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The call from Flynn’s agent came through at last. And the timing was perfect. It gave him a reason to run from the McKenzie house. Well, hobble from the house. He left Abby and Katy arguing about whether there would be a pool or not, while he answered the call.
“What the hell are you doing?” Barney shouted. “Are you trying to kill me here? We made a deal with these TV guys. You’re not keeping your end of it. You’re supposed to be figuring out your future on camera. That’s why they’re following you around. They’re trying to get an insight into the mind of an athlete when he’s dealing with injury. You’re screwing this up, boy.”
Flynn leaned against the rail leading up to Abby’s front door. “What do you want me to do, Barney? Make a PowerPoint listing all my options as a washed-up footballer? Ask them for ideas on what to do with my life next? Cry into my beer about my career ending with a foul tackle and let them film the tears? What should I be doing here? Tell me, because I thought I was supposed to live as I normally do and they’d edit for what they needed.”
“Do all of those bloody things,” Barney yelled. “Do anything. The producer is nagging my ear off. Hours of footage showing you working on your tan isn’t good TV.”
“I don’t give a crap about good TV. When I signed you said it was a couple of interviews, some filler footage of me in my hometown and the rest would be archive material showing my career. Instead I’m stuck in EDtv. I want out of this contract.”
“Not going to happen. The contract is ironclad.” Barney let out a loud sigh. “Look, son, this isn’t about you. It’s about your fans. Don’t they deserve to know how you’re doing? They’re worried about you.”
“The hell it’s about the fans. It’s about the money. The huge amount of money they’re paying me to do this, of which you get a hefty cut.”
“So sue me for wanting to get paid for doing my job. Suck it up, Boyle. Get the job done. You’re only committed for two more weeks. Give the guy what he wants and get this over with. Stop acting like a baby. I don’t have time for this crap.” The phone went dead.
Without thinking, Flynn threw the phone towards his van. It bounced off the boundary fence with a loud snap. Damn it. Now he needed a new phone. They didn’t make phones the way they used to. One wee tap and the screen snapped.
He stomped, as best he could, to the RV. Once inside, he plopped onto the armchair in front of the driver’s seat. His leg ached. He looked down at the pale, scarred mess and traced his finger over the spot where his broken bone had torn through skin. He’d known before they told him that his career was over. The pins holding his bone together had been his first clue. The fact his knee would likely never have a complete range of motion was another. The orthopaedic surgeon had clasped Flynn’s shoulder, looked him in the eye and said, “Think about the fut
ure, son. You don’t come back from this sort of injury.”
Flynn covered his face with his palms and laughed. It sounded hollow. Think about his future? He’d done nothing but think about it since the dirty tackle took him down. What the hell was he good for except chasing a ball? He was too unpredictable for commentating. No TV station would risk him on air when they didn’t know what would come out his mouth next. Coaching was out. He didn’t think he could bear helping guys do what he wanted to do so badly. Management was a joke—even if someone was daft enough to hire him, he had no patience for the politics of the sport. That left what? Charity work? Charities would worry about the publicity he attracted. Start a business? Go back to school? Move to Rio and live on a beach? He’d thought he had years before he’d need to think about life after football. He was only twenty-nine. He was in his prime. And his life was over.
He rolled his eyes at himself. As one of the Babes would say, “drama much?” Thinking about this was driving him nuts. He needed to stop going around in circles and be proactive. He swivelled towards the built-in table and pulled the laptop towards him. A minute later he had a new document open. He made two columns. One headed skills, the other headed interests. He’d break down what he could do and see where he would go from here. He felt good. It was a practical plan.
In the skills column he wrote, ball skills, game strategy, game analysis. He turned his attention to the interests column and wrote, football. He thought about it for a minute then added women to the list. That was when his mind went blank. He couldn’t think of even one more skill or interest.
There was no avoiding it. He was screwed.
“That’s all you’ve got for skills? Man, that’s sad. Why isn’t your degree on the list?”
At the sound of Harry’s voice, Flynn clutched his chest. “Damn it, are you trying to give me a heart attack? It isn’t on the list because it isn’t a proper degree. I got it online.”
Harry blinked at him. “Through Open Uni, nutjob. It’s the same as any other uni.”
Flynn ignored him. “Why are you here anyway? Shouldn’t you be at home putting Elvira into her coffin for the night?”
His brother grinned. “Vampires sleep in daylight. And I’m telling Magenta you’re calling her Elvira again.”
Harry sprawled on the couch that ran along the wall of the living room area. He took up pretty much all of the space.
“Seriously? Why are you here?” Flynn closed the laptop with a snap. “I’ve had my intervention. I’m being good. You can back off now.”
“As much fun as that was, I’m here to take you out.” He looked around the motorhome. “You live in a shoebox. If you don’t get out now and then, you’ll start making homemade bombs or collecting cats.”
“Those are the only options for my future? Cats and bombs? Fan-bloody-tastic. And for your information, moron, this shoebox is top of the line. I have everything I need at my fingertips. And when I get fed up with the scenery, or the people”—he pointed at his brother—“I can drive off and park somewhere more interesting.”
Harry didn’t acknowledge the dig. He rarely did. “Aren’t you supposed to be building a house? Shouldn’t you talk to an architect or something?”
“I will as soon as I get rid of the film crew.” Although he had to admit the idea didn’t have the same appeal it’d had when he’d first bought the land from Abby. “Right now, I have other things to do. I need to hire someone to put in a pool.”
Harry’s eyebrows shot up into his unkempt hair. “You’re putting in a pool before the house? Not sure that’s going to help your new image, bro.”
“Bro? Where are we? The hood?” Flynn shook his head at Harry’s grin. “It’s not for me. It’s for Katy. I was thinking I’d get her one of the blow-up ones, like the one Abby destroyed, then I thought about the fact you can’t really swim in them. If you’re going to have a pool, you should be able to swim in it, right? If I get a decent-sized proper pool we can do laps.”
Harry sat forward, ran his fingers through his hair and stared at Flynn as though he’d lost his mind. “I don’t even know where to start with this.”
Flynn had no idea what he was talking about, so he ignored Harry and took the few steps between his chair and the fridge. He pulled out two bottles of Belgian beer and handed one to his brother. By the time he’d dragged himself back to his chair, Harry’s brain had formulated a reply. For a guy with a genius IQ, it often took a long time for Harry to have a conversation with mere mortals.
