CHAPTER ONE
Hardy
I scrub a hand through my hair and sigh as I move about the room and over to the huge window where the practice facility for Miami Mayhem Football Club is laid out before me. I glance back to the desk where one of the club owners, Rush Mackenzie, sits, and raise my eyebrows. “C’mon. That’s shit. Total shit, mate.”
“Maybe so, but you pulling that stunt is just as shit.” He leans back in his chair and studies me, lifts his hands up before setting them back on the desk before him.
Tall and athletic, the man is a legend in more than just my own mind. The uber successful Premier Leaguer is still playing while being a part-time owner of this new Major League Soccer club here in the States.
How he manages it all, I have no idea, but I’m slowly finding out.
“Like I said, the guy was in my face,” I try to explain.
“And so you decided to punch him, break his camera, while a hundred other people had their phones out filming? Bloody brilliant,” he says sarcastically.
I’m supposed to feel guilty. I know I should, but I don’t in the fucking least. “He called my date a bitch and taunted her.”
“And in the scuffle, she was pushed to the ground.”
I draw in a deep breath. “That wasn’t me. We were blinded by all the flashes, and somehow, she got caught in the middle.”
“If you were blinded, then it could have been you, couldn’t it? Regardless, it doesn’t matter if it was or wasn’t. What matters is all the mobile phones and all the footage on social media being posted. What happened to her can be misconstrued any way you want.”
“It’ll blow over.”
His smile has alarm bells going off. “This isn’t like back home, Hardy. You should know that from the time you’ve been here.”
“The press is the press. Social media is social media. It doesn’t matter what country you live in, it’s all the same.”
He chuckles. “Except you’re forgetting one very important thing. We’re paying you to be the face of this club and MLS added handsomely to that sum to be an ambassador for this game. That holds more weight than most.”
“And I’ve taken that duty seriously in my five months here. I’ve played my arse off in games—our record proves that. I’ve gone to all the events asked of me and then some. I’ve flown from here to everywhere to make sure my face is where it needs to be and my star power behind it. Grand openings, interviews, inaugural matches for new stadiums, the Hollywood bullshit. One little flub isn’t going to negate all that time I’ve put in.”
“You’re right. You’re a wanted man in all aspects, but let’s be clear here—it hasn’t just been one little flub.” He eyes me from above his steepled hands with a look that says he’s not going to believe my own bullshit any more than I do.
“The others were all explainable.”
“The others? Which of those are you referring to since you seem to get amnesia every time I bring them up?”
I level him with a glare. Does he really want to do this? I’ve more than put my time in here. My one-year transfer to America’s Major League Soccer from the Premier League may come with a massive contract and bonus, but it also came with a spotlight that was bright.
Even brighter than the one I face in the UK, if that’s even possible.
At home, I’m one of many footballers who represent the game in a raucous atmosphere of loyalty, fandom, and gamesmanship that stretches back for many generations for some. In the States, I’m the sole face, on loan here for a year and for a very pretty penny, to be the person to try and create a sliver of that passion here.
That means things that would fly under the radar at home are under a bloody microscope here.
And I’ve been examined under its lens plenty.
“How about the incident with the fan in the first month of the season?” Rush prompts.
“He threw a bottle at my head on a corner kick.”
“But you didn’t instigate it at all, no?” he asks while I just stare at him. My mouth may or may not have been running as I walked to the flag to take the kick. “Or with Gallo?” he asks, mentioning our goalie.
“We had a slight difference of opinion.” I shrug and fight the smile as I run a hand over my jaw. The fucker knows how to throw a punch. I’ll give him that.
“A difference of opinion that was caught on camera and posted from here to Kingdom Come.”
“The upside? It got people paying attention to the team. And we’ve learned to manage our differences and put the team first.”
“No doubt if I run down the list of the rest of your incidents, you’ll have a smart-arse response to all of them, won’t you? The drunken incident while at Disneyland—”
“It’s the happiest place on earth. I’m allowed to take a night off.”
“The snubbing fans at Fanfest.”
“I didn’t see them standing there. Do you really think I’d ignore them?”
“The sleeping with Bradford Hughes’s girlfriend—”
“Christ, Rush. Now you’re going to monitor who I fuck?”
