Chapter 6 Jade
Two weeks have passed since I started my life in London.
Two weeks of wondering if I was going to bump into the consequence of my reckless actions.
Days on end dealing with the haunting memory of Tieran tugging on my hair, thrusting deep and hard like he had something to prove, and then failing miserably as I tried to burn the memory from my brain out of pure necessity.
Countless mornings of contractors coming and going from my flat with Aanya at the helm, bossing them around.
Early morning alarms waking me up only hours after I fell asleep all for the sake of filming content to send to my editor.
Weekends spent stealing time with Dad in between zoom meetings with associates back in the States.
Full days working at the stadium sun up to sun down before coming home only to work another several hours taking care of the various branches under Jaded: new collections for the clothing line, a range of homeware goods for my Anthro exclusive, and mountains of paperwork and legalese were just the tip of the iceberg.
It’s a lot—more work than I’ve ever had at one time—but I’m managing.
Sort of. I’m not getting much sleep between all the virtual meetings in different time zones, but that's what eye patches imported from Switzerland are for.
I nearly forgot to take them off before running out the door, late to the morning meeting I set with the other shareholders.
This is not how I wanted to start my day, but I slept through my alarm, missed the Pilates class I had booked, and had less than an hour to get ready and out the door.
Now, I’m feeling off-kilter, and I have to square up to the room full of men who would do anything to see me removed from the premises.
My black stilettos click against concrete tile floors, carrying me through the staff-only hallways of the stadium toward the conference room.
I’m no stranger to board meetings where I face men in suits who lob their money around and metaphorically whip out their dicks to measure whose is biggest, but something about this particular meeting has me intimidated.
Maybe it was the direct way Chapman made it known I wasn’t welcome, that he likely has everyone behind the doors I’m walking up to already against me, but my gut reaction is telling me I’m about to be thrust back into high school. Ever the social pariah.
That’s fine; I’m not here to make friends. My goal is to be close to my dad, to try something new, challenging—exciting. Doing variations of the same thing for the last decade was starting to feel soul crushing. I needed this change—even if no one understood it.
As I approach the door to the conference room, voices from inside float out to greet me.
“I don’t care. I’ll get her to leave.” The voice no doubt belongs to Chapman.
“At least she’s nice to look at.” This from a voice I don’t recognize, perhaps Ron, who I still have yet to meet, since he’s conveniently ignored all my attempts at a phone conversation.
“That’s all she’s got to offer. She won’t know the first thing about running the club; she’s young and inexperienced, a stupid girl playing dress up who’ll realize she’s in over her head soon enough. And if she doesn’t, I’ll find a way to force her out. This club belongs to me—”
“Come again?”
“To us,” he corrects himself, but I hear the lie for what it is. Lawrence wants this team for his own, and he has no intention of sharing.
Taking the lull in conversation as my cue to enter, I open the door and watch both men—and who I assume to be their assistants—straighten in their seats.
“Nice of you to finally join us,” Lawrence snickers derisively.
“Nice of you to keep my seat warm.” I nod toward where he’s rooted in the chair reserved for the head of the business. My chair.
His face reddens the closer I get until I’m standing next to him, looking down.
“Surely one of the other chairs would suffice,” he says with false cordiality.
“I like this one,” I state, placing my hand on the back of the chair.
I am definitely punching the bear in the face at this point. I have delivered blow after blow to his pride, and the slight of doing it in front of his male peers, people he clearly deems lesser than him, will not be easily forgotten.
“The head of the table is typically reserved for the leader of the organization, no? Does that differ here as opposed to in America?” I cock my head at the group of men in front of me. The assistants look scared, Chapman looks homicidal, and Ron looks ambivalent.
“No, miss. It’s the same here,” Ron says in a soft, lilting voice.
“That right? What do you say, Lawrence? Fancy showing me those British manners I’ve heard so much about?” I curl my head to face him, raising an eyebrow and delighting in the subtle twitch of his left eye.
He stands, chair legs scraping against the floor. Adjusting his blazer, he glares daggers at me as he walks a couple places down and takes a new seat.
