like I was handing my executioner his axe.
"Diana, Mr. Adams," I replied, my voice choking.
"What's wrong with you, girl?" he grumbled, shutting down my case of nerves with nothing more than a sharp bark. He continued without pausing. "You don't look very Mexican to me."
I had to give him full marks for paying attention – he was quite right, although my mottled sea-green eyes and startlingly blonde hair were probably enough of a giveaway on that front.
"Not really, no," I stammered.
"Why the hell are you in my office then?" he said dismissively.
"I'm sorry, Mr. Adams, but you're the one who you called me in here…" I said in a rebellious tone of voice that was perhaps brought on by a rush of blood to my head that had started the moment I'd begun to suspect that I wasn't in his office to be fired.
He fixed me with a sharp, challenging look. "Cocky," he said with a vulpine smile. "I like that. What kind of name is Lopez, then?"
What the hell is going on?
"Uh," I stammered, "do I have to tell you?" I didn't want to if I could avoid it. I didn't like to think about the fact that I was an orphan at the best of times, even if I'd been brought up by a family that could have been on a poster campaign for the foster care community. And frankly, I didn't see why my boss needed to know.
"Depends," he said, "on whether you speak Spanish or not."
I still had absolutely no idea where this was going, but at least it was moving towards more comfortable territory. "Un poco." I smiled.
"I speak un poco Spanish," he said dismissively, "and I'm not looking for someone who can only speak a little. If you can't speak it, then get out of my office."
I was slowly but surely beginning to catch on to the reason I was in Mr. Adams' office – I was auditioning for an assignment. My mind went into overdrive as I tried to figure out what it could be. Perhaps, I imagined happily, crossing my fingers, I'd be sent down to Mexico to follow the progress of that country's preparation for the soccer World Cup. That seemed to be a reasonable enough explanation.
I could only hope that I was right, and that I wasn't just being sent to interview the non-English speaking parents of a high school Latino kid expecting to make it in the college draft. Not that that couldn't be fun, but I just couldn't imagine that someone like Grant Adams would be getting involved in something quite so mundane. At least, I hoped not.
"I'm fluent," I said, deciding that my best option with the short-tempered man sitting in front of me in a far more comfortable chair would be to say as little as possible – less if I could help it.
"Excellent," he murmured to himself, barely seeming aware of my presence, "and if I'm not wrong, you'll test well."
Test well?
I kept my mouth shut as Mr. Adams deliberated to himself, assuming correctly that nothing I could say would help my case with a man who had thirty years experience in the sports casting game. If anything, I was more likely to shoot myself in the foot.
"Do you know who Alejandro Rodriguez is?" he asked, looking directly at me with a piercing stare. I felt like I was interviewing for my job again, but this time it was a whole hell of a lot harder.
"Alejandro Carlos Mateo Rodriguez?" I said, using the soccer player's full name. I was going to have to play this carefully because I didn't know a whole lot more than I'd briefly read in the gossip pages on the subway that morning. "The soccer player?"
; "One and the same," he said. "Do you play soccer? It's a woman's sport, right?"
He said it swiftly and dismissively, as though he didn't care how I'd receive a comment that was, objectively, sexist. I felt the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end as I realized that… he didn't. And why should he? After all, he was America's most prominent sports producer, and he hadn't aired so much as a minute's coverage of women's sports in the entire time I'd been at the station. As far as he was concerned, the only point in hiring women at all was to increase the male viewership… It wasn't exactly an uncommon view.
I chose to ignore the second half of his comment. "I did," I agreed. "Two years in college – then I blew out my knee."
"So you know the rules?" he replied, looking interested for the first time. I nodded. "Great," he muttered to himself again. "Saves me having to send one of the guys."
Again, I kept my mouth shut, even though I wanted to ball my hand into a fist and launch my arm towards his lined, condescending face. As satisfying as that would no doubt be, I knew it was the quickest way to put me out of a job, and by the sounds of things, I was about to get a promotion – of sorts.
"You want me to interview him?" I ventured curiously after a few seconds of awkward silence. I wasn't sure whether this was another of Grant's power moves or whether – more likely – he just kept forgetting I was in the room at all.
"No," he said with irritation. "Do you have a boyfriend, Miss Lopez?" he asked, changing the topic so quickly it left my head spinning.
What, he wants to date me now?
"Um, no?" I replied cautiously. With a guy this sexist, and more than anything – full of himself, I couldn't rule out the possibility that he was going to try something on with me. It wasn't exactly unheard of in WBC's offices for attractive young women to sleep their way into the choicest positions. I had more than enough self-respect to have no intention of taking that path, but the last thing I wanted was to have to turn down a notoriously vindictive employer.
"Good. Speak to my secretary; she'll get the tickets sorted out."
"Tickets?" I echoed dumbly.
Grant looked up, irritated. "To Barcelona. Were you paying attention at all?"
I wanted to shout that I had been, that he simply hadn't actually explained what the hell he wanted me to do, but I think he knew that. I think he was testing me.
"How long am I going for?" I asked calmly, not bothering to rise to his antagonistic jibe. "Just so I know when to ask the return ticket to be booked for," I finished hastily. I was already cataloging my closet in my head, figuring out what I'd need to take for a few days in Barcelona in August. I cursed my fair skin, which ruled out shorts ever becoming a more important part of my wardrobe.
I was still lost in my head when he replied.
"Return ticket?" He smiled, clearly enjoying every second of our conversation. "I don't think you'll be needing one of those."
I laughed. "Oh, I'm moving out there, am I?"
He nodded. The smile fled my face the second I realized he wasn't joking. I gulped.
"How else do you expect to report on Alejandro Rodriguez for us?"
