Player's Challenge (2 page)

London, present day

Devin Spencer was more beautiful today than when he’d taken her virginity eight years ago. Too bad he had a problem staying out of trouble.

Fresh from a shower, attired in a turquoise V-necked tee which offset his green eyes to perfection, Devin glanced down at the microphone shoved under his nose. For the past two weeks, he’d dominated the news cycle. Facing a ninety day sentence and an eight thousand pound fine, he’d finally had his day in court. Expensive business trashing hotel rooms. Luckily, the judge, a Croydon F.C. fan, sentenced him to two months of community service and the cost of damages.

When he looked up into the TV camera, a devilish smile played across his lips and a pair of oh-so-sexy dimples flashed in his cheeks. Remembering how she’d forgiven a laundry list of indiscretions because of said indentions, Gemma bit down on the cap of her ballpoint pen.

Of all the plum assignments in her way-too-young career, why did her first paying job have to involve her secondary school crush? A potent distraction for a young girl, he’d been Gemma’s sole reason for existing. So much so, she’d dubbed her sixth form the Devin years because her first run-in with true love was like being slammed with a dump truck. Her friendships had suffered and her grades had plummeted, which was rather ironic considering she’d been recruited as a peer student to help him with his grades.

Their time together had proved transformative. The period after he left to join Croydon’s junior football program, when all communication between them had abruptly ceased, proved almost insurmountable.

Fortunately, with the help of her family and a diligent school counselor, she’d pulled up her big girl panties, and earned her A-levels. She’d gone on to obtain a degree in marketing along with her masters. But the cherry on top was landing a coveted internship with Phillips & Beck.

Gemma liked the frantic pace at one of London’s premiere PR agencies, but she’d quickly jumped ship for the opportunity to work for Top Flight, a boutique sports agency. Sure the company was in its infancy, only in business for three years, but its founder, Yvonne Floyd-Saito, had already built an impressive roster which included some of Europe’s top professional athletes.

With a fat salary, access to VIP events and season tickets to football matches across Europe, the job proved to be everything a self-proclaimed sports fanatic could wish for.

Until now.

Gemma shifted her attention back to the impromptu post-game interview. Cornered by Price Quimby, former sports blogger turned field correspondent for the Sports24 network, Devin towered over the shorter man. At six-two, his commanding height along with an equivalent arm span and muscular build were perfect for goal keeping.

Or modeling, Gemma mused. Drop dead gorgeous, Devin looked right at home on a magazine cover. At only twenty-six, he’d already graced more than a dozen of them. The fashion world couldn’t get enough of his high cheekbones, full lips and eyes greener than the grass on a football pitch.

His good looks weren’t the only reason Gemma had fallen in love with him. When everyone else ignored her, looked through her like she didn’t exist, he dogged her footsteps, and hung on her every word. As if each syllable were necessary to his survival.

Gemma snorted. Obviously Devin had learned how to live without her. When he left Birmingham, he never looked back.

“Now that you’ve had your day in court and Croydon’s season is ending with tonight’s loss to Loughton, what are your plans for the future?”

Despite the megawatt smile, Gemma caught the muscle ticking in Devin’s cheek. Her body tensed in preparation for the blow. With absolutely no filter, Devin ruffled plenty of feathers, earning himself a bad boy reputation. Thus, the reason he’d hired her firm to improve his image. Football clubs wanted talented players, not the drama and personal baggage. And Devin Spencer’s life was a genuine soap opera. A notorious playboy and partier, his exploits off the field rivaled his skills on the football pitch. His mantra: work hard, play hard.

Before answering, Devin ran a finger along his jawline. Almost every inch of his tanned skin, from elbow to wrist, was tattooed. Gemma licked her lips. She remembered accompanying him to get his first tattoo, a spider web covering his right elbow. She’d also been there afterwards when his mother hit the roof and threatened to sue the tattoo parlor because he wasn’t of age.

Eyes twinkling, Devin looked down at Price, as if measuring his words. “Is your sister, Tabitha, free?”

Face flush with embarrassment, Price Quimby turned to the camera. Behind him, Devin floated a pair of rabbit ears over his head.

The screen split to reveal the network’s main studio and Sports24’s Highlights Tonight host, Mel Tratham. “Don’t you have a sister named Tabitha?” he asked.

“Cheeky bastard.” Price jerked at his tie, loosening the knot. “This is Price Quimby with Sp—”

Click.

Gemma tossed the remote control on the couch. She’d studied Devin long enough. Even if she watched a month’s worth of media appearances, she would never be ready for their first face-to-face encounter in over eight years.

“Big girl panties.” Shoring up her courage, but heart pounding like a rabbit staring into the eyes of a coyote, Gemma picked up her cell phone. She pressed #21. One of the six clients she personally handled, Devin had his own code. She’d programmed his number into her phone three weeks ago when he’d formally signed onto Top Flight. A coward, she’d skipped all the pageantry by taking a last-minute cruise along the Mediterranean coast.

Filled with nervous energy, Gemma banged the pen against her leg. So many questions sprinted through her head. The one most at the forefront was why Devin had chosen Top Flight. Like every potential client, he’d received the company prospectus beforehand. Surely, he’d recognized her from her stock photo and bio. And with only four full-time employees, there was no way he’d missed her.

