Chapter 2
Chapter 2
I’m still recovering from my funeral ordeal the following morning on my daily commute into the Hawks office. As I think of the look on Chris’s mum’s face (I guess I’ll never need to know her last name now), ice-cold humiliation drips down my back.
Last night, when I literally raced back to my apartment, I confessed the full sorry story to my roommate, Darcy. She was both shocked and amused by what I told her, but mostly amused, particularly when I told her about the Adele song at the end.
I had to laugh when she asked me if he thought it was his dead girlfriend calling from the grave. Of course he did! Everyone in that room must have thought that.
And now, as I sit in my car, stuck in barely crawling traffic, I’m back to square one: dateless, single, alone, and surrounded by my loved-up BFFs with their great guys. Lucky me that the first guy I’d been interested in since Braydon turned out to be a scotch-chugging, dead-girlfriend-denying fraud who put me in that truly awful situation.
Braydon. The mere thought of his name makes my body tense. He was the one I fell for hard. The one who let me down. Even though I know I’m over him, he left a trail of destruction across my heart, and it took me a long time to even want to look at another guy.
I grip the steering wheel of the car my brother, Tim, says has a motor the size of an alarm clock and try my best not to dwell on my singledom. With my one and only date in recent memory ending in total disaster, I’m not holding out much hope for the romantic fairy tale ending I so desperately want.
I guess the only thing to do is focus on my career. Or, to be more precise, to focus on the career I want to have. You see, even though I manage sponsorship deals for the Hawks, my true passion lies in designing clothes, specifically clothes for non-talls like me. Being the first person in my family to ever graduate with a degree, my parents were so proud of me, I couldn’t let them down and throw it all away. Which is how I find myself in a job I don’t like, working with a bunch of jocks, when all I want to do is design clothes.
I learned all I know from my dear mum. She taught me to sew, she encouraged me to design, and she always found something positive in all the clothes I made—even when the seams were wonky or the material sagged in the wrong place. For me, designing and making clothes is my outlet. It lets me be me, and I’d love nothing more than to make it my career someday.
I follow the traffic onto the Great North Road, and that’s when I see the large billboard that I’m forced to look at every morning of my life looming before me. It’s an image of my least favorite rugby player, someone I know all too well, thanks to the fact that he’s the face of Bennett Motors, the team’s largest sponsor.
Nick Zachary. Even his name makes me tense up. He embodies everything that I loathe about sports pros and rugby players in particular. He’s arrogant, good-looking in that totally-knows-it kind of way, and is so far up his own butt I wouldn’t be surprised if daylight was a foreign concept to him.
And what’s more, right now as I sit in barely crawling traffic, he’s gazing down at me from thirty feet in the air, taunting me with his glistening six-pack as he poses next to a Bennett Motors car.
I scoff, as I always do right about now on my daily commute. Why does the guy have to be shirtless to advertise a car? I mean puh-lease! It’s an ad for a freaking car, people, not chest wax. If I were him, I’d be claiming sexism, that the world is treating me as an object rather than admiring me for my sporting prowess. But he doesn’t, and he won’t. Instead, he continues to gaze out at me with that smug look on his face as I crawl along in my tiny car with the alarm clock engine.
I avert my eyes as the traffic begins to creep marginally at more than a snail’s pace, and mercifully, I pass by the billboard before I come to a stop at another red light. My phone beeps, and I collect it from the passenger seat. It’s from my boss, Ed Steele, and it’s all in caps. Hmmm. Ed really only uses yelling-at-you- in-an-extremely-loud-voice caps if there’s something seriously wrong.
URGENT MEETING IN CONFERENCE ROOM
I wonder what’s up? I glance at the light—still red—and tap out a quick reply.
Everything okay, Ed?
My phone pings again in less than five seconds.
NO! GET HERE. NOW!
Well, I guess that’s clear. Worry rolls through me. What can this be about? As the lights change I tap out a hasty reply.
Will be there in 5 minutes.
Nine minutes later—darn the Auckland traffic—I push my way through the glass revolving doors into the lobby, give a quick wave to the girls on the reception desk, and manage to dive into a packed elevator before the doors close with a whoosh behind me. I drum my fingers against my thigh as I stare at the numbers highlighting each floor on our slow climb to level twenty-one. I’m sure we stop at every single floor, and more and more people pour out, until finally it’s just me and someone else standing at the back of the elevator. I’m too focused on watching the numbers climb to notice who.
“You seriously need to relax, Erin,” a voice says behind me, and I whip around to see who a) knows me by name and b) is being so rude.
My eyes land on a tall guy with an athletic physique wearing a hoodie top paired with track pants and a set of headphones hooked around his neck. His brown eyes gaze back at me with a hint of a smile around his lips.
