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Chapter 1

Brodie

I slam my BMW’s door hard enough to rattle the windows. Fucking Edinburgh. Fucking rain. Fucking everything.

Puddles pool between the cobbles. Rain slicks the stone. The whole city’s dipped in grey. Not even proper rain. Just that misty, sideways shite that soaks you before you realise you’re wet.

In August.

The Elite Edge Sports office looms. Some trendy converted old warehouse. A bloody co-working space.

My new agency.

Not by choice. Not by a fucking mile.

Until seven months ago, I was Glasgow’s golden boy. Brodie MacRae, twenty-six, star fly-half with the Knights. Then it all went to shite. Poker with the lads, bit of fun. That’s how it started. Never thought it’d catch up to me the way it did.

Now I’m trudging through puddles to meet whatever suit inherited my contract when they bought out Henderson Sports Management because apparently, I’m a commodity.

Like a fucking filing cabinet.

I shove through the doors hard enough that some suited prick has to swerve to stop them from slamming back in his face.

Good. Let him flinch. Let them all fucking flinch.

A blonde behind the reception desk beams like she’s never had a bad day in her life.

‘Hi. How can I help you?’

‘Brodie MacRae.’

Her smile widens like I’ve just made her week. I used to get that sort of reaction a lot more often – before the headlines. Not that I give a toss. I’m too busy clawing my way out of the mess that is my life to bury my dick in some stranger. And I’ve had my share of hook-ups. But I’m not the type to chase it. Rugby always comes first.

‘Of course, Mr MacRae. We’ve been expecting you.’

I almost laugh. Expecting me. The gambler who never actually gambled on rugby but got crucified anyway. Who let Callum Fraser and his conniving publicist fiancée bury him alive.

‘Third floor, end of the hall,’ the blonde woman adds, still bright as a weather girl. ‘The assistant will meet you there.’

The lift is an old freight cage with steel bars and bolted-on mirrors, trapping me with my reflection. Dark circles, unshaven jaw, hair too long. Even my suit feels too tight. Wore it anyway. They’re not seeing me in joggers, licking wounds. But it’s choking me.

I fucking hate my life.

Every morning, I wake up in that fully furnished terraced house in the tiny town on the arse end of Stirling and wonder how the fuck I got here.

Not true.

I know how.

Callum made sure of it.

We’ve hated each other since the academy days, always competing, always butting heads. But I never thought he’d stoop that low. Telling the press I’ve been throwing games.

A voicemail from the Director of Rugby, ten seconds long, ending with, ‘You’re done.’ Graham didn’t even say my name. Too dirty for his tongue. A week later, the only messages on my phone were from bookies looking to cash in on the lie. Not one teammate stood up for me. Not one journalist wondered if the story made sense, if I’d really gamble away everything for a few bets.

Callum is behind that, and it’s so fucking obvious I can’t believe they don’t see it.

I hate that cunt more than I hate my life.

And that says something.

The lift doors slide open, an assistant is standing there with bright eyes and breezy energy. Blouse with cherries on it, navy skirt. Bit retro. Way too perky.

‘Hello, Mr MacRae. I’m Theo. Welcome to Elite Edge.’ Her voice is all sunshine as she extends a hand like we’re about to be best pals.

I don’t take it. ‘Walk.’

She’s exactly the kind of woman who’d roll her eyes at a lad like me. Glass-walled offices fade by, people glancing up, pretending not to watch. They know who I am. They remember the headlines.

MACRAE’S GAMBLING PROBLEM: IS SCOTTISH RUGBY’S BAD BOY BETTING ON MATCHES?

KNIGHTS DISTANCE THEMSELVES FROM TROUBLED FLY-HALF.

CALLUM FRASER: ‘I’M DISAPPOINTED IN MY FORMER TEAMMATE.’

That last one still makes my vision go red. Sanctimonious prick. Played poker like he had money to burn and somehow came out squeaky clean. Let me take the fall when his own debts piled up, acting like he hadn’t spent years trying to undermine me. Like his PR fiancée hadn’t whispered those gambling rumours into the right ears to keep his image spotless.

Seven months since the scandal broke mid-season, and it still burns like a fresh wound.

Theo stops at a door and knocks. ‘Mr MacRae is here.’

A woman’s controlled voice. ‘Send him in.’

