Chapter 18 Jade
I didn’t let him walk me home.
Instead, once my lust-addled brain cleared, I opted to run away and hail the first cab that came my way before Tieran could follow me.
Maybe I’m a coward, but what the fuck was I thinking?
I wasn’t—that was the problem: I don’t think around him.
Everything becomes jumbled in my head, my good sense flies out the window, and all I see is him—his smile, those stupid dimples, his eager eyes.
A desperation came over me, one that felt inescapable in the moment.
It was either give in to what’s been burning through me for weeks, or leave.
I didn’t want to leave; I felt like I might die if I did.
Every fiber of my being wanted to stay with him, to spar verbally with him…
to have him touch me again. What harm would come from giving in one more time in a darkened room where no one would see us?
Scratch the itch, and then I would forget it happened.
What an absolute idiot. Statues should be erected in my honor for the unfathomable levels of idiocy I so valiantly displayed.
Lying to myself and believing I could just pretend nothing happened was as effective as throwing grease on a fire, and now, everything is burning to the ground, my sanity first.
It was so much worse now, proven by the fact I’ve been sitting in this meeting for thirty minutes, unable to focus, my mind dragging itself back to Tieran on a never-ending spin cycle.
When I’m around him, it feels like the one time I’m able to shut my brain off and just be.
No expectations, no posturing. He provokes me at every turn, and it’s as thrilling as it is infuriating.
I can’t even recall the last time I had this much fun with anyone, let alone with a man.
My ex was convenient more than anything, and nothing about him made me feel alive, not like I do with Tieran.
Brendan was a hot shot studio manager in L.A.
, and when we met, things were easy and fun for a while—glamorous dates, yacht parties, dinners at Nobu with Hollywood’s best. It was everyone’s dream in Los Angeles, but the glitz of the city’s social scene never excited me like it probably should have.
Brendan reveled in every second of it, loved preening for the masses, especially when I was on his arm.
It wasn’t exactly a love connection, but I stayed out of some misguided sense of loyalty, too busy with work to even notice I was bored, of him, of our relationship.
Then, I found him in bed with my assistant, Veronica.
I mean, really, you couldn’t be more original?
But I guess originality was asking too much from a man who wore the same outfit every day—navy chinos, a dove grey button up, and his Rolex—because every self-respecting studio manager has a Rolex.
I should have left long before I had to hear Veronica’s shrill gasps of pleasure, but there was a comfort in the predictable.
I didn’t have to work at it because there was nothing to it.
My manager told me to forgive him, said affairs were normal in relationships like ours and that fans loved a power couple, but the problem was, I didn’t want a relationship like ours anymore.
Brendan didn’t either, even though he was willing to stay for his image.
The decision to break up with him was freeing, like the weight of social expectation drifted away on the Santa Ana winds the moment I ended things.
I wanted street tacos, and he wanted bite sized portions of toro carpaccio.
He wanted a beautiful trophy, and I was starting to realize I didn’t know what I wanted anymore.
Our puzzle pieces didn’t fit. They never did, and they never would.
Within weeks, and after many arguments with Maxine and financial advisors, I bought the Legends, moved across the world, and stumbled into a dimly lit pub, where I met a man with eyes like the sea.
I kept getting pulled in, kept getting swept away.
I was weathered stone lodged deeply into the shore, stubborn and obstinate, but his waves kept crashing against me until I slowly loosened and was pulled away into the current.
Those eyes are what my memory keeps catching on today.
Electric blue staring back at me through the reflection of a watermarked mirror, faces flushed.
Every time I covertly snuck glances of him at the party, his kind eyes crinkled in laughter at whatever his friends said.
Later, the lamppost light reflected off them like a flash of lightning while he tried to get me to crack a smile.
I see that blue everywhere, even when I close my eyes to sleep. I can’t escape them. He consumes my thoughts, even in my dreams.
I’ve made a mess—a delicious, complicated mess.
“Miss McKallen?” An annoyed voice jolts me out of my thoughts, and embarrassment makes my body flush with heat.
I sit up straighter. “Yes, Lawrence?”
