Page 1 of Forbid It

1

ROBBIE

For a sixty-five year old man, Michael Hamilton sure knows how to throw a party. Music echoes across the front lawn, where glamorous women and suited men sip champagne from passing waiters. From my vantage point at the edge of the manicured driveway, I check my watch. Twenty minutes since I first pulled up.

I don’t know anyone here. My US agent, Lucas, promised he’d be here to help wingman me, but I’m pretty sure he’s already inside flirting with models or shaking hands with rich business men, so it doesn’t help me much. I take a sip of champagne and will myself to head towards the lion's den in search of something stronger. The crowd parts, no one noticing me as I make my way to the bar.

I’ve been around these kinds of people since I was sixteen. The people who make business deals in private offices over a whiskey, or because they went to boarding school with someone's cousin. The establishment back home is stuffy and old, conservative and rigid, unable to let in a scrawny kid from an ex-council estate in South Wales, who turned out to be relatively good at kicking a ball.

My old teammates at least were a bit more normal. Crushed velvet and glass tables in a new-build mansion with multiple sports cars in the driveway. The nouveau riche.

I’m still debating which category Hamilton falls into when a heavy hand clamps on my shoulder.

“Robbie King,” a voice booms behind me. The man himself. Hamilton is the brand new owner of the LA Rebels, the Major League Soccer team that is categorically average. Average rankings, average players, average fan base.

And my new home.

“Sir.” I offer my hand, my Rolex glinting in the low light. It’s a subtle move to show him that even though he’s got me in his glamorous house, I’m still the reason I’m here.

“How the hell are you?” Hamilton’s pearly white smile beams at me. He’s still relatively fit for his age, even though I’m pretty sure his athleticism only extends to golf and the occasional bicep curl in his glass office.

“Good sir, thank you. Great party.”

“Thank you, thank you. Though that’s my daughter’s influence, not mine. I’d be more than happy with just a few rounds on the course.” Bingo.

I keep a pleasant smile on my face as he rambles on about his party and the amazing guests that are here just for him. I’ve learned in my scant few weeks across the pond that American’s love to call things amazing. Amazing coffee, amazing day, amazing team. I keep my smile affixed to my face even as my eyes want to roll into the back of my head. This man has paid a significant amount of money for me to be here and, as Lucas has reminded me multiple times, is not someone to piss off.

If Lucas had his way, this man could spit on my face and I’d wipe it off with a smile.

We’ll see how long that lasts.

“Listen,” Hamilton says, shaking a hand dismissively. “Mingle, eat, drink. Though not too much, training bright and early on Monday, eh? See you there.”

My history with team owners has been very uneventful. They attend the occasional game, sometimes sit in the stands and watch training, but they mostly keep to themselves whilst we make them their money and then sell us when we stop.

Something tells me that won’t be the case with Michael Hamilton.

He leaves me after clinking his glass to mine. I have a fleeting desire to call him back just so I have someone to talk to but quickly take another sip of my drink to quell the urge.

I had hoped some of my new teammates would be here, but the average attendee here is well over the age of fifty, so I’m not feeling too good about the prospect. I’m not entirely sure why I’m here. Maybe Lucas just called with the invite when I was feeling particularly lonely in my new condo and a party sounded like a good excuse to stop feeling so sorry for myself.

I ask the bartender for a whiskey and slink around the edges of the party until I reach the wide open glass doors.

The patio and garden are sprinkled with party guests laughing in small groups. I could go up to them, introduce myself, start a conversation. A few years ago, I would have done just that, desperate to make the connections that could help my career off the pitch. But now, I’m thirty-one, forcibly relocated to the other side of the world and the only person I know is my agent. The thought of fake laughter and small talk is too much to bear.

I keep my head down as I cross the lawn. Guests linger closer to the light emitting from the house, staying away from the shadowy recesses gently lit by the ground lights dotted along the path. They radiate a soft glow that’s almost whimsical as they lead me further away from the party. Tall shrubbery abuts the path, but there’s an opening like a chunk has been carved out of the bush. It’s so dark I can’t tell what’s behind it.

I wander closer, following the faint sound of crashing waves echoing through the gap. It's a doorway carved into the shrubbery, a wooden gate resting open on its hinges like an entrance to a secret garden, stretching to the ocean beyond. Even from up here, I can see the waves gently lapping against the moonlit sand.

It’s nice to know that the sea in California feels the same as the one back home. I close my eyes and inhale, the waves lapping against the shore and the faint smell of salt soothing my nerves.

“Do you need a minute?”

I startle and spin in place. Tucked behind the shrubbery is a small platform with two sunbeds and the shadowy impression of a woman lounging across one.

My eyes slowly adjust to the lack of light. Her dress shimmers in the moonlight as it rests over her crossed calves, bare feet flexing under my gaze. A small seashell anklet rests on one ankle, contrasting the glittering gold sequins of her gown. I follow the long line of her skirt to the ample breasts barely constrained by the shiny fabric.

Finally, I reach the stranger's face and I have to swallow my tongue.