I swallowed hard. "I’ll do you proud, Mr Adams."
"Be sure that you do." Grant said as I neared the exit to his office. "And Diana?"
"Yes, sir?" I replied, casting my boss an inquisitive look as I turned back from the door.
"Don’t sleep with the boy, whatever happens."
I left the office with my ears burning, and my face flushed a heated red. As if he’d had the gall to say that! Like there was any chance of that happening. No. Hell no! I was a professional, after all.
2
Alex
I hollered with excitement to an audience of – well, just me – as the dry Spanish countryside flashed by through either tinted window."Alex, you dog, you've fucking nailed it."
My foot slammed down hard on the gas gunning the engine of my brand-new Audi sports car – a gift from my latest sponsor. A month ago, the only sponsors’ names I'd had embroidered on my training kit were a couple of supplements companies and a Thai energy drink. Apparently being signed by Barcelona, the world's biggest soccer club, was like getting a turbo boost when it came to picking up endorsements. I had no doubt, though, that my movie star good looks were the main reason that my phone had been ringing off the hook for weeks. It was getting to the point where I knew I was going to have to pick up a management agency to deal with the hassle for me.
Running with the ball at my feet was what I was good at – not this. Still, the idea of handing over a percentage of my earnings to someone just so they could answer the phone for me rankled more than a little bit. I didn't see why some leech should get rich on the back of my handsome face, ripped body and skill with a ball.
I laughed to myself as I looked through the windshield at what lay before me. "Relax, Alex," I chuckled, "even you’re going to struggle to spend five million bucks a year."
Press photographers lined the street outside the entrance to the training ground, which was located where the city met the suburbs to the west of the sea. I made sure to roll down my window and smile as I passed them. No doubt their incessant hounding would get tiresome in due course, but while it was still new to me I was sure as hell going to enjoy it.
"Hola," I said again and again over the loud gurgling of the V8 engine in front of me, greeting the assorted throngs of paparazzi that were baying to take my photo, some now spilling out onto the road in front of me in their eagerness to get the shot that would adorn the front page of the city's newspaper the next morning.
"Alejandro, Alejandro – aqui!"
I wished they'd just call me Alex, but I guessed that there wasn't much chance of that now that I was living in Spain. Sure, I was half Colombian, but it was the half American in me that I identified with most. I guessed it was unlikely that these guys would see it the same way.
I raised my hands apologetically and revved the engine gently in warning. Much as I enjoyed getting my photo taken, I was in a hurry – it'd been far too long since I'd had a soccer ball at my feet, and I was beginning to get antsy.
For me, playing was like a drug – when I had a ball at my feet, the world felt small, manageable and controllable. I was good – damn good, in fact, and I knew it. When I wasn’t playing, that's when little things like being stuck in the middle of the pack of rabid photographers began to irritate me. On the field, my head was cool, calm and clear. Off it, I wasn't always so composed.
This – being signed by Barcelona, the free car, the legions of press angling to interview me – none of it had happened by chance. The moment the video of me scoring a dozen goals in a single game in a competitive inter-college match had gone viral three months ago was the moment I'd known for sure I was going to make it to the big leagues. But I'd been confident for years because I knew one fact to be absolutely certain – I'd never played against anyone better than me. In fact, I was pretty sure there wasn't anyone better than me – in the States at least.
Barcelona, hell Europe as a whole, was a different story entirely. The club was the spiritual home of soccer, and at the moment, it was undeniably the best club in the world. Coming off the back of an unprecedented third successive campaign in the Europe-wide Champions League, national league champions, this was the club everyone wanted to be at.
And here I was, ready to test myself against the best players in the world. If only, I thought, my temper beginning to smolder, the goddamn press would get out my way.
"Hey," I shouted, sticking my head out the window, "clear the damn road – I'm trying to get to training."
The assorted pack babbled in Spanish and another half dozen different European languages but made no visible attempt to get out of my way.
I made their decision for them.
I put the car into fifth gear, leaving the handbrake on, and revved up the engine, sending the needle straight into the red zone. The tires spun aimlessly into the tarmac and rubber smoke billowed out
from underneath the sleek sports car’s chassis, sending the photographers scrambling in panic, chivvied along by the roaring of the powerful engine. As they reached the sidewalk, every single one turned their lenses towards me and started snapping.
I was left under no illusions as to what the front page would look like now…
"Alejandro, Alejandro." Barcelona's press officer sighed as I stepped out of the car, the scent of the smoke still clearly distinguishable above the background smells of a hot Spanish summer's day. "You cannot behave like that now you're a representative of this great club."
"Why the hell not?" I asked. "How the hell else was I supposed to make it into training?"
"With good grace," he replied – uselessly in my eyes. Good grace wasn't going to get me through a crowd of men whose livelihoods depended on snapping a photo of me – the more compromising the situation, the better. If Roberto, the tanned PR officer, thought that I was going to behave any differently, then he was very much mistaken. Just because I was a Barcelona player now didn't mean I was any different from the man I'd always been.
It came part and parcel. If they wanted me as a player, they'd have to accept me as a man. I played, and lived, on the edge. And I knew they wanted me as a player.
"Roberto," I said, "I'm late, aren't I?"
He nodded with a disapproving frown on his face. "Indeed."
"Wish me luck then," I said with an infectious grin on my face. As I started jogging towards the locker room, I noticed the small smile tugging at the corners of Roberto's mouth. He wasn't as grim and humorless as he seemed, after all.
Thankfully, I'd put my training kit on at the hotel in. Hell, I'd been wearing it more or less full-time since I got signed, so it was easy enough for me to creep into the locker room and stand behind the rest of the squad unnoticed.
At least, I thought I'd gone unnoticed.
