Dangerous Play

Chapter 1

DOMINIC

“Where the fucking fuck is that fucking wanker?”

The furious voice drifts down the hallway to my office, that very familiar Yorkshire accent meeting my ears, and I sigh heavily.

I should have known this day was going to be a wash. Cold, rainy, two injured players, and the loss from three days ago looming over the club. I should have stayed at home. And now, with that angry voice moving closer to my office, I know this day is only going to get worse.

What the bloody hell has he done now?

The door flies open, and in a flurry of long dark hair and tan coat, my enraged daughter-in-law makes her entrance, followed closely by my assistant. Gordon looks like he’s going to have a heart attack, his face bright red and the veins in his temples threatening to burst.

“I’m so sorry, sir,” he splutters, holding up his hands as Mia rounds on him.

“What you apologising to him for?” She snaps, before turning back to me and striding to the edge of my desk. “Where is he?”

“Where’s who, Mia?”

“Oh fuck you, Dominic. Where is he?”

My relationship with my daughter-in-law was never a good one, which was partially my fault.

I’d never put in the effort to really get to know her, too busy with the club and investors, and enough romantic entanglements that I should have been ashamed of myself.

Our relationship was polite, but cursory, perhaps even bordering on frigid.

Her relationship with my son was probably even worse. And that, too, was partially my fault.

I get to my feet, tucking my hands into the pockets of my trousers. “Mia, I need you to-”

“If you tell me to calm down, I swear to god almighty I will tear your fucking eyes out, do you hear me?”

I believe her, too. “Why don’t you tell me what’s happened?”

Mia’s head jerks over her shoulder. “Get out,” she barks at Gordon, who backs out of the room so quickly I’m worried he’s going to hurt himself. She waits until Gordon’s gone before turning back to me, folding her arms over her chest. “I just want to know if you knew.”

“Knew what, Mia?”

“About the dirty slut he’s shagging.”

My stomach drops. My idiot son. My fucking foolish, idiot son. “Are you sure?”

Mia opens the tan leather handbag under her arm and tears out something red, lacy and flimsy, which she flings onto my desk.

“I bloody am sure.” She darts a long fingernail at the red garments.

“Found those in my drawer. The bastard had the audacity to put his slag’s underwear out with my fucking washing. ”

I run a hand over my face. “Jesus Christ.”

Mia and Archie’s relationship had been a source of fascination and concern for everyone close to them since the moment Archie had announced he’d found The One working the makeup counter at Harrod’s seven years ago.

Their whirlwind romance - a full two months between meeting and the lavish Italian beach wedding - had been the stuff the fans and the media dreamed of.

But it had quickly descended into a whole lot of less-than-paradise.

They were both hot-headed, and young. Public rows, blurry photos of arguments over restaurant tables, and Mia’s absence at awards ceremonies, saw their relationship picked apart, closely watched by the gossip rags that were aching for the next juicy bit of news about Arlington’s star player and his beautiful, angry bride.

But after every public screaming match, there was the Making Up.

They’d be snapped again, holding hands and smiling, kissing for the cameras, declaring they were happier than ever.

A front as it turned out. More than evident as I look down at the red pile of lace in front of me.

I should have stayed in bed.

“Are you sure they’re not maybe a present he’s bought for you, and just not told you about?” I ask, hoping that maybe, just maybe my son isn’t that fucking stupid and deceitful.

Mia snatches a scrap of red lace off the desk and holds it to her chest. “Does it bloody look like this was meant for my tits?”

The bra looks like it could probably hold Mia’s head. Whoever it belongs to is either naturally blessed, or knows an excellent plastic surgeon. Definitely not Mia Brookes, who made it onto billboards wearing Levis and Calvin Klein underwear with her androgynous, permanently pissed off look.

“I’m so sorry, Mia.”

“I don’t give a fuck what you are, and I certainly don’t need your apologies.

I just want to know where he is.” Mia crosses her arms over her chest. “He’s not come home since training yesterday.

And nobody knows where he is, apparently.

So again, is he here and you’re just hiding him because you know your son is a fucking wanker? ”

I shake my head, meeting her furious jade-green eyes with a sigh. “I promise you, if he was, I’d have him on the bloody lawn myself.”

“Oh, fuck you.” Mia scowls at me. “Half of what he learned about how to treat a woman he learned from you.”

