After a spell living on the beautiful Canarian island of Tenerife, I’m now back in the UK and settled in County Durham with my wonderful husband and my gorgeous West Highland Terrier, Archie. A proud Geordie girl, I adore the north east of England, but I also love the odd glass of wine, Keanu Reeves, a decent TV drama, Peter Kay… and darts!
You can follow me on Twitter @michellebetham, find me on Facebook www.facebook.com/AuthorMichelleBetham or chat to me on my blog http://michellebethamwriter.blogspot.co.uk/.
This book is dedicated to all those people who've believed in me, supported me, and encouraged me when I've needed that push. You all know who you are, and I can't thank you enough. I got there - eventually!
To my amazing publisher HarperImpulse for making my dream come true.
And to all the footballers out there - you gave me a lot of inspiration … but this one's for the WAGs!
Chapter One (#uaf1d58cd-6deb-57a0-bc2a-5e27f52ff15a)
‘Jesus! I’m home,’ Ryan sighed, pulling open the blinds of his hotel room to reveal a miserable, grey drizzle falling steadily from a gunmetal-grey August sky, the familiar sight of the Tyne Bridge looming large in the distance, reminding Ryan that he was, indeed, back home.
Downing a mouthful of coffee as he watched the morning rush-hour traffic cross that famous North East landmark, he felt a tinge of unfamiliar apprehension as he thought about what was to come. When people realised all the rumours were true they’d be expecting something akin to the return of the Prodigal Son, a homecoming hero; was he really going to be able to live up to all those expectations? Yeah. Of course he fucking was! What a ridiculous question.
Smiling to himself, he finished his coffee and turned away from the window, pulling off the white Egyptian cotton towel that was tied around his waist. He had one hell of a body – hard, toned and tanned thanks to a recent trip to Marbella followed by a pre-season tour of California. And hadn’t that been a blast? Who knew those American girls would be so into their ‘soccer’ – as they called it over there. Or their soccer players? He probably had David Beckham to thank for that one.
He smiled again, checking out his naked reflection in the full-length mirror. Yeah. He was going to live off those American memories for a while, that was for sure. Not just because of the women, but because that had been the last time he’d played for a club he’d been a part of for over four years. But, in the world of football, you went where the money was, and right now the money was here, back in his native North-East England.
Pulling on battered jeans, black t-shirt and expensive trainers, Ryan ran a hand through his short, dark hair as he sat down on the edge of the huge king-size bed, watching the traffic steadily crossing the Tyne Bridge in what seemed like a constant, never-ending stream. He had a long day ahead of him – interviews, photo calls, not to mention moving into the house his new club had sorted out for him. Another roller-coaster of a ride was about to begin, and just because he was back up north, away from the bright lights of London and all the temptations thathad been thrown his way, none of which he’d declined, it didn’t mean that this chapter of his life was going to be any less crazy. Why would it be? Ryan Fisher had it all – money, talent, any woman he wanted. He had the lot. And he had no intention of letting go of any of it any time soon.
‘Ten-thirty, at Newcastle Red Star’s ground. Did you get that, Amber?’
Amber Sullivan looked at her boss. Shit! Had he just asked her something? Her mind had been temporarily distracted by the constant arrival of texts being sent to her phone regarding the ongoing rumours of Ryan Fisher making a return to the North East; only, she knew they weren’t rumours anymore.
‘Sorry, Kevin. I was…’
‘Distracted, yeah. I got that. Just get your head together in time for this interview, okay? We’ve got an exclusive here. He isn’t speaking one-on-one to any other local news programme, so…’
‘Are we talking about Ryan Fisher here?’ Amber asked, swinging her chair round and crossing her long legs as her producer sat down on the edge of her desk, clasping his hands together on his lap.
‘Who else has just signed a record-breaking transfer deal with one of the biggest clubs in the region? Come on, Amber. I need you focused here. I’m sending you to interview him.’
‘Why me?’ Amber began rooting around in her desk drawer, looking for the Dictaphone she remembered throwing in there the other day after a particularly second-rate interview with a Durham cricketer who’d quite obviously been in no mood to talk sport but had been quite happy to make a move on her in the most clumsy and irritating of ways. ‘I thought you were sending Harry to Tynebridge?’
