Moving away from the window, he pushed a hand through his messed-up hair as he walked over to the kitchen. His head was still banging, that self-inflicted hangover making its appearance felt once again now the morning sex was over and reality was back. He needed some kind of quick-fix relief, especially as Max was due any minute now. He really didn’t want or need his agent to see him looking like shit, even if that’s exactly how he felt. But he’d needed last night, needed that chance to escape, even if it had only been for a few hours. He’d needed to be with someone, to do something that took his mind off everything that was going on, but he also knew he had to make a decision soon. He had to grow up and face things head-on, or he knew he could be in danger of losing it all – and he wasn’t willing to go there again.
Pouring himself a glass of orange juice, he sat down in a chair by the window, bowing his head, focusing on his blue and yellow trainers – one of the many freebies he’d been given over the course of his career. He’d lost count of how many others he’d received, everything from holidays to flat-screen TVs, even a car. And yet, right now, he’d give it all away if it meant he could just turn the clock back and make everything right. Turn his future into something he wanted, rather than something he needed to do.
Knocking back what he hoped would be a miraculous cure for his headache from hell, he wondered if a nice greasy fry-up would have been a better option, but he didn’t have the energy to crack an egg, never mind cook up the full works. Maybe he should have asked Ellen to make him breakfast before she’d left. He was sure she’d have done so gladly, but letting her take control in his kitchen might have sent off more of those wrong signals he really didn’t want her to pick up on. So a glass of orange juice would have to do.
He’d no sooner drained his glass, putting it down on the table in front of him, pushing it away with his foot, when he heard the front door of his riverside apartment open, causing him to look up sharply, which he soon realised had been a really bad idea, given his condition.
‘Jesus Christ. What happened to this being a secure building?’
Max Mandell, Ryan’s agent, kicked the front door shut behind him and walked into the large, open-plan living area, his hands shoved deep in the pockets of his no-doubt extremely expensive dark grey suit. ‘What’s wrong?’ he asked, looking briefly at Ryan before going straight into the kitchen and flicking on the kettle.
‘Huh?’ Ryan frowned, getting up and following Max. ‘What the fuck are you talking about?’
‘You look shifty,’ Max said, leaning back against the counter and folding his arms. ‘Like you’re up to something.’
‘What the…? Why do you always think the worst of me?’
Max just raised an eyebrow. Max Mandell was one of the most respected and revered football agents around, not to mention one of the shrewdest. He’d been Ryan’s agent for almost eight years and he knew him better than anybody, having been with him through the many highs and lows that Ryan’s career had experienced. His client list was short, but the names he had on that list were big names, names that brought the money in, and because of who he was and what he could do for his clients, the waiting list to get on his books was growing longer by the day.
‘Jesus…’ Ryan said, turning to look out over the view of the River Tyne, the hustle and bustle of Newcastle City Centre just minutes away from his doorstep. He loved this city, he loved the life he had. But he just wasn’t sure things could stay the way they were when he still felt the way that he did.
‘You promise me you’re not up to anything?’ Max asked, pouring boiling water into a mug he’d retrieved from the cupboard.
Ryan turned back around. ‘Is this how it’s gonna be from now on? You always two steps behind me, keeping an eye on me? Making sure I’m not lapsing back into my old ways?’
Max shrugged. ‘I don’t know, Ryan. Do I need to be two steps behind you?’
Ryan averted his eyes away from Max’s, rubbing a hand up and down his tattooed arm. ‘No. You don’t.’
‘You sure?’ Max asked, looking at Ryan over the rim of his mug as he sipped his coffee. ‘Because, judging by the state of you, I don’t think you came home last night and went straight to bed. Not on your own, anyway.’
‘For Christ’s sake,’ Ryan sighed, finding it hard to keep the irritation out of his voice. ‘I told you I wasn’t going back there, okay? And I mean it this time.’
‘Well, let’s hope you do. Anyway, I thought you might like to come with me to the Wearside Spartans match this afternoon. My newest client’s playing and I want to be there to support him.’
‘Newest client?’ Ryan frowned, rubbing a hand along the back of his neck.
‘Brandon Palmer,’ Max said, looking at Ryan as though he should be aware of this fact. ‘Managed to snare his signature before he’d even set foot on British soil. I mean, the fact he’s Jim Allen’s son should mean there’s some talent in there somewhere, not to mention the fact that his family links alone will have the sponsorship deals flooding in. And he’s a good-looking kid, so that’s a bonus…’
‘Whoa, hang on…’ Ryan interrupted, confusion now setting in big time. ‘Can you rewind a bit there? Did you say Brandon Palmer was Jim Allen’s son?’
Max looked at Ryan with that same expression that said he really should know all this. ‘Yes. Christ, have you not been listening to any news at all this morning? It’s been kept a bit of a secret, granted, which hasn’t made my job any easier, but I guess the kid wanted to get noticed on his own merits rather than because of who his famous father is. Anyway, whatever the reason, it’s worked. He had about half a dozen clubs after him, but he wanted to go to Spartans.’
‘You knew he was Jim Allen’s son?’
‘Of course I knew,’ Max said, taking another sip of coffee. ‘There’s not much I don’t know about any of my clients, Ryan, you should know that by now. I can’t deal with people’s shit if I don’t know anything about it.’
‘And… does Amber know about this?’
‘No, she doesn’t. Well, she didn’t, but apparently Jim broke the news to her this morning, although Christ knows why he hasn’t told her before. The kid’s twenty-years-old for heaven’s sake. But who am I to question what kind of relationships these people have?’ He took another sip of coffee as Ryan continued to stare at him in disbelief. ‘Anyway, thank heavens Amber’s playing ball and acting the role of the proud stepmother. It’s a wise move. It won’t cause any added or unwanted media attention, which I know she hates. We’re trying to keep the focus on Brandon here. She’s a good girl is Amber. Sensible. She knows the score. No pun intended there by the way.’
Listening to Max talk about Amber so candidly made Ryan flinch slightly.
‘But…’ Max went on, oblivious to Ryan’s feelings, ‘… as far as I’m concerned it’s going to make great headlines. And it won’t do her new career any harm either. Married to the Premier League’s most successful manager, step-mum to his extremely talented son – and an extremely beautiful step-mum at that. Actually, that’s just reminded me, I’ve got a few men’s magazines chomping at the bit to have her featured on their covers wearing nothing but a Newcastle Red Star scarf and a smile.’
‘Jesus fucking Christ, Max…’
‘What? What have I said?’
‘Have you heard yourself? Jim Allen has only now told Amber that he has a twenty-year-old son? And she’s okay with that?’
‘I have no idea whether