Chapter 1
Theo
One matcha latte and one oat milk cappuccino. Tick. Invoices filed, Charlie’s diary clear until three. Double-tick. Social postings scheduled. Triple tick. If organisation were an Olympic sport, I’d be draped in gold, singing Flower of Scotland at the top of my lungs.
Last night, I alphabetised my spice rack – from cinnamon to turmeric. What can I say? I like to begin the new year with outer order and inner peace.
Even if both never last beyond January.
Two days in, Edinburgh is a slushy grey mess of broken resolutions and discarded Christmas trees.
Scottish January wind rattles the windows of this former warehouse turned co-working space.
Inside Elite Edge Sports Management’s office, however, calm prevails.
Mostly because I enforce it with the efficiency of a benevolent, caffeinated despot.
That’s my job as assistant, after all, and I take that seriously.
Also, everybody else in the world is still at home, nursing their monumental Hogmanay hangovers.
I don’t drink. Am I a workaholic?
Possibly, possibly.
But I do have something to prove. Being kicked out of a global agency like Nectar London wreaks havoc on anyone’s confidence. Yeah, I tanked my first proper job, and it wasn’t even my fault. Unless you count gullibility.
The radiator in my tiny office hisses and clanks. The converted warehouse aesthetic might seem sexy on our website, but the heating system belongs in a museum.
‘Theo?’ My boss Charlotte Harrington’s voice cuts through the glass wall. ‘Got a minute?’
I grab my notepad and battered, glittery travel mug, and make my way into her office next door. My reflection bounces back at me in the partition. Wonky fringe, toner streak on my cherry-print blouse, and a high ponytail that resembles that of a wee Shetland horse at a rave.
‘Professional competence at its finest,’ I deadpan and smooth back the escaped strands.
She’s hunched over her laptop, hair twisted into that messy bun she turns into a statement. Wish I could pull that off.
‘Did you reschedule the MacInnes interview?’
‘Moved it to Thursday, ten sharp. He’ll be charming, guaranteed.’
Andy MacInnes, the cyclist, is one of our so-called heritage clients, like Brodie MacRae. They came with the list when Charlie acquired Henderson’s sports management last year.
She gives me a wry smile. ‘You make it look so easy.’
‘It’s who I am. Anything else?’
She shakes her head. ‘No. But honestly, you’re the glue that holds this whole thing together.’
‘That’s on my CV under special skills.’
Yep. The unshakeable Theodora MacMickin, purveyor of order, slayer of chaos, and secret hoarder of sparkly mugs and matcha. If only I could sort my anxieties as easily as my spices.
Just as I’m about to leave, a ping from her phone makes me turn around. She snatches it up, pink creeping over her face like a sunrise over the Firth of Forth. That tell-tale flush you get when you’re trying not to look bashful.
And I should know – chronic blushing is the bane of my existence. Honestly, it’s debilitating.
‘Everything alright there, boss?’ I lift the corner of my mouth.
She startles, tucking her phone away. ‘Yeah…erm…just Brodie.’
I’m physically incapable of resisting the jab. ‘Sexting at work is it now?’
Charlie’s my boss. But she’s also become a close friend. She’s twenty-six, only one year older than me, and I admire her. That woman has balls bigger than most of the oh-so-tough athletes she represents.
She glows, and my face does that thing where it won’t stop smiling.
I’m truly pleased to see her so happy. She deserves someone who worships the ground she walks on.
Someone who isn’t a manipulative, gaslighting, lying tosser.
Unlike her father and her ex-fiancé, Brodie hadn’t stomped all over her heart and left it looking like roadkill.
The memory of my own betrayal still sits low in my gut and tastes awful, even a year on. Like licking a penny. Love came, conquered, destroyed me, and sent me crawling back to Scotland with shattered dreams.
‘Brodie’s picking me up later.’ Charlie fiddles with the pen in her hand.
‘Ooh, another date night. You two are disgusting. Cute, but gross.’
