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“He seems like a nice guy,” she smiles. I notice she looks a lot less tense than she did when she walked in. Maybe joking around with Jon did some good after all.
“That’s just an act. Don’t be fooled. He’s a bloodthirsty wolf in sheep’s clothing.”
“I love how you guys ‘banter’, as you Brits say. Makes me wish I had an older brother too.”
“No. You never want that. Older brothers are an absolute menace. They think it’s their right to mess with you,” I laugh. She does too. Carrie has a lazy smile that feels genuinely sweet and has just the right dash of shyness added to it. It’s as if all the light of the sun is suddenly filling the room. She’s a woman who surprises me, in a good way. How often does that happen?
“Carrie, I called you here to apologize for my behavior. I'm usually not as terrible a person as I might have seemed to you the other day.”
“Apology accepted.” She smiles again. I’m surprised by how easily she accepts it. I expected her to make me grovel some more.
“And I’d be chuffed to bits if you’d come back on board and write that feature on me,” I venture.
“Why me? You could get anyone to do a piece on you,” she asks. I sit back and think over her words.
“Because you're honest, you're genuine and you speak your mind. What you told me at the party was right. That I should’ve been more careful. And that’s what happened. Someone posted a video on Instagram, and the coach flipped out and threatened to throw me off the team.”
“Oh, gosh! I'm so sorry to hear that!” Her hand rises to her chest in sympathy.
“Had I listened to you that day, it wouldn’t have happened. I wouldn’t be in such a mess. Which is why I want you to finish this piece and depending on how it turns out, maybe you can write a biography for me too. Shauna’s always going on about how I need to release a book.” I smile, but she just sits there like she’s just seen a ghost.
“David Adams, the biggest soccer star in the world just made me an offer to write his book?” she says slowly. “This is not what I was expecting. At all.” She looks down at her water glass and ponders. “This is the kind of offer that a young writer like me would never get. The kind of offer you say yes to…” She pauses. “But why me? You can get people much more experienced than me?”
“Because I've got too many yes men around me, and I want someone who will give it to me straight. Someone with an honest voice and if I'm to release a book about myself, then I’d rather that the story be told honestly. I'm done being misunderstood and I'm done with the media painting a false picture of me.” I look away, unable to hide the frustration and torment on my face. “So I want you to do this because I think you'll do a good job. And also because you’re exceedingly adorable.”
“I haven’t been called adorable since I was five,” she smiles.
“What a coincidence. I haven’t called someone adorable since I was five,” I grin.
Her red rose lips quiver and rise into a full smile, despite her attempts at restraining it from emerging.
“Okay, David Adams. I’ll do this for you. If only because I owe you one for saving me from a fall at the bachelor auction,” she winks and shakes the hand that I hold out for a shake. “This is going to be an interesting journey,” she says.
“Damn right,” I answer.
Chapter 87
I may have been raised by a father who ran a sports bar, where patrons spent hours watching and discussing football, baseball and sometimes, hockey — but soccer was never on the menu. My father and his cronies thought it was for girls.
Sitting in the bleachers, watching David train with his team, I realize how wrong they were. Soccer is definitely not a sport for the ‘soft boys’ as my father’s pals claimed.
David invited me to the training to get a glimpse into what his life is like. The car he sent arrived at my place in the morning and for once I enjoyed the trip, not being forced to drive through all that traffic. I watch David again, as he makes a strong tackle on a training opponent, who goes half flying in the air, landing uncomfortably on his ankle. Ouch.
Like any typical L.A. Afternoon it’s hot and I’m amazed at the athletic prowess of these players. They don’t let the heat or the humidity bother them. Amongst those men, David is a god, his chiseled body gleaming with sweat highlighting every contour and angle. His muscular frame is impossible not to watch, that perfect V-shaped figure making him appear utterly statuesque.
Plus David is clearly the best player on the field. He dribbles around players, scores goals from way far out and does it all with effortless ease. The phrase, “one of the best players of all time” came up again and again when I Googled him last night, and it’s clear why.
“This your first time at a soccer practice?” Scott, David’s manager who’s sitting next to me, comments as he catches me gawking.
“Yep,” I reply sheepishly, trying not to blush too red with embarrassment at being caught staring.
“Kinda boring, this sport, ain’t it?”
“I don’t know. Seems pretty fun to me,” I answer, cocking an eyebrow.
“I’d rather sit back and watch a football game. This sport is... it’s for girls,” he guffaws.
“It seems pretty hard to me,” I say sharply. “I mean all those guys in the NFL play with so much padding. Even with all that pushing and shoving, it couldn’t possibly hurt as much this must hurt.” I nod to the guys on the soccer pitch. “Look, they aren’t wearing any protective gear, and I bet it hurts a lot when you get trampled by those cleats.” I’m having fun proving Scott wrong. For some reason I can’t pinpoint, he makes me want to be on guard.