‘I was. Until we got word that Ryan Fisher was willing to speak to us one-on-one before the main press conference, so your plans for the day have changed, kiddo. You’re the only one I can trust to do this interview properly.’ Kevin Russell pushed a hand through his light-brown, slightly ruffled hair and stood up before shoving both hands in the pockets of his well-cut black trousers. ‘Ten-thirty, Tynebridge Stadium. There’s a pass waiting for you at reception. Come and see me when you get back.’
Amber threw her head back and closed her eyes. She actually loved this time of year, when the new football season was just beginning, the summer transfer window was drawing to a close and rumours and speculation were rife. There was a certain kind of energy filling the Sports Department as everyone tried to second-guess just who might be signing who, or which player was about to leave English football behind for the chance to experience, say, the excitement of La Liga over in Spain, or the opportunity to make more money than they could ever dream of over in Asia.
She’d been working on Newcastle-based regional news programme News North East for over ten years now, starting out as a junior reporter before climbing to the dizzy ranks of the show’s first ever female Sports Editor five years ago at the age of thirty-two. She loved her job. She was also extremely good at it.
Amber Sullivan had grown up surrounded by sport, so it was only natural that her work revolved around it. Her father, Freddie Sullivan, was an ex-professional footballer – and an ex-Newcastle Red Star player – who now managed a local lower-league club, so being around sportsmen, and footballers in particular, was nothing new to her. Although, as she’d got older it had become less of an enjoyable experience, because Amber had grown up to be nothing short of beautiful. Which brought with it its own set of problems. With long, naturally dark hair that hung in loose waves around her shoulders, pale blue eyes and olive-toned skin she’d inherited from her late Spanish mother it was as if, one day, she’d suddenly turned from that tomboy who loved a kick-about with the lads into a stunning young woman, which in turn meant that a lot of the sportsmen she knew suddenly stopped seeing her as ‘one of them’, and began seeing her as more of a conquest. Especially the footballers. Even though they knew her father, respected him, looked up to him, they didn’t seem to have the same respect for his daughter.
Because of that, Amber had always made a conscious effort to stay away from relationships with sportsmen of any kind, but she steered clear of relationships with footballers more than any other sportsmen in particular. She wasn’t perfect, though, and she’d strayed from that self-imposed rule only briefly a few years back when she’d embarked on a short relationship with a player called Ronnie White, a man who had gone on to become one of her closest friends. But Ronnie had been different to the others, an exception. So she had no intention of going there again, no desire to become emotionally involved with men who could quite easily hurt her with their selfish behaviour and egos that seemed to need boosting on an hourly basis. It just wasn’t on her agenda, despite these men being the people she hung out with both professionally, and personally, on a frequent basis. Amber Sullivan had no desire to be a WAG. The whole lifestyle some of those women signed up for was nothing short of abhorrent to her because, deep down inside, she was still that tomboy who’d accompanied her father to nearly all of his matches, learning all about the so-called ‘beautiful game’ from the very best. Her interest was in the sport – not the men who played it. Unless it was on a purely professional level, of course.
No, she was quite happy being single. Feisty and fiercely independent, Amber had no room in her life for a man. Except her dad. He was the only man who mattered to her right now, especially since the loss of her mother just two years ago. As an only child, that had pushed her and her father even closer together, so, in between making sure he was okay, and her job at News North East, she had no time for anything resembling a serious relationship. She had no time for relationships, full stop. They would only get in the way.
She sat up and looked over towards Kevin’s glass-fronted office. He was standing at the window tapping his watch and shrugging. Amber couldn’t help but smile. He was going to give himself another angina attack if he didn’t learn to relax a bit more. She’d never been late for an interview, never missed an appointment. Amber Sullivan let nothing get in the way of her work, and Kevin Russell knew that. Yet still he stressed out.
