The Playbook

by Missy Johnson

  “YOU happened Jake," Serj retorts. The sneer in his tone makes me want to drive over there and punch him in the fucking face. "You are the reason this shit is going down. You got transferred to a lower ranking club and you are the reason you are now down by twenty K a week. I am the only reason you’re not down by forty K a week, okay?” He sighs, the annoyance in his voice obvious, like he is about to break at any moment.

  “Well, thanks then,” I say quietly. I can tell this isn't the time to be busting his chops, and I’m not stupid. I know he’s right. Whatever way you swing it, I had it good and I fucked it up. Story of my life.

  “Just don't be late. Please. And bring your A game.” He hangs up.

  I get to the Crystal Hill training ground at twelve thirty and spy Serj standing in the far back corner of the conference room. I raise my head in his direction in a gesture of hello. He notices me, reciprocates and walks over to me. My hands are shoved deep into my pockets as I avoid eye contact with anyone else but Serj. I don't want to be here, and I'm sure the feeling is mutual among the other players. I don’t even have to look at Murray to know he’s sneering at me.

  “Call a fucking press conference, Jake Tanner is early for something." Serj chuckles as I narrow my eyes at him. "I'm impressed, you even wore a tie,” he adds, a smirk on his face.

  “I'm bringing my A game like you said.”

  To be totally honest, I'm feeling pretty apprehensive about this whole thing. Nobody likes being the new guy, especially when they've been dumped from their previous club. I’m expecting hell over the next few weeks, because if I were in my new teammates’ shoes, I’d be making it my mission to make the new guy quit within the first week. I wish I'd pulled my head in more. I wish I'd listened to Serj all those times he warned me I was pushing too far. But I didn’t, and now I have to make the best of a bad situation.

  But none of that matters anymore. I'm determined to get through this the only way I know how. My way. I may feel like a scared little kid inside, but I'm not going to let on to anyone.

  Serj waves at someone behind me. I turn and see a gorgeous blonde walking in our direction. She smiles, and my cock hardens almost instantly.

  “Sorry darlin’, no autographs until after the show,” I say, winking at her. In my usual form, I assume it’s all about me. At least, I’m sure that’s what everyone thinks. The reality is, sometimes my cockiness is just a cover for my anxieties. Serj snorts next to me, and I shoot him a glare, annoyed at him for ruining my game. He shrugs, his eyes laughing and he gestures for me to continue. I smirk. Who knows. Maybe he’ll learn a thing or two. I turn my attention back to my distraction from reality just in time to see her roll her eyes.

  “Mr. Tanner." Her tone is cool as she arches her eyebrow, her heel clicking against the floor impatiently. "If you can please follow me I will show you to your seat.” Even unimpressed, her voice is like silk and it sends a shiver right down my cock.

  I follow her like a dog in heat, undressing her in my head. She says something to a passing cameraman and flashes him a smile, all the while I imagine those lips wrapped around my dick. I bet she could take it all in. And trust me when I say that's no easy feat.

  “Here is your seat Mr. Tanner," she says, directing me onto the small stage. "Will there be anything else you require? Her eyes lock onto mine and she raises an eyebrow, which I, of course, take as an invitation.

  I lean closer to her so that my lips are millimeters from hers. My fingers run along the edge of her face as I whisper into her ear, “Not right now, but if you come by my place later I'll show you what else I require.”

  I slip a piece of paper into her pocket with my number on it, sliding my finger out slowly. Her face flushes with color and just like that her cool, I-don't-give-a-shit exterior is blown.

  Just like she'll be doing to me later.

  As she walks away, she turns to look back at me, blushes again and then disappears into the crowd of reporters. Fuck! I'd nearly forgotten why I was here. As I sit in my seat, my arms crossed casually across my chest, I try and ignore the nerves building in my stomach. Here we go.

  I take a few deep breaths and wait for this circus to get underway.

