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“I’ve told you before not to say that. I don’t have a praise kink. It sounds weird coming from you. Why don’t you go out and find a hot, willing woman to fuck—preferably one with an actual praise kink and a thing for bossy, bearded men?”
Tutting, Rory shook his head, his small smile widening into an amused grin as he handed me the pen. “The mouth on you. I think I liked you better when you were a sweet, innocent teenager.”
“YouthoughtI was sweet and innocent.” Uncapping the pen, I began scrawling my signature at the tabbed places. I also had an electronic copy to sign, as requested by the club, but Rory liked to keep things old-school and definitely less environmentally friendly than he should.
“Look at all the trees and squids that died for this.” I waved my hand over the never-ending pile of printed pages. “What’s your problem with technology, grandad?”
“Brat. That ink does not come from squids, I’ll have you know. You should be more concerned about the information you have online, Jord. AI is in danger of taking over the world one day.”
“When that day comes, I’ll bow down to our evil robot overlords.”
“Jordan. This isn’t a joking matter.”
Glancing up at him, I noticed the serious look on his face, and I immediately nodded, in complete agreement. “I know. I fucking hate that AI shit. But I’d like to see them try to replace me with a robot. The fucker wouldn’t have a clue what to do.”
He shook his head again, huffing out a laugh. “No one could ever replace you. Who else would grind my gears like you do?”
“Yeah, you’re right. No one could replace me because I’m one of a kind.” Reaching the final page, I signed with a flourish. “Done.”
“Right.” He was all business again, gathering the papers into a neat stack and setting them aside before sliding his laptop across the desk to me. “Now you need to do the same thing with the electronic version. Once everything’s signed and Glevum confirms receipt, we’ll liaise with them to arrange a press conference or whatever they want to do to announce you as the club’s new right-winger.”
A smirk tugged at my lips as I imagined how pissed off Theo was going to be at the news that I was taking his position. If only I could have been there to see his face when the gaffer told him. Equally, if the shoe had been on the other foot, I knew he would’ve taken great pleasure in gloating about how he’d taken my place.
Rory was still talking, and I tuned back in to find him saying something about money. Time to concentrate.
“…While your initial wages will be low for the Premier League because you’re new and need to prove yourself, we can boost them with sponsorship deals, and there’s a clause in your contract that allows us to renegotiate your wage if you make enough of an impression. That means regular games, scoring goals, you know the drill.”
“What are the sponsorship deals?”
He picked up his briefcase, laying it on the table and unclipping the catches. “Let me see… I’ve rejected a couple already. The supplements, no. The energy drinks, no again—”
“But I like energy drinks!”
“Yes, but the club already has an endorsement deal with another brand. You won’t be allowed to drink anything but that brand. Not in public, at least.”
“No more Pacific Punch?” I pouted, earning an eye roll from Rory.
“I’m sure you’ll survive. Now, here’s a sponsorship deal that I think might interest you. It’s an underwear brand aimed at the eighteen-to-twenty-something market. Guys who are seriously into working out and looking good. The social media posers like you that enjoy flaunting their six-packs everywhere they go.” He patted his own slightly soft middle. “Unlike me.”
I laughed. “You’ve still got it. You’re a daddy. A zaddy, in fact. Women go crazy for that shit, trust me.”
He gave a long-suffering sigh, pinching his brow. He loved me, really. “I don’t even want to know what a ‘zaddy’ is, and aside from that, how would you know that women go crazy for it?”
“Because.” Pulling my phone from my pocket, I scrolled through my social media until I found the picture of Rory I’d posted earlier today. Dressed in his smartly tailored suit, with his neatly trimmed beard and styled hair, he was walking through the car park towards me, briefcase in one hand and a takeaway coffee cup in the other. The sun was gleaming on his dark hair, and I’d caught him at a flattering angle, if I did say so myself.
I grinned. “Look at the comments and likes on this post.”
I’d captioned the image, “Big things are coming… Meeting my agent @rorynashagent,” and about twenty seconds after I’d posted it, I’d received a huge flood of likes and comments. The image now had over twelve thousand likes, and as for the comments… I handed Rory my phone, watching with a grin as he scanned the screen, a flush appearing on his cheeks.
The minds of some women…and some gay men…they could be really fucking dirty at times. Some of the comments even mademeblush. Well, not really. I was used to that shit. Half of my social media was me posing, because let’s face it, if you’ve got it, you might as well fucking flaunt it. The other half was all related to football. The number of propositions I’d had in my DMs—I’d need at least two dicks and two lifetimes to service every woman that wanted a piece of me.
I wasn’t exaggerating. Much.
Rory handed the phone back to me, his mouth in a flat line, and I couldn’t stop the laugh bursting from my lips. “See? They want you, bro. They’ll be hitting up your DMs, I guarantee.”
“I’m not your bro,” he clipped out. “And I would appreciate you not posting my image without permission.”
“It’s an expression for friends. Like dude. Or mate. Or bruv. Get with the times, grandad. Or should I call you ‘zaddy’?” He gave me a warning look when I tapped my chin, pretending to think about it, and I relented. “Alright, I’m sorry I posted your photo without asking you first, but look at it this way. Thanks to me, you might actually get laid this century.”