She chucks a crumpled paper ball at me and misses by a mile. ‘And you’re terrible,’ she says, but her grin is genuine.
‘Maybe. But he’s clearly very good for you.’
Too bad that no one had ever been that good for me. The thought sparks and dissolves. No time for self-pity.
‘He is,’ she says with a dreamy look in her eyes. ‘He really is.’
They’re moving in together, only a few months into their relationship. Makes complete sense for them. I’ve never seen anyone so head-over-heels in love as Brodie MacRae and Charlotte Harrington.
‘Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a reputation for ruthless efficiency to uphold.’ I turn to go, smoothing down my skirt. The world might be a chaotic mess, but my life, at least, remains impeccably arranged.
‘Thanks, Theo.’
Back in my own tiny office, the faint drone of the computer sounds strangely oppressive. Ruthless efficiency – that’s the fortress I’ve cultivated, brick by painstaking brick. Made of competence, designed to keep the world at bay.
London taught me the dangers of vulnerability the hard way. Gil had promised me the world, then nuked it and handed me the ashes. By the time I realised the extent of his fucked-up game, it was too late.
No. I won’t let him haunt me, not even on a dreary Thursday in January.
I have work to do, an empire to build, and reputations to polish.
And if Charlie’s happy, and I had a hand in that, good.
That’s enough. Love might be a superpower, as I’d told her the other day, but it’s also a volatile one.
Best to admire it from a safe distance, armed with a well-organised to-do list.
Men. Who needs them? They’re a bonus, not a necessity.
I finally have a thriving career, a curated spice rack, and a cute cat who just about tolerates my existence. What more could a woman in her mid-twenties want?
‘What the fucking FUCK?!’
My mug tips, spilling matcha across the desk. Instinct kicks in before thought, and my body’s moving. I burst into Charlie’s office without knocking.
‘What on earth happened?’ I sound calm while emerging panic flurries inside. It could be anything – her father, her ex, a full-on apocalypse…
Her gaze is glued to her laptop. ‘Check this out. Unbelievable.’
She angles the screen my way. The email subject line reads:
REQUEST FOR COMMENT – FINN LENNOX SCANDAL
My stomach plummets. I scan the text, and words jump out like neon signs: tabloid…publishing tomorrow…photos attached…Swiss resort…New Year’s Eve…Lord Dalcrieff’s fiancée and her stepsister…explicit content…
I click the attachment.
Oh.
Oh damn.
Two women, one blonde and one brunette, both on their knees. Finn Lennox, pink-haired flanker extraordinaire and our newest acquisition, sitting between them on a couch. The picture is grainy but clear enough.
‘Bloody rugby players,’ I mutter under my breath. ‘Someone’s got to stop these man-babies making a mess, wrecking their careers, and giving their agency grief.’
‘Switzerland.’ She pushes away from her desk. ‘That’s where he disappeared over the holidays. That’s why he didn’t answer any of my calls, texts, or emails.’
She paces, her heels stabbing the floor. I keep scrolling through the images, each more incriminating than the last. But… he’s got an impressive piece of kit, I have to give him that.
Highly inappropriate. Moving on.
‘When did you last speak to him?’ I ask quickly to steer my thoughts in any other direction.
‘Christmas Eve. His text said he needed some space after a family bereavement. Then he went AWOL.’
‘Right.’ I reset my posture and square up. ‘First, we need to verify these photos are real.’
‘They are. Look at his hair and tattoos. God, the headline. They’re calling it “The Double Snow Job”.’
A hysterical laugh bubbles up my throat. I swallow it down in the last second. ‘Bad, but catchy.’
‘This could torch everything.’ She stops pacing and braces herself against her desk.
‘The car dealership contract I’ve been negotiating.
The Rebels’ current sponsorships. His reputation.
Their reputation. Our reputation. Hell, this entire agency!
Lord Dalcrieff is a sitting Tory MP, and he’s not going to be amused. ’
My brain clicks into crisis mode. This is what I do, I fix things and make order from chaos. But even I feel cold sweat breaking out across my shoulder blades.
