Player's Challenge Page 15

  “And Gemma?”

  “I see.” Mind devising a solution to his troubles, Devin ran his finger along his jaw.

  “Do you?” Chuckling, Gladys slathered her scone with jam and clotted cream. Her eyes, so much like Gemma’s twinkled with a knowing look.

  “Start with an apology?”

  “If you only want to be passing acquaintances.” She paused to bite into her cake. “But don’t you fear, love, my door is always open.”

  He adored Gladys but he wasn’t settling for a consolation prize. “More than an apology to a woman who won’t return my calls.” Devin shoved his entire scone into his mouth. “I’m bloody screwed,” he muttered.

  “Pretty much.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Gemma thumbed through a stack of linen button downs in search of an extra-large. The sun was shining, birds were singing and it felt good to concentrate on something other than Devin.

  “Any luck?” Stu asked.

  Bare-chested, he stood half in, half out of The Bespoke Male’s dressing room. The rugby player had been the first person she’d called when she left Devin’s. They’d been joined at the hip ever since. Stu not only provided a shoulder to cry on, he was her cheerleader as well. He also talked her from the ledge, even going so far as to delete Devin’s constant text messages. And if it weren’t for him and his so-called need for her eye for fashion, she would be at home wearing flannel, eating a tub of black walnut ice cream and watching old episodes of “Coronation Street”.

  Beaming, Gemma pulled a periwinkle dress shirt from the pile. The color would offset Stu’s gray eyes to perfection. She held the garment up like a prize trophy, and caught a movement in the mirror.

  Standing directly behind her, Devin looked great in a green, lightweight jumper and jeans. He stepped closer and she got a whiff of his cologne. The familiar scent affected her libido like flipping the light switch. A shiver ran through her body and try as she might, she couldn’t help wanting to be alone with him, to talk to him, and ask him how he’d been holding up since she’d left.

  Stu intervened before she caved.

  “What the fuk are you doin’ here, mun?” Stu growled.

  Gemma placed her hands on Stu’s chest to calm him down. “This isn’t the place for a showdown,” she said, reminding him they were in a public place.

  “Listen to her, Stu, before you find yourself flat on your arse.”

  Stu pressed against her hands so hard, Gemma had to dig in her heels. “Shut up,” she glared at Devin, “You’re only making this worse.”

  Stu’s lips curled into a sneer. “Why are you here? I knew you were off yer rocker for that stupid shite you cooked up, but I never took you for a stalker.”

  Flesh connected with bone. Stu stumbled backward into a folding table, knocking it on end. He wobbled, tried to regain his balance, but fell to his knees. In top shape, he recovered quickly. Fists clenched, he rolled into a crouching position, ready to pounce.

  Gemma shook her head at him. “Don’t Stu. Be the better man.” She glared up at Devin. “Get out of here,” she demanded. “You…you…maniac.”

  Devin opened and balled his hands as if warring with himself. After what seemed like an eternity, he retreated.

  ***

  “You should have let me at ’im,” Stu growled. He sat on her living room sofa, a soggy bag of semi-frozen English peas pressed against his black eye. “I could’ve taken that lightweight pancake catcher wit ease.”

  Gemma took the vegetables from his hand and replaced it with a bag of ice. “When did fourteen stone become lightweight?”

  “Tah me he is. I beat him by almost three stone.”

  “So that’s why he got the jump on you.”

  “You got jokes,” Stu grumbled.

  “Your eye’s going to swell, if you don’t hold it right.” Gemma adjusted his hand. “I’m just giving you a hard time, mate. I know you could have laid him low and I appreciate the chivalry. But it’s over now, so don’t go looking to retaliate. Remember you’re on probation.”

  Despite everything, Gemma didn’t want to see Devin hurt any more than Stu. To dispel some of the tension, she picked up the remote. “How about EastEnders?”

  “Oi! I luv me some Honey Mitchell,” he said, twisting his big frame to and fro’, settling himself deeper into the couch cushions.

  Gemma smiled. Like all her clients, she knew Stu’s likes and dislikes. “Who knew a big mun like you loved the soaps.”