I stay standing at the head of the table, waiting for everyone to settle before sitting.
“As you all may be aware, over the last couple of weeks, I’ve met with each individual team member and player to ask what areas of the organization could be improved upon. I’m curious to hear what you all think as well.”
I sit back in my chair and wait for one of them to speak up.
“No one has anything to contribute?” The disbelief is clear on my face. Reaching into my bag, I pull out my laptop, powering it on and pulling up my cross-referenced notes from each meeting. “That’s interesting, because I have transcripts from at least forty meetings that would state otherwise.”
I spear them all with a look over my laptop before closing it and folding my hands on top.
Chapman finally speaks up. “I don’t know that coming in here and telling us everything we’re doing wrong is the right approach, Miss McKallen.”
“I’m not pointing fingers, Mr. Chapman. I’m simply looking for areas of opportunity within the club.
” I try to soften my tone, be less combative while still asserting authority.
It’s pandering bullshit, and a man would never have to jump through these kinds of mental hoops, but I do care what they think, since, whether they believe it or not, they’re a part of this team too.
There’s a cough to my right, and I look over to find Ron sheepishly raising a hand.
“Yes?”
“Did the players have a lot to say?” He looks almost scared to speak up, and it’s immediately clear why when Lawrence scoffs. I glance over to see his jaw grinding, the subtle movement causing Ron to shrink in his seat under Chapman’s unrelenting glare.
It’s curious how both Ron and Lawrence hold the same percentage of shares, but there’s a clear hierarchy in the room. That will have to change, but that matter is much more delicate than a simple upgrade to equipment or uniforms.
“They did. First and foremost, I’ve been diving into our financial accounts and see there seems to be a surplus of charges on dining—”
“Are we not meant to pick up the bill when we take out associates?” Chapman interrupts.
“Of course.” He looks all too pleased. “Within reason. With that said, a monthly spending limit will be put into effect, and those excess funds will be reallocated to the team’s daily per diem while on away games.” The smug look previously taking residence on his face drops.
“But—”
I hold up my hand in a show on authority. “It’s non-negotiable.”
“Who do you think you are?”
The need to defend my place here, again, grates like nails on a chalkboard.
“The team needs to know they matter to us, that we want the best for them. Rugby builds community within our city. Inside every pub that plays a match, people gather to drink a pint and cheer on the guys together. Behind television screens across the UK and the world, people watch and rally behind their favorite team. We should want to foster those connections. The fans have to love our players to show us loyalty, and for that to happen, our players need to be happy. We aren’t just here to make money; we’re here to build a legacy.
” I pause and look them each in the eye.
“Atleast, that’s why I’m here. Why are you? ”
The rest of the meeting passes swiftly, with slightly less hostility from the opposite side of the table.
There is a reluctance for change that will be a hard wall to break down, but I've never been one to back away from a challenge. If I had a dollar for every person who’s doubted me over the course of my career, I could have bought the rugby team with the amount amassed.
At one point or another, that doubt would have crippled me. Now it fuels me.
Packing my laptop into my tote bag and slipping my stilettos back onto my feet, I stand to leave for the day.
Lawrence, Ron, and their assistants left earlier in the afternoon, going on about grabbing lunch and making it a point not to invite me.
Not that I particularly wanted to join, but if it would help bridge this vicious gap, I’d fall on my sword and make it work.
Tracing a path through the hallways, I casually make my way toward the field. To assess the progress of the team, I tell myself. I am simply performing duties that fall within my leadership role, nothing else.
Stopping at the mouth of the vestibule that leads out onto the pitch, I stop and stare, allowing the shade of the overhang to shelter me from being seen.
Before me is so many thighs encased in very short shorts, all bulging with muscle.
Even I have to admit, it’s a sight to behold—professionally speaking.
Coach Ballard and his assistant coach consult over a clipboard while the players are scattered around the field, running through a series of cool down exercises.
Stretching, they’re stretching. Hip flexors, bridges, and forward lunges make up the field as the guys chat about their evening plans.
A low laugh rings out over the noise, drawing my eyes to a tall figure.