Of course, she’d changed considerably over the years. The baby fat had melted from her cheeks as did much of the weight around her middle. She hadn’t lost the eleven stones which contributed to secondary school being a living hell. The extra pounds had simply shifted when she’d grown six inches from a diminutive five feet.

Her mousy brown hair no longer floated around her head like a frizzy halo causing her fits with its sheer volume and unmanageability. Shorn and dyed a hip cherry-cola hue, her hair now hung to her shoulders in a sleek asymmetrical bob.

One thing which hadn’t changed was her voice. Husky and full-bodied from countless hours of vocal lessons, her voice had been shaped by her mother’s misguided dream that her only daughter would one day become an opera singer. As a result, Gemma sounded like a fifty-year old butcher who smoked a pack of cigarettes a day. Bullied by her classmates and given the nickname toad, her only respite had come through Devin, who’d made her read Lord Byron’s poems to him.

Maybe she was just being paranoid. More than likely, Devin didn’t remember her at all. While their sixth form remained etched in her memory, he’d probably written it off as some childhood fling. After all, he was one of the best goalies in the Premier League, filthy rich and a bad boy with enough notches on his bed to rival Mick Jagger’s.

“Talk to me.”

Gemma jumped almost dropping her cell. She hadn’t heard Devin pick up the other end.

“Hello…anyone there?” His voice poured over Gemma like warm Nutella. Deep, rich and surprisingly cultured, his accent was devoid of the brummie intonations of their native Birmingham. Unlike cockney, which had an unusual cult following, absolutely no one outside the west midlands appreciated the local accent.

“I…ah…hello.” She took the phone from her ear and slurped in a deep breath. In less than a second, he’d reduced her to an awkward schoolgirl. Gathering her bearings, Gemma took another soothing breath and then launched into what she hoped was a professional introduction. “Hello, Devin, this is Gemma Clarke with Top Flight. You’ve been shackled to me (well-timed chuckle) and I believe we have an appointment this evening, six o’clock at the Belvedere Supper Club.”

Gemma gave herself a high five for execution. She sounded like a wind-up doll, but at least she’d spit it out without any of the embarrassing hiccups.

“I’d rather meet here, at my place.”

Thrown for a loop, Gemma’s heart beat double time. “Y-y-your place?” she asked, once again tongue tied.

“My place offers privacy. Trust me. With the transfer window in full effect, every bloke will be underfoot and our meeting would be a waste of time.”

His reason for meeting at his place made perfectly good sense. Then why did she feel woefully deflated? Because deep down, she’d hoped his suggestion hid an ulterior motive—like getting into her knickers. Once upon a time, he’d used every trick in the book to get her out of them.

Her libido percolating like a tea kettle, Gemma shoved the ballpoint pen between her lips and went to town chewing the tip. Adding Devin Spencer to her client list was going to be a challenge. Not just professionally, but personally as well.

“Your place is fine.”

“How about sushi?”

Confused, Gemma paused mid-chew. “Sushi?”

“I’ll order in for us. If memory serves me, I haven’t met an agent who can conclude business in under an hour.”

If his memory served him so well, why hadn’t he acknowledged their previous association? No bloody ‘how the hell you have been’ or even a hint of recognition in his voice. Of course, Gemma overlooked the fact that this reunion was a two-way street.

“Sushi sounds great,” she replied so tightly, her jaw hurt. He could order whatever he wanted. She wouldn’t allow herself to eat any of it. She planned to rush through their meeting so fast her car engine wouldn’t get the opportunity to cool.

“Do you have my address?”

Gemma eyed the leather portfolio sitting on her coffee table. Ever since it had arrived in the mail from the company’s headquarters in Rome, she’d scoured every single detail. “It’s in your file.”

“Good. I’ll give Marty a heads up and I’ll see you at six. Don’t be late. Just so you know…I hate to be kept waiting.”

***

On the way over, Gemma drove well below the speed limit. She stopped at every orange light from central London to Croydon. And once on the elevator, she hit all the call buttons, causing the lift to stop on every floor.

Despite her bravado, Gemma gathered her bearings. Devin Spencer didn’t mince words with any one, not even his bosses. Last season, a very public row with Croydon F.C.’s general manger, Leighton Royce, had played out in the press. Many believed it was the reason he remained a free agent.

And that’s where she came in. With no offers on the table, Devin was facing a penalty kick of epic proportions. The season was starting in less than two months, and if she didn’t get Devin to straighten up his act, they’d all suffer the consequences. The star goalie would be locked into a crappy contract undeserving of his talent and Top Flight would take a blow to its budding reputation.

To Gemma’s ultra-competitive boss, this was unacceptable. So, she was tasked with a more hands on approach. With a little bit of tough love, and a possible miracle, she had to make Devin all shiny and new, so they could serve him up to the wolves.

Despite going over Devin’s file multiple times, she wasn’t any closer to figuring out the root of his short fuse. From what she remembered of him, Devin didn’t have any skeletons in the closet. He’d been a nice kid with a rather boring upbringing. The oldest of four, he’d come from a middle-class family. His father owned a mechanic’s shop, and his mum had been a hairdresser.