Nick Zachary.
Lucky me.
“I don’t need to relax, but thanks for your concern, Nick.” I smile sweetly at him and turn back to watch the numbers.
“How come you’re tapping your thigh like that, then? You look to me like you could do with some serious chilling out.”
I paste on a smile and turn back to face him. “Statistically speaking, only one-point-five percent of people relax when they’re told to relax, you know.”
He arches one of his eyebrows at me. “Statistically speaking, huh?”
I raise my chin. “That’s right.” I totally made that stat up, but there’s no way I’m backing down, not with a self-satisfied jock like Nick Zachary.
“Oh, I get it now,” he replies, his eyes dancing. “What you’re saying is, you are uptight, and you do need to relax.”
“No, I…” Damn him! I grope around in my head to find a change of subject and land on the billboard image. “It’s good to see you’ve managed to wear a shirt today.”
“Excuse me?” he asks with a surprised laugh.
“Your billboard is on my way to work,” I explain as my cheeks begin to heat up.
I see you’ve worn a shirt today? I scrunch my eyes shut in embarrassment. What was I thinking?
“Ah, that. Yeah, I figured since I’ve got a meeting with, you know, civilized people who wear clothes every day, I’d better throw something on.” He pulls on his top, and my eyes trail over him. He looks every bit the off-duty professional sportsman he is. Despite the loose-fitting top, it’s obvious he’s in great shape—and considering I’m subjected to that billboard image of him every day, I don’t need to be reminded. “You know, I hear they even wear shoes.”
“Very funny,” I quip. I turn back as the doors thankfully swing open and step out into the Hawks’ reception. “See you, Nick,” I say over my shoulder as I throw Harriet, our receptionist, a quick smile and bustle down the hall to the conference room. I burst through the door, aware I’m now a full eleven minutes later than I told Ed I would be and come to a sudden stop. Sitting around the table are four men, all dressed in navy suits, all with grim looks on their faces. There’s Ed Steele, my boss, John Rogers, the head of the whole Hawkes Team, and two stern men who look like they’ve sucked on a whole stack of lemons. One of them I recognize as the Commercial Manager I’ve met a few times at Bennett Motors—the reason why I’ve got to look at that billboard of Nick Zachary on my daily commute.
“Sorry I’m late,” I say with as confident a smile as I can manage in my flustered state. “Traffic, right?” I slide my purse onto a seat, shake out my hair, and extend my hand toward the sour-looking suits. “Good to see you again, Mr. Stinklater,” I say (and yes, my friends and I have had a good laugh over that name before). I turn to the other lemon sucker. “Hi, I’m Erin Andrews. I’m an Account Manager here at Hawks.”
Both suits stand up, and the distinguished, elder statesman shakes my hand and says in an American accent, “Trey Coombs, President of Bennett Motors.”
President of Bennett Motors? As in the head honcho, the big cheese, the guy the buck stops dead with? I resist the urge to let out a whistle. Something big has got to be going on here.
“Great to meet you, Mr. Coombs,” I say. I pull up a chair and glance at my boss. His face is so taut with worry, he looks like he’s undergone some extreme plastic surgery since I left the office on Friday afternoon. Which of course he hasn’t, because this isn’t Hollywood. It’s Auckland, and he’s Ed Steele, my usually sweet middle-aged boss who’s recently acquired the habit of texting me IN FULL CAPS.
“Erin, as Account Manager for Bennett’s very valuable sponsorship here at the Hawks, I felt it was important to make you aware of the concerns that Mr. Coombs and Mr. Stinklater have raised with us,” Ed says.
I steeple my fingers and nod in an attempt to look as though I’m not only interested in what’s going on, but I’m a considered, knowledgeable professional. Which of course I am. “Go on, Ed.”
“There was an incident over the weekend,” Ed says. “It involved a Bennett vehicle and one of our higher profile players.”
Aghast, I say, “Was there an accident? I hope no one was hurt.”
Ed shakes his head. “Nothing like that.”
“But it is equally serious,” Mr. Stinklater interjects, and Ed nods. “We at Bennett Motors put our trust in the Hawks and everyone who represents them. This sort of thing cannot happen again.”
“What sort of thing?” I ask, riveted. Did one of the players drive a car off a cliff? Did they use one in a bank robbery? Did one of them entertain a lady in the back and get caught? When it comes to jocks handed free stuff and a wad of cash for fronting sponsorship deals, none of these options are outside the realms of possibility.
Mr. Stinklater ignores me. “The player in question is skating on thin ice. He’s got a morality clause in his contract, and we don’t want to have to terminate because of it. But if things continue as they have been…” he leads.
