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“Well, we’re coming to the end of our star player’s contract, so we thought we'd run a story about how you found your experience over here. Plus, you have been scoring really good goals lately, so it'll look good for everyone.”
“Oh, I see,” he says, leaning back in the chair with that ridiculous face he makes when he’s pretending to be upset, all huge eyes and pouting. “I'm just a publicity stunt.”
“Cheer up,” I say. “Surely you should be used to that by now.”
He shrugs. “I am. But I have a soft, sensitive side that nobody else sees.”
He leans forward over my desk, his expression turning into that familiar one of attraction, and I flick him away with my fingers. “Enough of that. Let’s get to work.”
I pull out my phone and place it on the desk, pulling up the recording app so I can hit the red button. Miles stares down at the numbers ticking past. “This is on the record?”
“What? You thought I was just going to remember all your answers?”
“Well… I guess,” he says with the desperation of someone who hasn’t given any thought at all to this interview.
I shake my head in despair and decide to move on to the questions. “What has been your favorite thing about Miami?”
“The girls,” he says without hesitation, but a beat later his face twists into something that I think must nearly be an apology, and he adds, “But for real, the people have all been great. The Macaws have been so welcoming, and everyone here is so friendly. People just don’t smile as much in Britain as they do round here.”
“So, the stereotypes are true. You guys are all incredibly grumpy.”
“Me, no. Most other people? Absolutely, yes.”
He starts leaning over the desk again, his hands creeping forwards as if he’s reaching towards mine, about to get distracted by whatever fantasies of the office he has. I move on, sitting up straight and putting my hands in my lap. I’d at least like to finish most of this before he gets distracted. “Now, in the last couple of weeks, you’ve scored some really epic goals. Do you want to tell us about how you get ready for a game?”
“I run ten laps of the pitch, lie down with my shirt off for twenty minutes, then pick a girl in the crowd to pretend to be in love with. It’s that simple, really.” He stretches up, cradling his hands behind his head as he speaks, taking an easy kind of tone, like he’s cool as a cucumber. So much for that sensitive side.
I roll my eyes at him, but I can’t help a feeling of fondness creeping in. If he’d been acting like this with me when I first knew him, I would have found it intolerable. But I’ve gotten used to his jokey ways, and I know enough about him now to understand the subtext behind what he’s saying. He’s being sincere in his own way. He just has to hide it behind seventeen layers of what he would call charisma, but anyone else would call arrogance.
I start reading the next question on my list. They’ve been prepared by Tim, and I didn’t have time to do more than just glance over them all, so the next question takes us both by surprise. “When you first came to the Macaws, your stats weren’t that great. But since you've been here, they've only been going up and up. Has it been hard coming from a team where you’re considered one of the worst players to one where you’re considered one of the best?”
“Are you calling me shit or trying to ask me if I think the Macaws are bad?” He frowns hard, offended on behalf of his teammates. “Because they’re not. These are great guys. They play tight. They all know each other — and we keep winning to prove that we’re good. Would they still be good in the UK? So what if they don’t have the experience to hit the Premier League? You play it slightly differently over here anyway, but at the end of the day, football is football, and honestly, you’d have to be so unbelievably shit to make me not enjoy the game.”
He breathes out hard as he hits the end of his tirade, then adds, “As for me being the worst or the best? I’m neither. I’m kind of notorious, but I play hard. I score goals. It’s what they brought me over for, and I’m in a place that I can thrive in. Of course I’m playing good. Plus, it helps that they’ve assigned a wonderful woman to help show me the ropes of Miami.”
As he says this, his eyes dart down to my lips like he’s only got one thing in mind. Knowing him, that's probably true. But he’s still not finished. Looking at me in a way that can only mean one thing, he says, “I always do my best work when there’s women around.”
“All right, buster,” I say, tapping off the recording. “You're getting yourself too excited. I do have some more questions for you, but maybe we should have a change of pace before your answers turn into total trash.” I open my drawer and pull out a digital camera. I should have charged it last night; I have no idea if this thing is even going to turn on.
“Pictures?” he asks, his brow furrowed.
I stare at him, dumbfounded. “Are you being serious? You must have done a photo shoot before. Surely you've been interviewed for magazines at least once in your life.”
“I know. I have. It’s just that it’s usually a professional who takes the pictures.”
“Ouch,” I say, rising to my feet. “Nice to know what you really think.”
His mouth drops open in panic. “No, I— I didn't really mean it like that.”
“Uh-huh,” I say. I wonder how long I can keep him like this, apologetic and humble.
“No, I… I just… I wasn't— I just meant, well, you know,” he stammers.
I grin at him, taking pity. “I'm just teasing. You’re right. Usually, we do have a real photographer. But she's on holiday this week. And Tim said we need the copy for this article as soon as possible.” I emphasize every word in staccato, doing a bad impression of my boss. Miles laughs at it anyway, which makes me smile back. “So, this space isn't great for photos, but if Tim really hates them, he can wait until Sarah gets back next week.”
“Where do you want me?” he asks.
I consider this for a moment. There isn’t a lot of space in here, and I don’t want to spend too long setting anything up, so I decide to keep it simple and point towards the blank wall next to the door.