The comment stings, but she’s also not entirely wrong. The man who’s just gone through his fourth divorce doesn’t have the high ground in a conversation like this.

“I don’t know what else to tell you. He’s due for practice at two, and when he -”

“Tell him he’s not welcome home,” she interjects, now jabbing that elegant finger in my face. “You fucking tell him that. And if he tries, if his shadow darkens my door for even a second, I’ll go to the bloody press and tell them he’s a grubby, cheating man whore who can’t keep it in his pants.”

She turns on her high-heeled boot and strides out of the office, slamming the door behind her so hard, the painting beside it crashes to the ground.

I sink back into my chair. Shit.

I grab my phone from the desk and bring up Archie’s number. I hit call, and wait. It doesn’t even ring. After a loud beep, there’s Archie’s voice.

“This is Archie, I’m too busy being me to answer, leave a message, I probably won’t listen. Ta-ra!”

“Fuck,” I hiss, throwing the phone back to the desk. “What the fuck have you done, Archie?”

The door opens, and Gordon peers into the office, his face slightly less flushed, a heart attack hopefully now not imminent. He eyes the fallen painting, and tentatively enters the office, as though Mia may have left landmines waiting for him.

“My apologies, sir,” he says. “She was not to be stopped.”

“No, Mia never is.” I get to my feet and walk to the window, which affords me a view of the training fields. “I called Archie, but it went straight to voicemail.”

“Yes, Sarah tried calling him, too. Similar luck. I managed to hunt down Ezra and ask him, but he said he hadn’t seen Archie since training yesterday morning.”

“Fuckin’ hell,” I mutter. “When he shows up to training this afternoon, let me know.”

“Of course.” Gordon shifts from foot to foot and clasps his hands. “That is, if he shows up.”

There’s a knock at the door, and my secretary has popped her head in.

“Sorry to bother you,” Sarah says, eyes darting from Gordon to me. “But security’s just called. It seems there’s been a little issue with your, um… with your car.”

“My car?” I ask with a frown.

“Yes, sir.”

“What problem?”

Sarah chews her lip for a moment before inhaling through her nose. “Mia appears to have smashed your headlights on her way out.”

Gordon eyes me with alarm. “Oh, dear.”

I rub my forehead, earnestly wishing I could just go back to bed and start the day over again. “Spectacular.” I stride past the both of them, down the corridor of the club building and take the stairs, because the bloody lift will take too long.

In the parking lot, I observe the shattered glass of my Aston Martin’s headlights. After a minute or so, Gordon comes running out after me.

“Bloody hell,” he says, shaking his head. “She really did a number on it.”

“Get that seen to, would you?”

“Of course.”

I check my watch and huff out a frustrated sigh. “I have a meeting with Dubai in five minutes. Remember, the minute Archie steps foot on these bloody grounds, you tell him I’m looking for him.”

“Will do, sir.”

I hurry back upstairs, taking a deep breath and trying to calm myself down.

I need to look like the respectable owner of one of the biggest clubs in the Premier League, not some rampant brawler who wants to take a fist to his stupid son’s face.

The owner beating the shit out of the captain and the darling of the British fucking media probably wouldn’t be a good look, even if he is my kid.

By the time my investors appear on the screen, I’m back - Dominic Graves, owner of Arlington FC, jovial and professional as ever.

And with one eye firmly on my phone, waiting for it to light up and tell me this day was all a fluke.

“Trouble with your motor?”

The gravelly voice sounds behind me just as the mechanic hands me the keys to my now-repaired car. I turn to face my father, and am taken aback for a second when I see he’s wheeling his oxygen tank along with him. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the sight.

“Should you even be out in this weather?”

My father waves me off with a weathered hand. “Don’t you worry about me, lad. I want to know why I’m hearing from the press that my useless grandson has scarpered off to Spain.”

Shit. I quickly turn back to the mechanic, thank him and send him on his way, before ushering my father inside and out of the relentless drizzle that has settled over London today.

“What are you talking about?” I ask him. “When did Archie go to Spain?”

“The telly said he was snapped at Heathrow last night,” my father says, pausing to catch his breath. “It was a blurry photo taken by a fan on their phone, but I’d recognise that stupid mug anywhere.”

“Dad,” I warn in a low voice. “That is my son you’re talking about.”

“And he’s useless. I warned you, didn’t I?”

I grit my teeth, balling my hands into fists and shoving them into my pockets. “He is the captain of the team, Dad.”