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“Yeah, well they’re all full of rubbish, aren’t they. Whoever they are.”
“You at least know they exist, then. The people who sing your praises.”
“I know that saying people sing my praises is a little strong.”
“Are you sure about that? Because I’ve got about a million quotes here, somewhere. And I can easily read them out to you. It’ll take me until sometime next century, but I’m willing to do it.”
She made a show then of riffling through her notes.
Though the truth was—she did actually have what she was describing.
There was a whole file among everything she’d researched and collected about him, full of superlatives used to describe his form, his speed, his power on the pitch. And the compliments didn’t stop there, either. OnMatch of the Day, Alan Shearer had once referred to him as the greatest team player the sport had ever known. People had given whole speeches about his legendary status during actual award ceremonies where he’d been the main recipient.
And all his coaches felt the same way about his work ethic: above and beyond, exemplary, always willing to go the extra mile.
The only problem really was his temper, his grumpiness. Though even that had rarely gotten in the way of his game. It had affected everything else, everything outside it—like deals that he soured by not knowing how to schmooze. Press tours that he couldn’t properly participate in because every inane question made him furious. All of which the public loved him for, of course. He went viral all the time, for some hilariously surly response to something.
But it did make her wonder if this was the reason he’d finally agreed to the memoir business. She’d gotten the impression that he’d burned a lot of bridges, and this had been alast chancesaloonsort of thing, job opportunity–wise. Or even maybe a way for him to set the record straight about who he was underneath the gruff persona. And if that was the case, well, she was there to help with that.
She was ready to point out the truth of him.
But just as she was about to do so, she realized something.
He was watching her as she searched and arranged her things.
Steadily, like it fascinated him.
But maybe also unsettled him at the same time.
“So you’ve done your research, then,” he said after a moment.
Like maybe he’d thought he might fool her on some things.
But now knew with deadly certainty that he couldn’t.
“Of course I have,” she said. “You know I have if you really think I’m good at my job.”
“I do think you are. But not because you’ve compiled a dossier on me.”
“I would hardly call this a dossier.”
He made a scoffing noise. “Why on earth not?”
“Because it makes me sound much cooler than I am. Like a spy who’s infiltrated your shadowy organization. And now I’m going to take it down from the inside, as revenge for something terrible that you did to me.”
She wasn’t sure what to expect in response to that. Usually when she constructed some absurd premise like that, she got confusion. And it seemed likely that she would get the same from him. He was, after all, eminently practical and pragmatic. He didn’t suffer fools and flights of fancy gladly.
And it did look like it was going that way.
He frowned immediately after she’d said it.
Then looked like he was gearing up to tell her off.
Which he did. Just not in the way he was supposed to.
“Now hang on,” he said. “I haven’t done a single terrible thing to you.”
Because apparently, he was practical and pragmatic and all that.