Terminate? Losing Bennett Motors’ sponsorship would be like losing the whole team. We could barely keep our players on the field without their cold, hard cash.
Ed twists his mouth, his brows knitted together. “I understand completely.”
“We’ve called the player in to meet with you,” John Rogers, Ed’s boss says. “In fact, he should be here any minute.” He looks up as the door swings open. “Ah, the man in question. Mr. Coombs, Mr. Stinklater, of course you both know Nick Zachary.”
I swivel in my chair to look at him. Nick Zachary. I should have known. When I take in his easy, relaxed vibe, I draw my lips into a thin line. Why am I not surprised? Along with being arrogant and self-obsessed, Nick Zachary has gained the moniker the Wild Boy of Rugby from the media. He’s been seen falling out of nightclubs at all hours with a different girl each time and always, always out of his head drunk.
“Good morning,” he says with an easy smile, as though he didn’t do some terrible thing to a Bennett vehicle over the weekend. Whatever that was. I am so itching to know.
“I got here as quick as I could.” He pulls out a chair and folds his bulky frame into it, leans back, smiles at us all, and says, “I guess I should apologize for the truck.”
“That would be a great start, Nick,” Ed says with a stern father expression on his face. Ed’s good at such expressions, probably because he’s a father to five now fully-grown boys. Parenting in his house must have been like wrangling a pack of wolves.
Nick leans forward and puts his hands up in the surrender sign. “My bad. I shouldn’t have left it parked on the beach like that.”
I blink at him. He left his truck parked on a beach?
“That wasn’t the best choice, no,” John says.
“In my defense,” Nick continues, “there were no parking spaces outside the bar. What was I supposed to do?” He lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “Really, this is a much bigger issue than my truck getting washed into the sea. This is about the city of Auckland not taking its role seriously enough to provide adequate parking spaces to its residents. We have rights, you know.”
I regard him through narrowed eyes. Is this guy for real?
“Whether the city has enough car parking spaces or not is not our concern, Nick,” Mr. Stinklater says. “My team advised me yesterday that there’s no way to repair the truck. It’s a total write-off.” He glances at Mr. Coombs, who gives a slow considered nod.
Nick leans forward in his seat. “Look, I get that I messed up, and I’m sorry for that.”
I harrumph. You are not in the least bit convincing, Nick Zachary.
“I guess I didn’t know the tide would come in,” he adds.
Well, that confirms it for me. This guy is so arrogant he thinks even the ocean’s tides revolve around him.
“Tides come in, and they go out, Nick. That’s what happens with the ocean,” Ed explains as though Nick were a four-year-old.
“Yeah, Ed, I get that,” he replies. “It was dumb of me, and I’m happy to pay for the truck.”
“The problem is wider than simply the truck, Nick, which is why the president of Bennett Motors, Trey Coombs, is here,” Mr. Stinklater says gravely.
“Nick, we’ve got an image problem,” Trey says then tilts his head to Mr. Stinklater, and adds, “Show him the photos.”
“These images turned up on the same night.” Mr. Stinklater holds his tablet up, and we all lean in to see yet another slew of photos of Wild Boy of Rugby Nick out partying with a sea of girls at some club; Nick looking like he drunk enough alcohol to completely replace the blood in his veins; Nick being dragged out of the club by a couple of buddies. It looks like quite the night. I bet his hangover kicked him in the face the next day. And I cannot feel in the slightest bit bad for the guy.
See what I mean? Jocks . They think nothing can touch them, that they can park their cars on a beach—a beach!—and the tide will stop doing its thing until they can bother to collect it. You know what that tells me about Nick Zachary? He literally thinks the world revolves around him. Literally.
“Look, Nick,” John says. “What Mr. Coombs and Mr. Stinklater are concerned about is not just the vehicle or the salvage costs. It’s the wider issue of the image you’re projecting these days. You’ve changed. You used to be a stand-up guy, never misbehaving, always the kind of guy we could rely on. Lately? Well, for the past couple months you’ve been partying pretty hard and making some poor decisions.”
“Yeah, I guess,” Nick replies.
“You guess?” John scoffs. “Try the cover of magazines, news stories about you, social media going crazy after you stripped down to your underwear and went for an impromptu swim in the fountain at Mission Bay last weekend. A very public fountain. Drunk out of your skull, might I add.”
Nick holds his hands up in surrender. “I get it. I’ve been taking things a bit far lately. I need to dial it back a notch. I can do that, no problem. Just give me another chance.”
“Your game is suffering, too. You’re a stellar athlete. I’d hate to see you throw that all away,” John says.
