It had to stop. He knew it was his fault—he’d let the situation slide for too long. If he’d taken care of it sooner… If he’d listened to Ortiz when his friend had cautioned him about his dad… If he hadn’t thought he could help Kofi have a better life…
If he didn’t rectify things, he was going to find himself in a world of hurt.
His hands fisted as he thought about two nights ago, going home after his last game before their winter break. He’d played yet another shitty game—his focus left something to be desired these days—and then he’d gone home to find his house full of people he didn’t know. Gangstas and skank hos galore.
As he’d stood in his doorway, gaping at the scene, his dad had come up behind him, put an arm around his shoulders, and said, “Pick a woman. They have good hips for having strong sons. It’s time. A man needs sons, Daniel. Take two of them.”
But that wasn’t the final straw that had caused him to flee his home for Chicago. It was the piles of drugs on his coffee table and Kofi sitting across from it, laughing with one of the other punks.
Loafing was one thing, but bringing drugs into his house was a hard line.
If the media caught wind of it, his career could probably weather it. On some level, people expected footballers to be thugs. Besides, football had never been a forever thing in his mind—it’d been a way to connect with his dad. He’d already stayed in the game longer than he’d expected.
But his work with the foundation would be ruined. As Ortiz pointed out when Danny had called to tell him what had happened, if the media knew about the drugs, they’d wonder if Danny was using the foundation to launder drug money—or worse, that Danny was stealing from the kids to fund a drug habit. They didn’t know that Danny was a whiz at day-trading. Only Ortiz knew that. It’d ruin the good work they were doing there.
He wasn’t going to allow that to happen.
But he also couldn’t bring himself to cut Kofi out. What would happen to him? Eleven years younger, Kofi had looked up to him since they’d met eighteen years before. He loved that kid. He couldn’t abandon him.
Danny stared at the door handle. All the players were talking about how MacNiven retired at his prime to start Winners Inc.,a life coaching business aimed at teaching people to win at all aspects of life. Two nights ago, when Danny walked out of his own home, he’d booked himself into a hotel and looked up Winners Inc. The article he found stated that it didn’t matter what you were having trouble with, MacNiven claimed he could guide you to success.
He bought a ticket to Chicago right then and there.
If anyone was qualified to help you win, it was MacNiven. All his former teammates talked about how MacNiven did more for them than their coaches, psychiatrists, and managers combined. Moreover, the dude always landed on top.
Now MacNiven was making a name for himself helping high-class clients develop a “complete” winning attitude.
And damn, Danny needed that. Instead of the pressing feeling of impending doom, he wanted to feel like he had the world by the tail too, like he used to.
Coming all the way here to Chicago to see MacNiven was a calculated risk. Quite frankly, he’d be shocked if MacNiven didn’t have him bodily carted out of the building, seeing as how the last time they’d seen each other Danny had slammed his head into the man’s chest to prevent a goal and almost cracked the guy’s ribs.
Uncurling his hand, he resettled his sunglasses, grabbed the door handle, and pushed himself into the Winners Inc. office.
The inside was as hushed as the hallway. It was luxurious, like the posh address suggested. Most of all, it was blessedly clean—pristine and orderly. No strangers lounging, playing video games. No skank hos. No rap blaring disrespectfully from his expensive speakers. No mattresses covering the floor with random people he didn’t know sleeping all over the place.
MacNiven was known for his posh tastes, and he certainly hadn’t skimped at all here. Of course, the man had grown up ensconced in the lap of luxury, what with his family owning a whiskey distillery. It didn’t hurt that his dad was Ian MacNiven, the greatest footballer of all time, and his mom was apparently a famous photographer.
When you were a footballer in London, you heard stories about the MacNivens. They were legend.
He did a slow circle in the middle of the room, feeling like he’d stepped inside someone’s living room instead of a business. It was warm and inviting in a way he’d never been able to make his living room, with a plush rug and muted colors and comfortable-looking furniture. There were tasteful paintings on the walls—originals. He was by no means an art expert, but he knew quality.
“Oh, hello.”
He turned around to find an older woman standing at the entrance of a hallway, a welcoming smile on her face. She had a crown of white curls and a bright, inquisitive gaze. She wore a dress that was neither fashionable nor unfashionable—the sort of thing he’d have expected his maternal grandmother to wear.
Not that he knew his maternal grandmother. His mom’s parents wouldn’t talk to her when she came back to the States pregnant after her stint with Doctors Without Borders in Ghana, which meant they didn’t talk to him either. A mixed grandkid didn’t look good in their country club circle.
He should be past that by now—he was thirty-five fucking years old—but part of him was still bothered by that. Family shouldn’t do that.
“Are you Jules Emory?” the woman asked him, pulling him out of those thoughts.
“No, ma’am,” he said automatically. He held his hand out. “Danny Gilbert.”
“Lottie Morgan. I’m a consultant here.” She shook his firmly before pointing to a desk partially hidden around the corner. “Our receptionist is out today, so I’m covering for her.”
He reassessed everything about her, holding her hand for that moment. She had hands like his mom: strong but kind in their touch, with nothing to prove. He wished he could hold it longer and soak it in, but that’d just be weird—hello, creepy—so he let go.
Fortunately, she stayed unaware of his inner turmoil. Frowning, she pursed her lips. “You don’t have an appointment. You aren’t here to make trouble, are you?”