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“Merci,” Jamie said, setting the picture down and accepting the cup. He had his photos; Didier had his coffee. Didier never went anywhere without the means to make Moroccan coffee. Jamie hadn’t understood why coffee and not mint tea until one night after a lot of vodka, Didier had admitted that making Moroccan coffee made him feel closer to his mother, whom he’d lost young.
Didier leaned in, frowning at Coco’s picture. “C’est qui, cette femme?”
“My cousin Coco.” He grinned at Didier. “You look at her like you’ve never seen her. I thought you’d met.”
“We haven’t.” He shrugged in his French way, lifting his cup, his gaze still on Coco’s face. “She’s very beautiful,non?”
“Yes, she is.”
“She lives in London?”
“Paris. She’s a fashion designer.” He frowned. “Are you interested in her?”
Turning away, Didier shrugged. “I am a Frenchman. That is like asking if I’m breathing.”
He shook his head. “I don’t have to warn you to stay away from the college girls, do I?”
Didier recoiled, looking like he smelled something bad. “I’m not interested in children.” Then his look of horror grew. “How old is your cousin?”
His mobile rang right then. Grinning, he picked it up. He always got a lot of calls, especially from his teammates—someone always needed advice about something—but seeing who was calling him made his humor drain.
“A woman?” Didier asked.
“No. My agent.”
His friend made a commiserating sound.
Jamie hadn’t always felt that way about his agent. His first agent had been no-nonsense and to the point. She hadn’t played games or pulled any power trips. But she’d decided to take a few years off to spend time with her young children, so he’d had to find another.
Enter Brad Chandler, hotshot sports agent from the largest talent agency in the world. He’d worked his way up the ladder, having started in New York and then relocated to London. The majority of the elite athletes, regardless of sport or gender, were represented by Brad.
On paper, Brad had been exactly what Jamie had wanted: an aggressive negotiator, willing to go the extra mile for his clients. In talking with other players, Brad came highly recommended, and his numbers were off the charts. In the two years since Jamie had hired Brad, Jamie had made more money on endorsements than most of the footballers he knew, combined.
But lately Brad had been pushing him in directions that he wasn’t on board with, and that didn’t sit well with him. Add that his contract was due for renegotiation, and that had Brad rabid. There was nothing his agent liked more than money, and given that Jamie had just led his team to a winning season, it had Brad foaming at the mouth for a record-breaking deal.
“I’ll leave you to your call,” Didier said, leaving and closing the door behind him.
Sitting in a chair in the sun, Jamie answered the call. “I only have a few minutes,” he said as a greeting.
“A few minutes are all I need,” Brad said in his flat American accent. “The management of Torino FC came in with a deal. They want to offer you a three-year extension and an additional fifty percent over what you made this year. They’re also impressed with your leadership skills this year as captain and the way the other players come to you for guidance, so they’d like to discuss you coaching when you decide to retire.”
He wasn’t sure if it was part of his general apathy, but signing on to continue living the way he had been felt like a prison sentence. He looked out the window at the freedom Chicago offered. “I’ll think about it,” he said finally.
There was a pause on the other end of the line. “Jamie, I don’t think I need to remind you that you’re thirty. This is an excellent offer. Three more years guaranteed to play—”
Unless he was injured. The words were very clear between the lines.
“—And then a spot on the coaching team,” his agent continued, as if reading his mind. “Most players don’t get the opportunity to transition so easily into retirement.”
He didn’t need to be reminded about any of that. His dad had driven home at an early age that playing football was a finite privilege. His dad’s career had been ended, for the most part, in a car accident when his leg had been crushed. He’d played—and won—one last championship game and retired to start a boutique whiskey distillery withhisfather.
From day one when Jamie had said he’d wanted to play football, his dad had told him that one day he wouldn’t be able to play competitively any longer, whether that was because of injury or age, and that he needed to find something that would fulfill him.
He still had no idea what that was.
He knew one thing: it wasn’t coaching football. He already mentored his teams—younger and older alike. Doing it in an official capacity? You had to be mad. “Thank you, Brad,” he said again. “I’ll think about it and let you know.”
“They want to know right away,” his agent said. “I told them I’d talk to you. I figure we can negotiate at least another ten percent. Let’s discuss it when I see you on Friday.”