“With all due respect, Nick, we need more than you giving up the partying. If you’re to continue to be the face of Bennett Motors here in New Zealand, we need a total image overhaul. It’s either that or we’ll have to consider our options here,” Mr. Coombs says.
“Consider your options?” Nick asks, and for the first time I think I detect a note of concern in his voice, and a whisper of something other than arrogance on his face.
Huh. Maybe the guy’s not just some arrogant jerk who thinks of no one but himself after all?
Mr. Coombs replies, “It’s business, that’s what it is. When you signed a sponsorship deal with us, you and the Hawks became part of the Bennett brand. The face of Bennett Motors is a big deal, and we pay you handsomely for your efforts. We need to see you as the role model we intended you to be.”
“So, what do you want me to do exactly? Other than not park on beaches when the tide’s out, of course. Although now that I think about it, I don’t have a truck anymore, so I guess that won’t be an issue,” he replies, his features returning to the impassive expression of before.
“We’ll get you a new one,” Mr. Stinklater says, and I almost fall off my chair. Nick Zachary trashes one of their vehicles, shows a blatant disregard for it, and now he gets another one? So typical.
“That would be good,” Nick replies, adding, “Thanks,” as an afterthought.
“Here’s what you need to do,” Mr. Coombs says. “You’ve got to drop the partying, stop the drinking, stop being seen out with a different girl every five minutes. You need to come across as a reformed man, one who’s got his life together. Do you think you can do that?”
Nick harrumphs, and I swear I see him pout. “I guess,” he grumbles.
Ha! That told him.
“We discussed it before you got here and agreed that not only does the partying need to stop, but you need to start dating a nice girl, someone the papers will like, not some model or actress. A regular, ordinary girl. Someone you could be seen out and about with for a few weeks, two months tops, to show the country you’re the honorable, decent guy you were not that long ago,” John says.
“Where would I even find a regular, ordinary girl? Well, one who’s not in my mum’s knitting circle, that is.” Nick laughs at his own joke.
I nod and say, “I agree. It’s a very good plan. Do you have someone in mind?”
“Someone normal. Someone approachable and easygoing,” John replies.
“There must be out of work actors out there who would be happy to take the job,” Ed suggests.
My brain begins to tick over as the seed of an idea is planted. Nick needs to be seen with a normal girl, someone who’s not a celebrity or a model… someone like, well, someone like me.
I could do it. I could be Nick Zachary’s fake girlfriend.
I know what you’re thinking: am I insane? Have I forgotten that I despise sports pros in general and Nick Zachary in particular? The thing is, I could benefit from his fame and the exposure he could give me. Being his fake girlfriend could be my chance. On Nick Zachary’s arm, I will get a lot of media attention, which I could use to showcase my fashion designs. This could be the start of my whole new career!
“I’ve got an idea,” I say, and all eyes in the room swivel to me. Well, all except Nick’s. I bet he’s too busy admiring his own reflection in the glossy table to bother looking at a lowly Sponsorship Account Manager like me.
“What’s your idea, Erin?” Ed asks.
“What about me? I could do it,” I reply, half wondering at my own sanity.
Nick flicks his eyes to mine, a smile teasing his lips.
Ed’s eyebrows ping up. “You, Erin?”
“I’m normal. I’m easygoing. People generally don’t hate me,” I say with a small laugh. “Why not me?”
John leans back in his chair and rubs his chin. “You’d be prepared to be seen out with Nick, acting as though you’re his girlfriend, getting photographed?”
“I would.” I give John a firm nod and turn to toward the two Bennett Motors. “As the Sponsorship Account Manager for Bennett Motors, it will give me a chance to ensure Nick is representing you and your brand in the best possible light.”
“You’d do that to keep an eye on me?” Nick asks, incredulous.
“No. I would do it for the good of the Hawks-slash-Bennett Motors relationship,” I reply curtly.
“You are the type of person we had in mind,” Mr. Stinklater says.
I smile at him. “The perfect solution, don’t you think?”
As they confer, I run through all my designs in my head, working out what I could wear to best showcase my work. As I do so, I notice Nick sizing me up out of the corner of his eye, but I ignore him.
After a few minutes, John leans forward and says, “Erin, as long as you’re happy to do this for us, we would be thrilled for you to act as Nick’s girlfriend, and we would be very grateful to you.”
“Thank you,” I reply with a broad smile.
I steal a look at Nick. He’s leaning back in his chair, his arms crossed, watching me closely. I shoot him a closed-mouth smile, and he raises his eyebrows at me in question. I look away. I bet he’s thinking I’m doing this to get close to him, like so many other women would. Well, he’s got another thing coming. I’m in this for my own reasons, and they’ve got absolutely nothing to do with Nick Zachary.