  Chapter Three

  Abbey

  “Skinny Latte please, with a shot of caramel,” I say to the barista at my favorite coffee shop, Little Bella Café, whilst trying to subtly straighten out my dark skirt, handcraftedfrom Italian wool. I shift my feet, running my hand over the curve of my hip, uncomfortable at how clingy the damn fabric is. I’d spent half my pay on it the week before. But if it does what I need it to, then it’s worth it.

  “Sure thing, Abbey. Hey, you look nice today; what you all dressed up for? You got an interview or something?”

  I shiver, excited that he noticed. Apart from the amazing coffee, Adam is what keeps me coming back here every day. He brushes his wavy brown hair from his eyes, his lips curving into a grin that sends my heart racing. The only thing sexier than his smile is the little dimple that pops out whenever it appears.

  No interview. Just you.

  “Ah, just meeting up with friends after work,” I say, thinking on my feet. I’m already regretting not having a backstory prepared, especially with my habit of oversharing when I’m nervous. I’m a reporter, for god’s sake. I should be the queen of bluffing by now.

  After years of late study nights completing my degree, I finally landed my dream job last month with a respected monthly magazine. Well, dream job might be a little misleading, but it’s a step in the right direction. I’m a junior journalist at Over Eighties, the leading lifestyle magazine in the United Kingdom for people, you guessed it, over the age of eighty. I spend my days chasing riveting stories like “How to Make the Most of Your Pension,” and “Internet Dating” for our loyal readers. It’s hardly the hard-hitting journalism I want to be doing, but it pays the bills.

  “Oh yeah, where are you off to?” he asks, sounding genuinely interested.

  His question catches me off guard and I blush, because not one single place comes to mind. Shit. I really need to work on my cover skills. I rack my mind, trying to think of the name of the new bar Mel was raving on about.

  “Oh just that new place, Revive?” The words squeak out, and I’m already planning my escape. It’s strange how I count down the seconds every morning until I see Adam, and when I’m in front of him, I can’t wait to get away.

  “No way—I was heading there tonight with a few of the guys from here,” he says with a smile.

  My heart skips a beat. Seriously? Of all the places, I choose the one he’s heading to? I blush again which earns me a chuckle. I’m glad he finds my embarrassment amusing.

  “R-really?” I can't hide the fear in my voice. He has to be messing with me.

  “We were just talking about it, yeah,” he says casually, handing me my latte. “Maybe we could meet up for a drink?”

  Is he asking me out? My heart pounds. Trying to act all casual and non-committal, I take a big sip of my coffee and pretend to consider his offer—immediately regretting my decision as the boiling liquid burns my throat. Gasping, I lurch forward, expelling the hot coffee from my mouth and all over him. He stares back at me, wide-eyed, and mouth hanging open, no doubt in shock.

  “Shit! Sorry,” I gasp, horrified. “Adam, I'm so sorry. Shit, shit, shit.” I hold my hand over my mouth, my feet frozen to the ground.

  He stands there silently for a second, in his coffee-soaked shirt, until he finally bursts into laughter. I lift my gaze away from his chest, my eyes meeting his, pretending I didn’t notice the outline of his muscular chest through his damp shirt. I swallow past the lump in my throat, my face hot.

  “Geez, Abbey; my coffee isn't that bad, is it?!”

  Mortified I laugh, because it’s the only thing I can do. I toss a twenty down on the counter, grab what’s left of my drink and bolt, trying to ignore the chuckles rippling through the crowd of people waiting for their orders.

  I’m so embarras
sed. I walk down the street so fast that I somehow manage to trip over my own shoes and snap the heel on my best pair of shoes. This can’t be happening. I park my arse down on the dirty pavement and laugh. Can today get any worse? I down the rest of my coffee and toss the cup into a nearby trash can. The saddest thing is now I have to find a new coffee shop.

  My phone vibrates in my bag. Still sitting on the pavement, I fish it out and click answer.

  “Thank god,” I sigh, when I realize it’s Mel. “You will not believe what just happened.”

  “Abbey,” she sobs down the phone, “Can - can you come over?”

  “Are you okay?” I sit forward, my own problems now the last thing on my mind.

  “No,” she sobs. “Why are guys such assholes?”

