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“Friday?”
“I’ll be in Turin. They have a photoshoot scheduled for publicity for the next season that you need to attend, so I set up a meeting with all of us to discuss terms. I’m arriving in the morning.”
Jamie shook his head. “I’m unavailable. It’s off-season, and I have other plans for the next three weeks.”
“You know they can call you back,” he said.
“They can, but I’ve already left, and if they’re interested in me signing with them for another three years, they won’t insist.” He suddenly felt claustrophobic, so he stood and opened the window. A breeze wafted in carrying a lightly floral scent that reminded him of the jasmine in his grandmother’s orangerie. “I’m out of the country on holiday, and I’m not compromising on that.”
“Where are you?”
“Chicago.” Just saying it—breathing in its air—gave him a renewed purpose.
“What’s in Chicago?”
A nice girl for Erik, and hopefully some clarity for him. Not that Brad would understand any of that if he tried to explain. “Is that all you had to report?”
“I have some sponsorship contracts for you to review.”
“I’ll do it when I return.”
“When is that?”
“Three weeks.” Erik had a commercial to shoot at the end of June. It wasn’t a problem—they were sure to find a nice girl in a matter of days. The odds were stacked on their side.
“You’re in Chicago for three weeks,” Brad repeated slowly as if he didn’t believe it. “On a lark? Or are you visiting someone there?”
“I’m here with a couple mates.”
There was a pause, and then Brad asked, “Is this about a woman?”
For him, no. He believed in love—God knew his entire family was proof that happily ever after wasn’t a fairy tale—but he wasn’t ready for it. He didn’t have anything to offer a woman.
Except money. He had gobs of that. But that wasn’t the type of woman he wanted beyond a night. Lately, even a night with someone like that was too long.
He pushed aside his own cynicism and the questions about his future. That was for later. Right now, he’d focus on Erik and finding him the nice girl he wanted.
But he wasn’t inclined to give his agent any details. He looked at his watch. “I need to go. Email the paperwork to me and I’ll take a look when I’m free.”
He hung up before Brad could argue more. Then he tossed the mobile on the bed and headed back downstairs to find Didier.
His friend was in the kitchen, putting together a snack. He’d opened a window, so the room smelled like jasmine and the prosciutto he was laying carefully on a plate. Didier looked at home in the sleek room. The main difference between this kitchen and Didier’s was that the art on the walls were colorful abstract prints instead of the dreamy expressionist art he preferred.
Aware of Didier’s searching gaze, Jamie pulled out a stool from the counter and sat down. “They want me to coach.”
“Bien sûr.” Didier nodded, arranging slices of apple that he’d already cut alongside the meat. “They would have to be idiots not to see how the men look up to you. You are always helping them, more than the sports psychiatrists, I would say.”
Jamie snorted, thinking about all the texts he had from his teammates. He should probably look at them. They’d probably heard about the deal he’d been offered. “I help the ones who want it. The last thing I want is to coach entitled punks.”
Didier grinned. “Like I was when you met me?”
He chuckled. “You said it, not me.”
“If you do not want to coach, don’t coach.” Didier sat back in his seat. “Unless you need the money.”
“Money is the last thing that motivates me.” He’d been comfortable all his life—he was fortunate that way—but since football and his endorsement deals, he had more money than God.
“What motivates you?” Didier asked, setting the snack in front of him and taking the stool next to him.