  “I’m a sookah for drama.”

  And a master at creating it. The black box wrapped around his ankle wasn’t decoration. A precautionary measure, the monitor kept him in line until his court date and five hundred feet away from his ex-wife, their home and her current boyfriend.

  Gemma checked the time. “We have a few minutes to burn. Mind suffering through the evening news?”

  “I’m no wanker oblivious to tha world ’round him,” blustered the rugby player who once endorsed an Ecuadorian coffee company notorious for using child labor.

  “And that’s why I love you, such a Renaissance man.” Gemma powered on the flat screen.

  “I like their other set,” Stu sniffed. “This one’s too techy.”

  “We’re sure our audiences have been sitting on their hands all evening,” Peter Feenty, BBC1’s evening anchor, said. “Now to Tori Bennett for sports.”

  “Hold onto your seats Edmonton fans, goal keeper Devin Spencer has refused the Club’s offer, and is still on the open market.”

  Incredulous, Stu dropped his ice pack in his lap. “Lover boy passed up thirty million?” He swiveled toward her, hair slightly askew and looking like a hybrid raccoon. “How can you be in love wit sooch an idiot?”

  Gemma answered Stu’s question by slamming the ice pack back over his eye. Cell phone in hand, she bounded from the couch and didn’t stop until she was on the garden patio.

  Yvonne answered on the second ring. “Thank your lucky stars your number’s programmed into my contact list. You’d think the sky has fallen and I’m the fox.”

  Gemma ignored her boss’s perpetual reference to fairy tales, chalking it up to an odd quirk of motherhood. “I’m not sure if I should scream or vomit. What happened?”

  “He didn’t want to go to Edmonton. Even worse, he won’t enter negotiations without you handling the deal.”

  Gemma’s stomach dropped. “You told him he’s no longer on my roster?”

  “Told him, yelled, screamed at the top of my lungs, he won’t budge.”

  “The transfer window closes on Friday.”

  “Aware of that. You’re going to have to whip the terms out of your ass.”

  Already running the numbers, Gemma started to pace, “He’s really put me in a bind—”

  “—with your hands tied behind your back—”

  “—by refusing Edmonton’s deal, Croydon or any other club for that matter doesn’t have to match the offer—”

  “—they’re going to play dirty, even low ball you—”

  “I’m in.” Gemma didn’t even second guess her decision. She thrived on a challenge. And since she’d memorized his wish list, she didn’t need to see or even talk to Devin to conduct business.

  “One more thing. Before you reach out to any other clubs, Devin wants to meet with you.”

  “Let me guess, to iron out the terms?” The bloody bastard wouldn’t give up! “That’s not going to happen. I remember his terms.”

  “Throw them out. He wants to start fresh.” The play of words hadn’t been lost on Yvonne either because her rueful laughter drifted through the receiver.

  “I saw him today.”

  “What…wait…where?”

  “While I was out shopping with Stu. He egged Devin on, they got into it and he bested him.”

  “Whoa! The underwear model got the better of the dump truck?”

  “Stu’s sitting on my couch right now, nursing a black eye.”

  “I’m dropping him. I run a sports manageme
nt firm not an escort service slash fight club.” Yvonne made a shuddering sound. “I don’t know about you, but I feel used and manipulated.”

  “Join the club,” Gemma muttered. “The night I left him, I sat in the shower for an hour.”

  “I’m about to propose something absolutely crazy, but hear me out.”

  “You’re my boss, you pay me to listen.”

  Yvonne chuckled. “As your boss, I suggest we teach Mr. Tighty Whities a lesson.”

  Gemma perked up. “I’m all ears.”

  “Do you think you can close this deal?”

  This was not the cold plate of revenge Gemma was expecting. “Inking a multimillion dollar deal doesn’t seem like a lesson,” she demurred.

  “Have you ever heard of a cock blocker?”

  Accustomed to her boss’s lack of a filter, Gemma didn’t even blink. “I’m slightly familiar with the term.”

