Striker (2 page)

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 slightly 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 look-out 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 easy 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 a professional level, 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 fourteen 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.

Max Mandell was one of the most respected and revered football agents in the business, with some of the biggest names in the game on his books. Renowned for always getting his clients the best deals possible he was a straight-to-the-point, hard-nosed business man that took no crap, which meant he had few friends, but one hell of a client list. Max Mandell was one of those men who didn’t care much about anyone else – unless they could earn him big money. ‘And for Christ’s sake, Ryan, behave yourself, will you? For five frigging minutes. Let’s show this club the professional player they’ve just signed over millions for, not some jumped-up playboy that might just make them regret shelling out all that cash.’ He looked at Ellen as she backed up against the wall, studying her clipboard with probably more interest than was necessary. ‘Is this going to get started soon, sweetheart? Only, we’ve got a shit-load of stuff to be getting on with today.’

Ellen looked at him before quickly checking with the News North East cameraman, who gave her the nod that he was almost ready to go. ‘As soon as Ms. Sullivan arrives…’

Ryan looked up. ‘
Ms.
Sullivan?’

‘Jesus Christ,’ Max sighed, throwing his head back. He knew of Amber Sullivan. He knew her father, Freddie, because he’d been one hell of a player in his day. And Max knew that Freddie Sullivan’s daughter was one very beautiful young woman.
 
But he also knew that she was good at her job. In fact, from what he’d heard, she could be as hard-nosed as him at times. She had a bit of a reputation for it, apparently. He’d often wondered why she’d never moved out of the North East to try for a job on national TV – she was just as good as any of the females who were gracing the world of sports broadcasting right now, and she’d always struck him as extremely ambitious, the few times he’d met her. Not to mention the fact her father was an ex-professional footballer. Surely she had the necessary contacts that could make all that happen for her? Maybe he should have a word with her, see where her thoughts for the future lay. He was sure he could broker some kind of deal to get her into the big wide world of football broadcasting. Max Mandell was never one to say no to a potential client, even if she wasn’t the kind of client he usually went for. ‘Just do the fucking interview and no shit, Ryan. Do you hear me?’

‘Alright, Max. Jesus… I’m not a frigging five-year-old.’

Max looked at Ryan, arching an eyebrow. Ryan Fisher was probably one of the most talented players in football right now but, like most other lads of his age, earning too much and becoming so famous so quickly had side effects that weren’t always pleasant. There were some, of course, who resisted the urge to have their heads turned but there were others, just like Ryan, who chose to live that stereotypical footballer lifestyle to the hilt. And that wasn’t always an attractive trait. Still, he wasn’t there to keep an eye on their personalities. As long as they stayed fit and did their job, keeping the money rolling into both
their
pockets, and his, he didn’t really give a shit what they got up to. Not unless it started to affect
him
.

Ryan stood at the back of the room, his hands in his pockets, his head down, scuffing his trainers against the skirting board in an action that told everyone in the room he wasn’t happy. It wasn’t even lunchtime and already he was pissed off. There were days when he felt as if his life wasn’t his own, and this was fast turning into one of them. Sitting down on a comfortable black leather bucket chair, which quite obviously didn’t belong in that room on a permanent basis, he folded his arms in an almost defensive manner as the somewhat flustered club official finally caught up with them. He smiled at both Ryan and Max before taking his seat, checking a large red book he’d had tucked under his arm, all ready to make sure that only questions the club had authorised were asked. Max had decided to take his usual, rather more intimidating stance of leaning against the wall, also with folded arms, to keep an eye on things. Ryan was just bored. He hated interviews, and he couldn’t even remember agreeing to this one, but then, how many times had he found himself “agreeing” to things just to humour some sponsor or to earn a few thousand extra pounds for a public appearance?