She stood up, grabbed her bag and mouthed ‘I’m going’ at her producer, who smiled his thanks and turned away from the window to answer his constantly ringing phone. Amber had a feeling today was going to be one of those days when her feet didn’t touch the ground, but those were the kind of days she loved – when she was part of something big and exciting. And, right now, as far as the world of North-East football was concerned, there was nothing bigger or more exciting than the arrival of Ryan Fisher.
It was something he should be used to by now, being shoved from room to room, passed on to every person who wanted a piece of him, but it still didn’t sit well with Ryan. Even after all his years in the top-flight of professional football this was the bit he hated the most – the interviews, press conferences, photo calls. But it was all part of the package, and it was a package he’d wanted ever since he’d been old enough to kick a ball.
Ryan Fisher was twenty-six years old, just over 6ft tall with beautiful, deep – almost navy – blue eyes, short, slightly unruly dark hair and a beard that gave him a somewhat rough-and-ready look that only made him all the more attractive, as did the multitude of tattoos he’d collected over the years that graced his extremely toned and incredibly sexy arms. In fact, the only word to describe Ryan Fisher was handsome. Very, very handsome. And it was this – combined with the hard, toned body – that had made him the pin-up player of the football world, which meant he didn’t just get the women, he also got the sponsorship deals, the modelling contracts, the invites to every celebrity party going. But Ryan also had a natural talent for the game that hadn’t been seen in a long time.
Growing up on a large, sprawling council estate just outside of Newcastle-upon-Tyne, he’d only ever wanted to be a professional footballer. As a child he’d spent all of his spare time kicking his beloved football against walls or organising five-a-side games with his mates on the playing field at the back of his house. Saturdays had been his favourite day of the week, when he’d sit with his dad, eagerly watching the football results roll in, then spend the rest of the evening waiting for Match of the Day to start so he could watch the professionals at work, hoping that, one day, he could be one of them, playing out there on some of the most famous pitches in the world in front of thousands of loyal supporters. When his father could afford it, they’d even go into town to see Newcastle Red Star play, giving Ryan a taste of what it felt like to be part of the excitement football could create. Days like that had only made him want it more.
It was all he could think about. He’d thrown himself into every school team at the earliest age he could, rising from a star of the under-13s into a promising under-16 prospect, which is where he was first spotted by a scout from a London club on the lookout for local talent. He’d been fourteen at the time, and he’d never forgotten the excitement he’d felt when that scout had approached his father on the touchline one rainy Thursday afternoon as his team took on another local school in the Under-16’s county tournament. That one meeting had been the beginning of what was turning out to be one hell of a career for Ryan.
He’d been whisked down to London for a trial at a First Division club, with their coach eager to sign him to their Youth Team almost immediately, and whilst his mother had been reluctant to let her son move down south – away from his family, his school, his friends – at such a young age, his father had seen the wisdom in not letting this chance pass Ryan by. It was an opportunity that might not have come along again.
And so the journey began. His days had been split between the training field and the classroom as he’d combined those first steps of his dream career with studying for his GCSEs and, thanks to a tutor whom Ryan had never forgotten, he’d come away with passes that could have guaranteed him a place at college to study A Levels. If that’s what he’d really wanted. But that had never been Ryan’s plan. Despite the fact he’d been – and still was – an intelligent young man, he’d only ever wanted to play football, and those that mattered could see that natural talent he possessed. They’d known it was an ambition he could easily fulfil.
By the age of sixteen he’d been playing first-team football, still unable to believe that he was actually living his dream. But that dream had only grown bigger when, at seventeen, a big-name club had shown more than a little interest in him. And suddenly, before Ryan’s feet had had a chance to hit the ground, he’d been surrounded by agents and managers and PR people as word began to spread of this new, young talent that was setting the football world alight. There was talk of big money and sponsorship deals, figures that – at the time – Ryan couldn’t even begin to comprehend, so it was just as well there’d been people around who could deal with it all for him. It had been a confusing but exciting time. But all Ryan cared about was playing football. For a while, anyway. Because, once the money had started rolling in and he’d become more savvy with the way the system worked, he’d begun to realise that the amount you could earn depended very much on what you had the balls to ask for.