  “I’m on my way,” I say. Consoling Mel after a bad date is becoming a bit of a habit. But it’s not really surprising, considering the type of guys she goes for. “I’ll pick up supplies on the way - any requests?”

  “Yeah a tub of the good stuff – Häagen-Dazs,” she sniffs down the phone. “Double chocolate. And if you want some, you’ll need your own tub.” Wow, this must be serious.

  I reach Mel’s house twenty minutes later. I’m still none the wiser as to exactly what’s going on, other than it being related to a guy. Which guy is anyone’s guess, considering she’s been out with a dozen in the last two weeks.

  If there were an opposite to me when it comes to relationships it would be Mel. She’s out nearly every night with a different guy, sometimes two. I’m lucky if I go out once a month. I use work as an excuse, but the truth is I’m scared of putting myself out there again, especially after how my last relationship ended. Not that you could really call it a relationship. When a guy refuses to be seen with you in public, it should be setting off all kinds of warning bells. I guess that’s why I’m so hard on Mel. It’s easy to see what mistakes are being made when you’re outside looking in.

  I walk inside without knocking, using the spare key Mel gave me last summer to feed her cat. I find her curled up on the couch, TV remote in one hand and a bag of open marshmallows in the other. It’s exactly how I expected to find her, which goes to show how well I know my friend.

  We met in our last year of high school after she stood up for me in front of a bunch of girls who decided to make it their mission to make my life hell. I couldn’t believe it when she came to my rescue, because we didn’t exactly run with the same crowd.

  Come to think of it, I didn’t exactly run with any crowd back then.

  “Must be serious,” I say with a wry smile. I lift her feet off the couch and slide myself under them. “What can I do?”

  “Tell me why I insist on making a fool of myself?”

  “Who is it this time?” I ask, leaning my head against the soft leather back of the sofa. Her stories only reinforce why I don’t date.

  “Asher Quinn,” she grumbles. “He kicked me out of his bed the second he was done because his girlfriend messaged him that she was on her way home.”

  “His girlfriend?” I repeat, choking on my words.

  She nods glumly. “How do I always pick them?”

  Because you go for status over anything else. I don’t say what I’m thinking because we’ve been through it so many times, and right now I can’t be bothered arguing with her. Mel might be blind when it comes to guys, but it doesn’t change the fact that, like most high-profile sportsmen under the age of thirty, Asher Quinn is a giant arse. That’s what too much money and not enough maturity does to you.

  “Someone really needs to put these idiots in their place,” Mel mutters, reaching for the tub of ice cream. She yanks the lid free and dives into it. “It’s like they have zero respect for women. I mean, forget about me; what about his girlfriend? That poor girl has no idea what she’s gotten herself into.”

  I’m only half listening to her because she is completely right. So many of these so-called role models have zero morals or respect when it comes to women. They need to be taught a lesson. And don’t get me started on the women who throw themselves at these idiots. As much as I hate to say it, how can you expect a guy to respect you when you don’t respect yourself? Aren’t you worth more than a quick fuck in the alleyway with a guy who doesn’t even bother to ask you your name?

  I hang around for another half hour, until Mel’s ego seems to have healed enough for me to leave her alone—at least until the next time she gets herself in the same situation.

  “You sure you’re okay?” I ask, giving her a hug. She nods and smiles, leading me to the door.

  “I’ll be fine once my ego recovers. Thanks for coming over, Abs. I really appreciate it.”

  “I’m always here for you,” I say, squeezing her hand. “Call me tomorrow, okay?”

  She waves me off from the front porch as I jump in my old Ford Focus. I shove the key in the ignition and turn it on. It starts first time, which doesn’t happen often—especially in winter. I go into autopilot as I navigate my way around the city where I’ve spent all my life, my mind pre-occupied with Mel and Asher Quinn. That arsehole just messed with the wrong girl. Mel has been with her share of men, but that doesn’t mean he gets to treat her like some cheap hooker and get away with it, especially when he has a girlfriend who probably dotes on him. The reporter in me wants to expose him, and every other guy like him. How am I going to do this? It has to be done properly. I only get one chance at this, and not only that, I need to do this in a way so Mel doesn’t know it’s me roasting him.

