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I took the frosted glass and pressed my lips to the rim. The tiny bubbles slid down my throat as I released the death grip I had on the arm rest.
When I awoke this morning, the last thing I expected was to pack a bag and head to the Olympics, but I didn’t see what choice I had.
If I let Lachlan Kenzie keep on this rampage, he would take the Kenzie game down with him. And that meant my biggest account would lose its ambassador and I would lose my position. It had taken over a year to develop the game. I’d spent six months preparing for the release. I’d worked too long and too hard to let some privileged, egotistical asshole ruin my life.
He was reckless. Arrogant. Selfish. All the things I wasn’t.
He had to get his life under control while he was in Rio, and I was the woman who was going to make that happen.
Chapter Three
Lachlan
I sat at the bar while a lazy fan twirled overhead. I didn’t know what in the hell I was drinking, only that it made the hangover disappear in an instant. Liquid lunch worked for me.
“Another round.” I held up my glass to the man behind the counter.
He slid a cold drink across the bar. I slung it back, feeling the sting hit the back of my throat. The sweat beaded across my brow. It was hot as fuck here for winter.
Practice had ended hours ago. There was only one story that had emerged from the football world today. It was the only thing anyone was talking about. It didn’t help that we were a week out from Opening Ceremonies and the press was looking for anything to report. They were like sharks sniffing for blood.
The ticker ran along the bottom of the TVs mounted to the wall.
Lachlan Kenzie walked out on the UK football team after night of debauchery.
I glared at the headline. What did they expect? I was surrounded by pricks. They didn’t have boots or a kit for me. The pitch wasn’t ready. I wasn’t going to stand around while they got their shit together. I had played my share of amateur matches. I was done with it.
I reached over the counter, grabbed the remote, and hit the mute button. I didn’t want to hear any more speculation on why I left. I knew what a cock up the whole thing was, and that was the only thing that mattered.
“Bad day?” the bartender asked.
I nodded. The locals seemed laidback. But the last thing I needed was someone snapping my photo and announcing to the world I was in this bar. Last night I didn’t care, but my world was closing in on me today.
They couldn’t touch me inside the village. The press wasn’t allowed to enter, but out here I was fresh meat to them. A juicy story to devour one bloody bite at a time.
I kicked the stool out of the way. It was growing dark outside. I paid for my drinks and pushed the door, emerging into a blast of heat.
I shoved my hands in my pockets and kept my head down. But before I turned the corner, the flashes came out of nowhere.
“Fuck,” I muttered, putting my hands up.
“Lachlan, why did you leave practice?”
“Have you quit the team?”
“What did your mates say when you walked out?”
“Are you boycotting the Olympics for political reasons?”
I started jogging toward the village, but they swarmed me, making it a fucking nightmare to get away from them. They were on my heels. It didn’t matter if I turned down a side street or stayed in broad daylight. They tripped after me like yapping puppies.
“All right, bugger off,” I spat at them. I had enough. I finally stopped to address the crowd.
“Come on, Lach. Tell us what’s going on.”
“Give us a statement about practice,” they demanded.
I didn’t talk to the paps. There were some guys who did. They loved it. They loved this. But I fucking hated it.
