One
His mum claimed a photo was worth more than a thousand words, but as Jamie watched the Chicago streets out the taxi’s window, he only heard one word: FREEDOM.
He took out his mobile and snapped a few shots. It was midmorning, and the best light would be around seven o’clock, he figured, but his mum always said the best photos were ones that were spontaneous rather than planned. These would be especially great because they captured this moment of liberty.
In Chicago, he wouldn’t be Jamie MacNiven, star forward of Italy’s number one football club and one of Europe’s most eligible bachelors. He wouldn’t be son of legendary football player Ian MacNiven and heir to one of Scotland’s finest boutique whiskey brands. He wouldn’t be the son of Titania Summerhill, one of the world’s most renowned photographers. For the next three weeks, he’d be some anonymous bloke in town with his two mates.
Three weeks of anonymity, of being able to stroll without being stopped every few feet by paparazzi or to take a selfie with a fan. Three weeks to be behind the camera instead of in front of it. Three weeks without women throwing themselves at him because of his fame and fortune.
Three weeks of peace.
It was also three weeks to figure out what he was going to do about his life because his current trajectory wasn’t working for him.
The car jolted over a rough patch of road. Lowering his mobile, he held on to the handle on his side of the door. Didier, his friend and former teammate who sat next to him, muttered a curse in his native French. “Les anglais conduisent mieux que ce mec.”
Jamie smiled despite the slur against his countrymen. “Nous arriverons.”
“Encore vivant, j’éspère.” Shaking his head, Didier went back to his own silent contemplation of the passing scenery, the practice ball he traveled with settled loosely on his lap.
He’d been surprised when Didier had unexpectedly shown up and said he was tagging along on this trip. Didier Pascal wasn’t the baddest boy in football, but he was up there. A talented and disciplined player, he was one of Manchester United’s stars, but being half French, half Moroccan, Didier had exotic good looks that the media gushed over as much as they did about his skill.
Meaning he scored a lot—both on the field and off.
Quite frankly, they all did. Being an international football superstar meant you had plenty of money and plenty of women who had their eyes on that money.
Hence this trip to Chicago.
In Chicago, Jamie wouldn’t have to wear a disguise, like he had to in Europe—especially in the UK. In the UK, if you’d been born there and you played football, other Brits believed they owned a piece of you.
Soccer, they called it in the States. A sport that took a back seat to American football and baseball. Here, the chances of being recognized were blissfully slim.
Which was the first part of the plan: go somewhere where they weren’t household names. Where people didn’t know their net worth off the top of their heads.
The second part of the plan: to find Erik Nilsen, a young footballer who played with Didier, a nice girl.
Jamie slouched in his seat. That night two months ago when he’d run into Didier and Erik at a popular London lounge, it’d hit himhardthat he’d fallen into a pit of numbness and apathy, not carrying how women used him. He’d inured himself, having had his illusions shattered that first year he’d started playing professionally, at sixteen. As Ian MacNiven’s son, there’d been a lot of expectations laid on him—from his football club as well as fans.
And especially women. At sixteen, he’d had an immediate education. He remembered Claudia, and his jaw tightened.
But he’d learned the lesson.
Erik, however, hadn’t. At twenty-one, there was a naïveté about the kid that had pulled at Jamie, compelling him to want to protect it. So when Erik exclaimed that he just wanted a nice girl who would love him for himself and not his money or fame, Jamie had been prompted to help.
It was what he was good at: winning. It was what he did. He’d spent his life identifying the goal and running toward it until he led his team to victory. On the field or in life—it was all the same thing. This was just a different application of the same principles.
“Do you think this is crazy, what we are doing?” Didier asked in a low voice.
Jamie glanced at him. “You having doubts?”
Didier made a distinctly French sound. “Non, pas du tout. I just wonder what Erik is going to do when we find this girl for him. He lives in Manchester for now. Will she want to live there?”
“They’ll figure that out.” Details were the easy part.
His friend made another sound and continued his contemplation out the window.
The taxi driver glanced in the rearview mirror. “You guys on vacation?”
“Yes.” Jamie smiled easily. “We’re meeting a friend here.” Erik had come ahead and was already at the house they’d rented.