Page 3 of Playing for Possession
Tough luck. What we want and what we get are two different things.I held his gaze. “I’m not being the face of childhood tooth decay.”
Rob’s lips thinned and he rapped his fist on the desk. “Sit down, Earnshaw.”
A tense silence wrapped around us. I’d be in shit for this with Rob, but so be it. He’d come round. He always did. Rob wanted to win the league this year and he needed me for that whether he wanted to admit it or not. There were so many better candidates for a commercial. He’d have to suck it up.
I held my can of Fizzz aloft, and headed to the door. “Thanks for this. It might come in handy for deicing my windscreen.”
Chapter 2
Joanie
Ollie would know how to handle this. My brother never did anything he didn’t want to do. If there was a way out of this commercial, he’d help me figure it out. I planted my heavy cardboard box next to a messy pile of sheet music. I hadn’t visited the recording studio since the refurbishment. The new mixing desk looked more complex than a dashboard in an airplane cockpit. A faint synthetic odor from the acoustic foam in the vocal booth lingered in the air.
“What’s all this?” Ollie peered into the cardboard box.
A high-necked electric-blue cape with silver shoulder embellishments wrapped around my brother’s slim frame. His white-blond hair had an edgy, asymmetric design, with a dramatic side parting, like he’d got bored and walked out of the barber shop mid-haircut. Knowing Ollie, that was a possibility. It was the kind of look that only my brother could pull off.
I hung back by the door. I never dared touch any of the expensive equipment in the studio. “It’s just a few things for the tour. I asked Dad what stuff he missed most from home when he toured Australia.”
A puzzled smile lit Ollie’s face. “A care package?”
He would probably find it twee and overly sentimental, but this was his first tour so far from home. It would be tough. He needed to know that we were thinking of him. Fame of my dad and Ollie’s magnitude had its pitfalls. Ollie would need family support more than ever now to keep him feeling grounded.
I shrugged. “It’s nothing much. I can’t stand the thought of you on the other side of the world without a proper cup of tea and some decent snacks. Listen, I really need to talk to you about something.”
Ollie sifted through the box, pulling out jars of Marmite, packs of pickled onion crisps, and chocolate bars. His confusion shifted to surprise when he found the framed photograph from the night Dad won his most recent Grammy. It was one of the few photos I could find where we’d got the whole family together. He peered at it with an inscrutable expression.
“Too much?” I asked.
“No. This is... I love it.” He tilted his head, and his gaze softened. “This is thoughtful of you. Thank you.”
He grabbed his guitar, perched on the edge of the mixing desk, and strummed a chord progression, lightly. “You wanted to talk about something?”
“Fizzz with three z’s.’ I don’t know how many z’s they need to add before it’s palatable. A commercial, Ollie.” I threw my hands up. “Me. On camera.”
A faint smile pulled at his lips. “This again. I thought we’d moved through the stages of grief to acceptance.”
“No. I’m still very much cycling through denial, anger, and bargaining. I need an out. Please.”
“Why didn’t you just tell them at the meeting that you don’t want to do it?”
“I couldn’t.” My guts had been churning, and words had failed me. “They want to send Kieran Earnshaw from the men’s team. Hewas even more obnoxious than you could imagine. He walked out, and Rob didn’t even stop him.”
I’d watched Kieran Earnshaw on the TV all the time as a teenager when he’d played for Real Madrid. He’d had the most beautiful hair—long and effortlessly mussed, like a nineties heartthrob. Kieran had looked cute and wholesome when he was young, in that nonthreatening boy-band way that young girls crushed on. My heart had been pounding out of my chest when he’d walked through the door of that PR office. Some stupid teenage part of me had flipped out, being in close contact with a football legend.
There was nothing cute about him now. This Kieran was scowling and gruff. His close-cropped hair emphasized his sharp cheekbones and the tattoos snaking up his neck. I’d admired his skill in the old days. Not anymore. Now, he was a dirty player—more famous for his aggressive tackles and explosive temper than his talent.
“You know his brother, don’t you? Jack?” I asked.
“A little.” A frown pulled at Ollie’s brow. He adjusted his grip on the guitar, and his eyes slipped to the rows of framed gold discs that cluttered the wall. “I don’t understand who thought putting you in a commercial would be a good idea. Who did you piss off to get this gig?”
“It’s the injury. Claire would rather send a bench-warmer than an active player.”
Ollie plucked a soft melody. “It won’t be that bad.”
“No. This is legitimately bad.”
Ollie took a swig from the bottle of champagne on the mixing desk.