I frown. My agent had been some faceless middleman, a name on a contract and in my e-mails. But that voice? That voice isn’t some suit behind the scenes. It sounds husky and faintly familiar. I step inside, already gearing up to lay into whatever smug piece of work has the misfortune of repping me now—

And my stomach drops through the fucking floor.

Charlotte Harrington.

She sits behind the desk like she owns the place. Which, considering who her daddy is, she probably does. International sports agent George Harrington’s posh princess.

The sight of her hits like a blindside tackle. I don’t move. Don’t breathe. I just stare at her, pulse hammering, brain scrambling to make sense of what the fuck I’m looking at.

I’ve only met her a bunch of times, after a few games and at events, dangling on Callum’s arm. But I’d recognise her anywhere.

The woman who ruined my life. Or stood by while Callum did. Doesn’t matter. She had a hand in my destruction. She was his mouthpiece. Of course, she knew. Of course, she helped him bury me.

The woman who is Callum Fraser’s publicist. His fiancée.

The woman who is now, by the looks of it, my fucking agent.

How?

‘You have got to be joking.’ My voice is a snarl, my entire body braced for impact.

She tilts her head, slowly, like she’s savouring the moment. Her full lips pull. First a smirk, then a proper smile that says, I win, MacRae.

‘Theo, please close the door. Thanks.’

The click behind me sounds like a trap snapping shut.

She looks different from when I last saw her at the Knights’ Christmas party. Sleeker. Angrier. Like she’s carved the last scrap of softness out of herself. Her caramel hair used to be wavy. Now it’s straightened and glossy. The charcoal suit clings to her like it was made for her alone. But that silk blouse? The middle buttons pull apart by a fraction to make it obvious – her tits are half a size too big. Not much. Just enough that some poor sod at reception probably walked into a glass wall with a semi.

Her eyes are the same, though. Hazel-gold, sharp as a scalpel. And right now, they’re locked on me. Calculating.

I used to think she was too striking for that troll Callum. Not because of her looks. More like she had a self-possession he never had, no matter how many magazine covers he grinned his way onto. I thought she was better than him. More…principled.

Turns out, she’s just as ruthless as he is. Maybe more.

This is the woman who helped him burn my career to the ground. And however polished she looks now, I hope she knows I’d still set a match to hers in a heartbeat.

‘Sit down, Brodie.’

‘Fuck off.’

One perfectly arched brow lifts. ‘Always the charmer.’ She leans back, fingers lacing together. ‘Please, be a good boy and sit .’

Her voice is baiting me. She’s expecting me to snap, waiting to sink her teeth in when I do.

And normally, I would.

A woman telling me to be a good boy is like a red rag to a raging bull. My vision narrows. I go taut, head to toe.

I’m not a good boy.

I’m not a boy.

And I’m definitely not good .

I remain standing, just to be difficult.

She’s poking a tender nerve on purpose to make me crack.

I don’t.

I plant my hands on her desk and lean in. She wants to play games? She’s about to lose.

‘Careful, Harrington.’ I don’t raise my voice. I don’t need to. ‘You’re not the first woman who’s tried to put me in my place and failed.’

Her lips curve again, but it’s not a smile. It’s a challenge. A fucking dare.

‘And yet, here you are. In my office. Depending on my goodwill.’ She cocks her head again, like she’s already won.

A switch flips.

I shove the chair back so hard it grates against the floor with a screech. Drop into it, arms crossed, every cell vibrating with anger.

‘If you think for one second I’m letting you anywhere near my career—’

‘You don’t have much of a choice.’ She places her hand on a folder in front of her. ‘What I wanted to talk to you about today is this, Brodie,’ she lowers her voice, ‘I own your arse.’

‘The fuck you do!’

She opens the folder and flips to a page with a neat contract, my own signature glaring back at me like a death sentence.

‘Your contract was part of my recent acquisition of Henderson’s,’ she says. ‘I represent you now. Your PR, your sponsorships, your contract negotiations. It’s all in my hands.’

The room tilts. My breath locks in my chest, fury clawing at my ribs. I signed with an agency. Not my arch enemy’s fiancée. And if I remember it correctly, Charlie is only in her mid-twenties. About my age. How does she get to be the boss of me?

‘What is your play here, Harrington? Last I heard, you were daddy’s little nepo baby, fluffing Callum’s career. Thought that was a lifetime appointment.’