  “Well call me, C.B. from here on out because Devin is going to hate me by the time he inks his deal. Anytime you two meet, I’ll be the third wheel, a buffer against any of his shenanigans. He gets to see what he wants, but can’t have. He’ll be a multi-million euro man with blue balls. You’ll save face and walk away with twelve percent of his earnings.”

  Gemma’s eyes widened. Her boss had sweetened her proposition with an increase to her normal commission. Somewhat on board, she aired her doubts, “I appreciate the raise, but I’m not sure if I can stomach working with him long term.”

  “No worries. We’ll front load his contract. After a year in, I’ll drop him. What do you say?Are you in?”

  For once she wanted to get the best of him, have the last laugh. Yvonne’s plan looked great on paper, but so did the Iraq war and look how that ended up.

  “After all your hard work do you really want to hand your commission over to someone else?”

  “This could end up being a bad ass moment of epic proportions or a hot mess.”

  “Either way, you need to go find your big girl panties because you’re going to need them.”

  ***

  In the best mood he’d been in for weeks, whistling a merry tune, Devin chucked his car keys to the parking attendant.

  “I’ll take good care of her, Mr. Spencer.”

  Devin didn’t give a whit if the car hop completely totaled the Panamera. In a few moments, he would be reunited with the only thing he cared about, the only thing that mattered—Gemma. Impatient and eager to have her in his arms again, he walked into 30 St Mary Axe, better known as The Gherkin because it resembled a pickled cucumber.

  Practically walking on sunshine, Devin swept through a set of revolving doors into the building’s all-white lobby. A slick, high-tech exterior skin of clear glazed panels contributed to the abundance of sunshine. Sleek and ultra-modern with sweeping lines, the rotunda was devoid of internal walls or columns.

  “Oi! Spencer?”

  Devin hesitated. Unsure if it was a media ambush or a sole heckler, his eyes roamed the lobby seeking out the source. One of the two receptionists, her red hair tightly wound into a topknot, waved at him.

  “Staying at Croydon, lovie?”

  “You’ll be the first to know,” he hedged like a practiced pro. The media was everywhere so it always paid to have one’s representation make the official announcement. A slip of the tongue or comment taken out of context could break down negotiations faster than getting booted from the World Cup. With a wave, he made a beeline to the bank of elevators.

  Thankfully, the ride up was a solo endeavor. Hard to play coy in a steel box with nowhere to go. From experience, Devin always scheduled his appointments at ten thirty. This guaranteed he’d beat the lunch crowd and that black hole called the evening commute. Also, since the time fell so early in the work day, he’d be the first item agenda on most people’s calendars. A natural born competitor, he loathed coming in second.

  Eyes trained on the cab’s brushed aluminum doors, he suddenly second guessed his choice of wardrobe. Aspiring to put his best foot forward, but not wanting to give the impression he was trying too hard, he’d opted for a pair of black trousers and a white button down rolled up at the sleeves. What he’d assumed would be classic…safe, now felt boring.

  Devin shook his head. As if anyone in their right mind would buy the BS he was pushing. To think he’d almost tucked his tail between his legs, and retreated for another eight years. Instead, he’d presented an ultimatum which retained Top Flight as his representative and kept him in arm’s length of Gemma.

  Pleased as punch at the sudden turn of events, Devin rocked back on his heels. If he were the gloating type, he would’ve kept them sitting around waiting but being away from Gemma had been hell. He’d missed her laughter, her smile, the lilt of her voice when she became excited. He’d missed the way she snuggled against him when they watched TV and after they made love. He missed those times the most.

  Nothing was the same after she walked out of his life. Every flat surface seemed to have her imprint or triggered a memory—her ghost as good as permanent. He hadn’t been back to his apartment in weeks, opting to hole up at Grayson’s.

  The change in scenery hadn’t helped. Devin’s entire routine had altered for the worse. He’d become a walking, grunting zombie stalking Grayson’s estate. To say he’d suffered sleepless nights, would be an understatement. Of course, he made up for it by sleeping through the day, rising just in time for dinner.