“He was the star of the movie whose premier you were attending. In the green room, no less.”
I don’t fight the smile on this one. “She came onto me. I mean, are you going to fault me for being spontaneous?” Christ. That woman might have been putting notches in her bedpost, but I was a willing participant. Any man would have been.
The muscle in Rush’s jaw tics. “You’re neglecting to see the big picture here.”
“Which is?”
“Every single one of these incidents reflects poorly on not only the team but the league and sport you came here to elevate.”
“Look, I screwed up last night. My temper got the best of me. It’ll blow over in a few days.”
“You’re missing the point, Hardy.”
“I’m well aware of the point. And I know you’re looking at this as a player, as an owner, and as an agent because, no doubt, Lennox is in your ear telling you all the things I’m doing wrong,” I say, mentioning his wife and my sports management agent.
“She has a soft spot for you,” he concedes.
“Everybody does.” I flash a grin that obviously falls flat given his dubious expression.
“This isn’t going to blow over,” he says sternly. “People we’re trying to make fans aren’t going to pay five hundred dollars a ticket to watch a spoiled prima donna play who thinks he’s bigger than the sport they still don’t one hundred percent understand.”
“Wow. Don’t hold back, mate.”
“I won’t. My investment in this team isn’t just as a figurehead. I want this to work. That’s half of the reason I convinced—er, that all of us co-owners worked so hard to get you here for the year. But ...” He picks up a pen and taps it on the desk. He stares at it for a beat before lifting his eyes up to meet mine. “I received a call from the league .”
The league . Major League Soccer. The governing body of the sport here in the United States.
Fuck .
“What did you tell them? That I’ll do better next time, but that if someone disrespects my date, I can’t guarantee I won’t act the same way again? Let’s face it. I’m damned if I do and damned if I don’t. If I don’t stand up for her, I’m the arsehole who doesn’t respect my date, and if I do defend her, I’m acting against the governing body’s wishes.” I throw my hands up. “How would you react if it were Lennox?”
Fury flashes through his eyes. His answer is clear in that lone reaction.
“You’re turning fans off.”
I snort. “No, I’m not. I’m busy being exactly who they paid for— me .”
Rush gets up out of his chair and moves toward the window I was previously looking out of. I know he can see the lush green field of the pitch, the bright blue and black logo of Miami Mayhem FC adorning the stadium walls and center of the field. He stands there—a man I admire more than I’d ever admit—with his hands on his hips and takes in a small piece of the whole he’s helping build in between his out time on the Premier League pitch.
“Yes, but the spotlight of your misdeeds is outshining the luster of your star power.”
What the fuck am I supposed to say to that?
We both turn at the sound of heels clicking on the floor. When I see all five foot nothing of Ari Winters striding into Rush’s office, I groan audibly.
Rush isn’t fucking around if the Queen of Public Relations is here.
“Gentlemen. Great to see the both of you again,” Ari says in her perpetually cheerful tone, which at times makes me want to bury my head in the sand. “And we do need to stop meeting like this, Hardy, or I’m going to begin to think you have a thing for me.” She turns to Rush and smirks. “Should I let him down gently?” Then turns to me. “I’ll let you down gently. My wife and I are very happy, so please don’t take this the wrong way, but if I’m here, it’s only because you’ve fucked up once again.”
“I like to say it’s more of a misunderstanding and bad camera angle, but—”
“But it doesn’t matter what you think, only what the masses think. Well, and the Mayhem and the MLS, apparently, since I’m here.” She sets her laptop down with a dramatic thud and turns to me with her arms crossed and an all-business posture. “What the hell are we going to do with you, Alexander Hardy? Huh?”
“Nothing.” I flash a grin. “Let me go back to training since that’s going to be the best way to win over the hearts and minds of Americans.”
She shakes her head. “Where was that guy, the one who has clearly been media trained, two nights ago when he punched a cameraman and possibly his girlfriend?”
“I didn’t—”
“Save it.” She holds her hands up. “I’m sure Rush has told you these same words: it doesn’t matter what happened. It’s what’s being perceived that’s the problem here.”