‘We need to contact Finn.’ I say. ‘Get his side of the story. Did he know about the Tory MP connection? Did he know they were sisters – stepsisters, whatever? Was he…drugged? We need information. Where is he?’
‘How the fuck should I know? Jesus! Why didn’t I go into accounting or banking or zoo keeping?’
I keep my tone level. ‘Has he returned to Scotland, do you know?’
She checks her phone. ‘According to Brodie, he’s missed the conditioning sessions, but is expected back for full intensity training tomorrow.’
‘Good. That’s good.’ I’m already scribbling. ‘We have to prepare a statement. Contrite but not admitting liability.’
‘They’ve got photos of him getting enthusiastically serviced by two women, one of whom happens to be engaged to a fucking Tory MP! How much more liable does it get?’
I pause my pen mid-word. ‘Yeah. The politics angle complicates things.’
‘You think?’ Her laugh is bitter. ‘Elite Edge is eight months old. Eight months. And I signed him just before Christmas, fully aware of his volatility. What got into me? Am I clinically insane?’
The guilt in her voice makes my chest tighten. ‘This isn’t your fault, Charlie.’
‘Isn’t it? I should have known better. But… I like the guy.’
‘He’s brilliant on the pitch,’ I say quietly. ‘Always has time for the fans, grins like a wee boy when he scores as if he can’t believe his luck. No off switch. The fans love him. So does the team.’
‘We’ll see how long that’s going to last.’ She sinks into her chair. ‘And management could drop him, although that’s unlikely mid-season.’
I drum my pen against the paper. ‘We have to get ahead of this and control the narrative.’
‘How? What are we gonna say – they just used his dick as a microphone for an impromptu naked karaoke session?’
I snort-laugh. ‘Aye, but… They’re also private and taken without consent. We can spin this as an invasion of privacy, you know? Like Hasselhoff and the cheeseburger?’ My stomach twists with anxiety, but I push through it. ‘We need Finn here.’
Charlie reaches for her phone. ‘I’ll try Scottie. They’re living together and are quite pally.’
‘And I’ll draw up three potential statements.’ I head for the door, then pause. ‘Charlie?’
‘What?’
‘We’ll fix this.’ I’m not one hundred per cent convinced, but she needs to hear it.
‘Will we?’ Her eyes meet mine, vulnerable in a way I rarely see. ‘Because this feels like the beginning of the end.’
Her words drop into me, right where doubt and fear live. Elite Edge isn’t just a job for me. It’s redemption and a second chance after the agency job in London crushed me. If we go down because of Finn Lennox’s childish inability to keep his tadger in his trousers, I’m not sure what I’ll do.
This is why I keep my life so ordered. Once you let chaos in, it spreads like wildfire, consuming everything in its path.
‘Well then.’ She exhales and straightens her shoulders.
The strategist is back. ‘Plan B. We contain the leak. We contact the tabloid and offer them an exclusive. We’ll send out a carefully worded statement, a photo of Finn looking appropriately remorseful.
We minimise the damage and protect the team. We salvage what we can.’
Her fingers rest lightly on the keyboard, all steady now.
The Charlie I know, love, and respect is emerging from the rubble of initial shock.
The Charlie who gave everyone the manicured middle finger and started her own sports management agency.
This is more like it. Action, not panic. Control, not chaos.
‘I’ll get the coffee, boss. Industrial-strength.’ I’m already calculating how many espresso shots we’ll need to survive the next twenty-four hours. ‘Then I’ll outline the statements. And start calling the sponsors.’
‘What would I do without you, Theo?’
‘Commit homicide, probably. Let’s save Finn’s career first. Then you can butcher him at your leisure.’ I offer her a tight smile. ‘We’ll get through this. Elite Edge is going to be huge, Charlie. Mark my words. We’ll be the biggest sports agency in Scotland.’
I mean it. I’m going to bust my butt to make that happen. Men might come and go – but our friendship, our shared ambition, that’s the real love story. The one I’m determined to see through to its happily ever after.