  At least he hadn’t lost his appetite. His five meals a day had fallen by his ever-expanding waist side and now consisted of constant grazing. His almost religious following of the five food groups had now been replaced with his worship of fish and chips, Nutella, potato crisps, salt water taffy and copious amounts of beer, but not in that order. He estimated he’d put on about a stone. Between all the eating and sleeping, there was no way he could keep up with the demanding schedule of twice a day workouts.

  His behavior had also taken its toll on his new living arrangement. Having never experienced Devin ‘The Sad Sack’ Spencer before, Grayson was at his wits end. Tired of his advice falling on deaf ears, and not wanting to be an enabler, he’d packed his bags and gone on holiday in Ibiza.

  Finally, Gladys and Mum came to the rescue. Refusing to leave unless he opened the door, they burst in like twin cyclones. With a little tough love and threats of humiliation (like posting a picture of him in Grayson’s soiled pajamas to his four million followers) they helped him get his shit together. He wasn’t completely out of the dark, an addiction to hazelnut proved hard to break, but at the very least he wasn’t incrementally losing his mind.

  The car ascended for what seemed like an eternity. Devin counted down each floor while running his baby-I’m-a-stupid-son-of-a-bitch speech through his head and trying to ignore the twisting pain in his chest. Served him right if he dropped dead outside her office from an anxiety attack. After what he’d done, he deserved a punch on the kisser, not a meeting. A one-on-one he’d gained through manipulation.

  Would he ever learn his lesson? Probably never, Devon mused. Gemma was as essential to his being as breathing. It was confirmed when the elevator opened on the twenty-first floor, and a familiar surge of adrenaline pumped through his veins. For the first time in weeks, he felt alive.

  Guilt absolved, Devin stepped off the elevator. He crossed a sun-drenched hallway with views of London’s skyline at either end. Automatically sensing him, a set of double glass doors, frosted and labeled with “Top Flight”, slid backward.

  Devin wondered why they even bothered with the formality of having an entrance way. Scarcely departing from the building’s green design, Top Flight’s offices boasted an abundance of more natural light and clean lines. What differed was the addition of white walls sporting black and white photographs of their various clients, and beautiful hardwood floors. Behind the receptionist desk, sitting at the far end of the room, was a different but splendid view of London.

  On his approach, the receptionist, a beautiful East Indian girl, glanced
up. The sudden movement caused her shoulder length bob to sway lazily against her brown shoulders.

  “Mr. Spencer,” she breathed, her red rouged lips cracking in a magnanimous smile.

  “I’m here to see Gemma Clarke,” he said, relieved his voice came out steady.

  “Very well aware of that,” she chastised. “I’m paid to know everyone’s schedule. Inside the office and even when they’re on the road.”

  Devin wondered if he could pay her to keep an eye on Gemma.

  “Well, I’m not going to hold you up talking to lil’ old me.” She glanced at the switchboard. “Hmm…looks like she’s on the phone. Let me go and tell her you’re here.” She pushed away from her desk and stood. “Would you like a refreshment? Coffee, tea, sparkling water?”

  “No thanks, I’m good.” Devin doubted he could hold anything down with his stomach tied in knots.

  Thirty minutes later, Devin wished he’d accepted the girl’s offer.

  As if sensing his pique, she got up and walked over. “I’m so sorry for the wait, Mr. Spencer. With the transfer window closing, it seems like the sky’s fallen around here.”

  Devin didn’t believe the world revolved around him. His mum did a great job of reminding him of that fact. But the wait was inexcusable. Prepared to cut his losses, for the time being, he stood.

  “I’m going to resched…”

  The past thirty minutes spent twiddling his thumbs, suddenly seemed inconsequential. Even the girl faded into the background. He had eyes only for Gemma. As if his bones had been fabricated with magnets and she of metal, he didn’t resist the insistent pull that caused him to gravitate toward her.

  She’d changed her hair, replacing the sleek coif with a head full of bouncy spirals. Devin rubbed his fingertips together, his fingers itching to run through the Coca-Cola red curls. Her hair, a riotous mass of color, was in direct contrast to her pearl white dress. Doing a poor job of suppressing her mouthwatering curves, the garment heightened the color of her brown skin, and drew his gaze to her full hips. The same hips he held onto whenever he took her from behind.