By the age of nineteen Ryan Fisher had become one of the most recognised faces in English football. And one of the highest paid. He had a sharp business mind, able to steer agents and managers in whichever direction he wanted them to go as easily as he could direct a ball into the back of the net. Contract negotiations were never a sticking point because Ryan wasn’t just business-smart, he also had a knack for turning on the charm, both on and off the pitch.
As a young, top-earning player he had no shortage of women throwing themselves at him. And that was one perk he was more than willing to capitalise on. By the time he was twenty-one he’d become one of the biggest players in the English Premier League, with a life that was way beyond even his wildest dreams. Clubs were falling over themselves to sign him, men wanted to be him, and women wanted to be with him. He had everything he could ever have wished for, and he was doing the job he loved because, despite everything else that was going on around him, Ryan’s first love was the game itself. But, if that game brought with it all the trappings of luxury and fame that he was experiencing, then that was a bonus he was happy to take.
He’d been lucky enough to not only play for some of the biggest and best clubs in England, he was also a regular member of the international squad, having represented his country on numerous occasions – the pinnacle of any serious footballer’s career as far as Ryan was concerned. And it never hurt the old bank balance, either.
But now, after almost twelve years away from his native North East, he was finally coming home in a record-breaking, multi-million-pound transfer deal that was seeing him sign for one of the region’s biggest and most famous clubs – the club he’d supported as a boy. It was a deal he hadn’t been able to ignore. For a number of reasons. The time was right for Ryan to leave London behind. The time was right for him to finally come home.
‘If you’d like to follow me, Mr. Fisher,’ a pretty, young blonde girl smiled at him as she ushered him through the main lobby area of the huge and impressive stadium his new club had just had built. Ryan followed her, his hands buried deep in his pockets, his eyes fixed firmly on her backside – which looked nothing short of perfect in a tight black pencil skirt – as she took him through a set of double doors, past the Players’ Lounge, before stopping outside the Press Lounge opposite.
Ryan couldn’t help but smile back at her, noting the way she blushed slightly before quickly turning away to open the door for him. Even though he was more than capable of opening it himself.
He looked around, peering inside the still-quiet and empty Press Lounge that, in less than an hour, would be full of journalists, reporters and photographers all waiting to hear what he had to say. All waiting to find out just why he’d finally chosen to come home and play for the club he’d supported all his life.
Somehow or other he’d managed to shake off both Max – his agent – and the club official who was to sit in with him when he did this pre-press-conference interview with a local news programme. How he’d managed that he had no idea because they’d been stuck to him like limpets ever since he’d got out of the car not two minutes ago – a car he’d been bundled out of in a rather unceremonious fashion in some ridiculous attempt to keep news of his signing a secret until the very last minute. Which was a waste of time. It was probably old news by now, thanks to the recent Twitter rumours and media speculation that had been rife for the past couple of days.
Taking one more quick glance around, he followed the pretty PR assistant into the room, not missing the slightly panic-stricken look that took over her face when she realised he was alone.
‘Oh, I’m… I’m sorry, Mr. Fisher. We need to wait for the club official, and your agent. They should be here, too. I don’t know where they’ve… If you’ll just excuse me…’
Ryan put his arm across the doorway, blocking her exit, smiling that smile that had turned a thousand women’s heads over the years. ‘So we’re alone? Does that bother you?’
‘I… I could get into trouble, Mr. Fisher…’
‘Quit with the Mr. Fisher crap, will you? It’s Ryan. And you are…?’
She looked at him with eyes that were still full of panic – but there was a tiny hint of excitement there, too; he could see it. A tell-tale sign that she was torn between this chance to be alone with a good-looking, extremely famous footballer, and the need to carry out her job with the utmost professionalism. ‘Erm… my name’s… I’m Ellen.’
Ryan grinned, his arm still resting against the doorpost, still blocking her exit. ‘Ellen… well, what are you doing after all this bullshit has finished then, Ellen?’
‘I don’t know what she’s doing but you’re moving house then getting your head down for an early night. You’ve got training tomorrow morning.’
Ryan groaned as Max Mandell appeared in the doorway, pushing Ryan’s arm out of the way to allow the cameraman from News North East through.