Her jaw tightens just a flash. But it’s enough. I see it. A tiny crack in the ice. I’ve hit a nerve.

Good.

‘Well, last you heard, I was engaged to a bastard who couldn’t keep it in his trousers.’

That throws me for a second.

Was engaged?

Since that whole shite about me being a match-fixing disgrace who’d sold his soul to the bookies hit the fan, I’ve not read a single headline, tweet, or tabloid. Not wasting my time on lies. And I’m not talking to anyone in Glasgow anymore. So, if Charlie’s been through something, I’ve missed it.

She exhales. ‘Callum shagged a TV presenter. And I—’ she lifts a shoulder like it’s nothing, ‘—was forced to write the breakup statement for my own relationship. And yeah, maybe I went a bit overboard. My father wasn’t thrilled. Bad PR, he said. Reflects poorly on his agency, he said. I should’ve taken better care of Callum, he said. “Fuck you,” I said. And then I left.’

She gestures around the office. ‘I started my own small agency. I run this place. I make the calls. And that includes you.’ Her voice is steady, but there’s an edge to it now. A quiet, blistering fire.

She leans back again, as if this were just another meeting, as if my whole fucking life weren’t in her grip.

I death-stare her, blood pumping hot. ‘I request a new agent.’

‘You think this is some make-a-wish scheme? When I acquired Henderson, I took on all their contracts. Most of the stars jumped ship before it sank – at least the ones who weren’t too busy wallowing. I’m left with a handful of clients, and you’re the biggest name. A damaged asset, but still valuable if managed correctly.’

An asset. Not a person, not a player. An item on her balance sheet. To be managed correctly.

Fuck you.

The room suddenly feels too small. Too hot. ‘And if I refuse? I’ll buy myself out.’

‘With what? The buyout clause is three times your annual pay. So, unless you’ve got a spare million lying around – and after what happened, I highly doubt that – you’re stuck with me.’

I let out a frustrated growl.

She slides the folder across the desk. ‘The numbers are on page three. Feel free to look if you don’t believe me.’

I snatch it up, flipping pages until I see the figure. Christ. Money I don’t have. Not after the deal with the Stirling Rebels came in lower than I’d hoped. Not after the gambling rumours tanked my sponsorships. And not after racking up six-figure debts. Fuck.

‘This is extortion,’ I spit out.

She throws her head back and laughs like this is the funniest thing she’s ever heard. Then she stands and walks around her desk until she’s next to me.

‘This is business, not extortion. I control your deals, your public image. And I can do something with it, if you let me.’

For half a second, my muscles clench. Tight. Too tight. Because fuck her. Fuck her smug little doll face. Fuck that fucking smirk.

But I don’t move. I won’t give her the satisfaction.

‘To be fair, Brodie, I didn’t know they had your contract. It was a bulk acquisition in a fast-tracked deal. And Henderson’s admin was a bin fire. You were…an unexpected gift in the package.’

My heart thunders so loudly I can barely hear over it. ‘You and Callum destroyed my career.’

Something glints in her eyes. Anger? Guilt? I can’t fucking tell. ‘You were his publicist. You fed those gambling stories to the press.’

‘I did no such thing.’ Ice coats every syllable. ‘You did plenty of damage all by yourself. Those poker debts weren’t imaginary, were they?’

My fist hits her desk so hard pens jump. ‘I never bet on rugby. Never . ’

‘No, you just racked up enough debt that people started to wonder what else you might be willing to do for cash.’ Her expression doesn’t budge. ‘And now you’re here. And I’m responsible for cleaning up the mess you made.’

‘I refuse to work with you. I can find another agency.’

She steps in, right up against the edge of my space, and the expensive scent of her seeps into my lungs like a fucking threat.

‘Go ahead, Brodie. Walk out that door. No one is going to take you on, believe me.’ A slow, satisfied smile. ‘Or…’ she drags out the word, toying with me, ‘you could let me fix what’s left of your career.’

I want to scream. I want to flip her fancy desk. I want to walk out and never look back, but I can’t. She knows it. I know it.

I’m trapped.

‘You crushed everything I worked for. I was geared up for the national team.’

‘No, Brodie. You did that when you couldn’t stop gambling. And when you punched a reporter. And then again when you told your coach to go fuck himself.’