  I grin as I pull into my car park. I don’t know how or when, but Asher Quinn is about to get what’s coming to him. I’m going to make sure of it.

  As I walk to my door my phone buzzes. I juggle my bag and check it.

  Mel: I forgot to thank you for the ice cream. You’re a lifesaver. M x

  I send her a quick reply and shove my phone in my pocket as I unlock the front door. Throwing my keys on the table, I drop my bag by the door and check my phone as I walk into the kitchen. I’m starving, so I order a takeaway pizza and pour myself a large glass of wine.

  My mind wanders back to Mel. I would do anything for her but I can’t for the life of me understand why she lets herself get treated like shit over and over again by so many men. It’s like she physically seeks out these assholes so she can be treated like crap. The little voice inside my head begins to mock me. Like you’re so much better? At least Mel puts herself out there, over and over again. All I do is hide behind my work and rant about how much I hate men. There was a time when my world wasn’t all just work and hiding behind my laptop. I’ll be damned if I let myself be sucked into that world again.

  It makes me so glad that men like Asher Quinn don’t go for girls like me. With my short, curvy frame, I’m not exactly what you’d call their type. I know Asher wouldn’t be seen dead with a girl like me—not in public. at least.

  By the time I’ve finished my second glass of Pinot, my dinner has arrived. My stomach growls as I carry the box over to the sofa. I sit down and lift the lid, the smell wafting up from the large vegetarian pizza heavenly. I start my usual game of flicking through the TV channels but I’m not really paying attention to what’s on. I’m too busy thinking about different ways to expose Asher. Contacting his girlfriend is too private and she probably wouldn’t believe me anyway.

  Then it hits me. That’s it! A rush of excitement hits me as an idea begins to form in my head.

  “I’m going to go global on your arse, Asher Quinn,” I mutter to myself, unable to wipe the smile off my face. I race into the kitchen to retrieve my laptop from my bag. I carry it and the bottle of wine back to the couch, kick off my shoes, and plant my arse in my writing armchair.

  I finger the worn, soft leather of the arm, my thoughts drifting to my grandpa. After my parents died when I was ten, my grandfather raised me. He was my only family until he died last year. This is the very chair where he penned ten bestselling novels. Nobody other than close family ever knew he was Christoph Rose. No mat
ter what, he always supported me. I can’t even imagine how demanding it must’ve been for him to take on a ten-year-old while in his seventies, especially after losing his only child. My grandmother died before I was born, and with no cousins, aunts or uncles, I never knew anyone other than him.

  Flipping open my laptop, I jot down everything Mel told me about her night with Asher.

  After an hour of making notes, I’m finally ready to write. I fire up a new Word document and let everything pour out. God this feels good. My secret revenge on all the guys that ever made me feel like I wasn’t good enough or deserving of their attention, and for all the women that fall at their feet and get treated like shit.

  Dear Asher Quinn,

  It amazes me the little respect you have for not only women in general, but for the poor woman you call your girlfriend. I bet she has no idea what you get up to when she thinks football is keeping you out late at night. Or maybe she's just too naïve to doubt you.

  There is a sentiment that seems to go hand in hand with getting signed to a major football team, and that is, you think it's your right to treat women like shit. Obviously the fame and fortune goes straight to your head and fries a few brain cells along the way.

  I wonder if you would be able to get half as many women in bed if they knew upfront that you have a baby dick, and women have to fake orgasms when they are with you.

  I have first-hand knowledge that you are terrible in bed; in fact, you’ve bored women to tears. She’s making a shopping list in her head whilst you were giving her head, and I don’t think you could find a clit if it had flashing neon lights all round it. All I can say is, I pity your poor girlfriend for having to put up with you for so long, and if she had any sense, she should throw you to the curb and get herself a real man.

  You, Asher, are a perfect example of what is wrong with modern men. You footballers are in the public eye and should be role models to your young fans; but you are nothing but arrogant arseholes teaching the next generation of men to treat women like objects to be used and thrown away afterwards.