“Then fix it. Isn’t that your job?” I ask, my patience gone.
“Probably the wrong thing to say about now,” Rush says as he takes a seat back behind his desk.
“Definitely the wrong thing to say,” she parrots. “Part of your agreement with MLS is to help serve our community.”
“And I have. How many times did I go to whatever that place is?” I snap my fingers, the name of the shelter escaping me. “I did my part. I showed up. I took pictures. I signed autographs. I’m supposed to go back whenever the fuck it is—”
“Thursday.”
“Yes. Thursday. That’s why I have a PA to remind me of this shit,” I joke.
“Tell him or her to un-remind you. They don’t want you back.”
Perfect . “Why’s that?”
“Well, it’s a battered women’s shelter, Hardy. The last thing they want is a man who possibly hit a woman to be their kids’ hero.”
“But I didn’t hit her.” My voice escalates in pitch.
“And like I said, it doesn’t matter whether you did or didn’t. It matters what other people think. And they don’t want you back.”
“This is such bullshit.”
“Perhaps, but we have a problem on our hands when the man sent here to electrify our league isn’t even wanted by kids.”
“Okay. Fine. Guilt session activated. Hardy’s a dick. Hardy screwed up. Hardy apologizes. Can’t that just be enough?” I ask, hands up. “Every time you walk in a room, Ari, I’m asked to do yet something else I don’t want to do and so—”
“So we’ve pivoted,” she continues as if I never spoke. “There’s a local soccer academy here.”
“I’m sure there are lots of them. What’s your point?” Penance? Kissing their arse? A photo op ? All three have me rolling my shoulders.
“It’s in a low-income area, pay only what you can, type of place,” she continues.
“And that has to do what with me? It needs some money to help out? Fine. Tell me who to write the check to. Done.”
“Throwing money at it isn’t going to fix public perception.” Her smile is tight as her eyes level me with a glare.
I snort. The irony. Isn’t that what my mum and Monty used to do to me ? “Money helps everything.”
“Pretty sure this time around it needs you, Hardy. I mean, your money is fine, you can throw that in there if you wish, but your presence there is what I’m looking for,” she says.
“And no doubt what the club and the MLS is looking for. A way to further the game with the youth of tomorrow,” Rush says.
I point to him while talking to her. “Now that’s a man who’s had media training.”
“No. This is a man who’s learned from his mistakes,” Rush says.
“Well, I assure you that standing there with a fake smile in front of a group of kids saying some insincere words isn’t going to do shit for anyone.”
“It will and those words better be perfectly sincere,” Ari says.
I step up to the window and look out at the field beyond. A few of my teammates are down on the pitch running drills on their own time, but not me...like I should be. Like I’d rather be. Nope, I’m up here being treated like a two-year-old. My sigh fills the quiet. “Look. I apologize. I’ll keep my head down and out of the press moving forward. Last thing I want to do is make the organization look bad.” I add the last part for good measure. At least I sound contrite.
“Apology accepted, but when my phone rings and it’s someone from the league or my co-owners, a simple apology isn’t enough anymore,” Rush says.
“And flooding social media with smiling pictures of you with kids and families isn’t cutting it. You fucked up. The only one who can fix this is you,” she says. “And this soccer academy is just that.”
“Awesome. Can’t wait.” Sarcasm drips from every word.
“I’m ironing out the details as we speak—coming up with a plan for how to maximize the situation for our benefit and make you look like Prince fucking Charming to the public,” Ari says.
I emit an even louder groan in response. No one will ever compare me to a prince. I’ll put money on that.
“Perfect,” she says when I don’t respond and picks up her laptop and hugs it to her chest. “I’ll get to work and get back with you on the plan and how we proceed but be prepared that it’ll be within the next day or two.” She turns to Rush and gives a slight bow of the head. “We’ll talk soon.”
“Thanks, Ari,” he says while I grumble something similar before she bounces out of the office like a satisfied woman. More like a ball-buster .
“So ...” Rush says, leaning back and steepling his fingers over his mouth as he eyes me.
“I’m getting the feeling that this isn’t negotiable.”
“A great football player and a quick learner.” He whistles. “I knew I liked that about you.”
Fuck .