Each word slices deep. Because she’s not wrong, is she? I did all that. I mean, those twats had it coming, but…aye.

She watches me, still waiting for me to crack. When I don’t, she exhales and leans back against her desk. ‘Here’s the deal. You sit down, shut up, and let me save your career. Because like it or not, I’m the only one willing to.’

I glare at her, every molecule screaming with rage. ‘I hate you,’ I say calmly.

‘You do you.’ Her smile lights up her entire face. ‘Now listen up. We have work to do.’

‘Fine. But this doesn’t mean I trust you.’

‘Trust is earned.’ She walks back behind her desk, sits down, and opens another folder. ‘Same as respect.’

I’m not an eejit, I catch the implication. She doesn’t respect me. Why would she? I’m the cautionary tale. The man who had everything and pissed it away because he couldn’t resist the thrill of chasing win after win.

‘So, what’s your grand plan, then?’ I drench my question in as much sarcasm as I can muster.

The Stirling Rebels are new. The Canadian billionaire owner who founded the team thinks money solves everything. But you can’t buy chemistry and trust. Or history. Or instinct. And I doubt Charlie Harrington can change any of that.

‘First, we address the gambling.’ She clicks her pen once. ‘You need to be clean. Completely clean. No poker, no betting on anything, not even a friendly wager with teammates. One hint that you’re still gambling, and everything we do is worthless.’

‘Don’t be dramatic. I played a bit of poker, I’m not an addict. And I haven’t done that in seven months.’

‘Good. Keep it that way. Anything else I need to know or be prepared for? Any illegitimate children with disgruntled baby mommas that could run to the press and make a fuss?’

I would like to shake some fucking sense into her. Instead, I crush the armrest in my grip. ‘Not that I know of.’

‘I guess that’ll have to do. But glove up, understood?’

What the actual fuck? How dare she?

I mean, she’s probably been dealing with horny athletes her entire life in her father’s fancy London sports management agency. I reckon she knows what money and fame can do to a lad. Or a lass. There’s a reason they want us married by twenty-one.

She continues outlining her strategy. Community outreach. Carefully managed interviews. Promo tour. Social media overhaul. Sponsorship meetings with brands that align with a ‘redemption narrative.’

Each point is logical, well-thought-out. She knows what she’s doing. I hate that she knows what she’s doing.

‘You also need new headshots.’ She eyes me critically. ‘And a haircut. You look like you’ve been living in the woods. Get rid of that mullet.’

‘I said it before, and I’ll say it again: fuck off, Harrington.’

‘Not very eloquent.’ She makes a note. ‘We’ll work on your media training, too.’

For the next ten minutes, she talks, and I listen, seething quietly. I’m tuning her out, looking around her office. Clean and cold. Not a single personal touch, except one framed image on her desk. Can’t see who’s in there. No posters of athletes. No trophies. Not even a plant to break up the sterile space. Who doesn’t have plants? Makes me wonder if she’s really like that or if she’s just playing the part in an effort to look cool and successful and unbreakable.

This woman holds my future in her manicured hands. And there’s not a damn thing I can do about it. Except needle her a bit.

‘One question.’

She cocks a brow. ‘What?’

‘Did you really not know Callum was balls-deep in someone else, or were you too busy managing his image and ruining my career to care?’

Low blow, I know.

I play dirty sometimes.

Her face goes still for half a split second. Then she recovers, too fast for my taste. ‘And here I thought you had no interest in my personal life, MacRae.’ Her brief smile is all teeth, no warmth. ‘But since we’re trading blows… How does it feel to go from Scotland’s rising rugby star to a toxic PR nightmare?’

My back teeth grind enough to crack enamel.

She leans forward, satisfied. ‘That’s what I thought. We’re done here for now.’

I get up to leave, but I stop at the door. ‘You think you know everything, don’t you?’

She barely glances up from her screen, already dismissing me. ‘Not everything. But I know you’ll scramble back to the top where you belong, Brodie MacRae. And when you do…’ She clicks her pen again. ‘…you’ll thank me on your knees.’

I stomp out without another word, past the staring people who work here, down the lift, out onto the street.

Charlie fucking Harrington is my agent. The woman who helped destroy me is the only one who can save me. She does own my arse, and I’m going to have to play by her rules.

At least until I find a way to break them.