Chapman scoffs. “Are you even paying attention? Shouldn’t the majority shareholder, as you love to remind us, be more present in the meeting?”
The flat stare I give him would make most men wither.
“Of course. Your earlier observation about our revenue stream just got my mind running. I’ve been brainstorming ways we can increase match attendance, as well as raise sales for team merchandise along with food and beverage.
I have a connection with ties to some nationwide beer brands I’m going to reach out to for a meeting.
I think we could partner with them to get a Knightsbridge-specific brew, something you can only get here during a match.
It would have its own label, and we can look into branding for souvenir cups and mark up the price by an extra two pounds.
Then there’s a few food companies I’ve worked with that I want to speak to about elevating the food here.
Sausage rolls are classic, but I think we can take it a step further, source from local farms to support our economy and garner good relations with hard working individuals as opposed to mega corporations.
I’d like for us to appeal to everyone, no matter their socio-economic standing.
A partnership with an established brand will help bring in new guests, but contributing to local business will build the community, and that keeps people coming back. ”
I survey the boardroom, and nearly every face looks impressed—all but one, and that one looks pissed.
“If you have any suggestions, I’m all ears. I’m not the only one on this board, and everyone’s opinion is valuable,” I add, leaning forward with my elbows on the table, resting my chin on the tops of my hands.
Ron looks like he wants to chime in, but Lawrence spears him with a look, and he slumps back in his chair, remaining quiet.
That’s a problem. Chapman fancies himself a god here, and everyone fears speaking out against him.
I need to figure out how to nip that in the ass if we are ever going to be a team that succeeds.
We need to be a well-oiled machine for every aspect to run smoothly, to set an example for all the other sectors of the stadium.
I also need the men who are afraid of Lawrence to speak up for themselves, because it’s clear he’s not going to listen to me.
I’m not in the habit of babysitting grown men who like to throw temper tantrums every time they don’t get their way.
“No one?” I urge, but the room remains quiet.
“Alright, well, as a reminder, the Kingdom for Kids Gala is in a few weeks’ time, and as donors, all of us should be in attendance.
Please plan accordingly.” I don’t know much about our place in the organization or how we came to be benefactors, but I got an email from them this morning to confirm our contribution.
A loud bang reverberates around the room as Lawrence slaps his hands on the table, standing up from his chair.
“Well, gents,” he says, negating my presence.
He slaps his stomach. “Time to get home to the missus, fill my belly, and empty my balls.” The men around him chuckle, even as a few uneasy glances flit my way.
“I’m sure your wife looks forward to you coming home each night,” I say sarcastically, standing from my chair at the head of the table and grabbing my bag to walk out of the room.
The stairs are looking like a great option, even in my stilettos, just so I can avoid being stuck in a tiny steel box with men and their over-inflated egos. I’m halfway down when the door pushes open and slams closed, loud footsteps sauntering down the stairs behind me.
“I’m curious,” Lawrence starts. “Who do you think you are, speaking to me like that?”
I don’t stop, continuing my descent. “I don’t know, Lawrence. Who do you think you are being a blatant misogynist at every chance?”
“It’s locker room chat with the lads. Lighten up.”
“You aren’t in a locker room, and they aren’t your lads. You’re a walking HR violation.” Never mind the horrendous hypocrisy of that statement. I could hardly call him on violations when the captain of my team’s been inside me on two occasions now.
“I’m above HR violations,” he scoffs.
“The fact that you think that proves you shouldn’t hold sole responsibility for the team.” I finally stop and turn to face him. “The rules are in place to protect everyone under the Legends umbrella. No one is above them. You aren’t God, Lawrence.”
“And you think you are?
“No. Just the majority shareholder, and if you won’t give me the respect my position deserves, then I'll just take it.” I spin on my heel and push out the door at the bottom of the steps.
“You’ll trip up eventually, Miss McKallen,” he shouts after me, “and when you do, I can’t wait to see you break your ankle falling in those fuck me heels.”
I don’t stumble at his words. I don’t tense. I don’t let him see the apprehension coating my body like hoarfrost. Because there is something that could make me trip up if it were to get out.