“Must feel good to tell me what to do for a change.” He took the couch, knowing better than to outwardly rebel and pick a different seat. “Nice digs. You turn into thatFifty Shadesguy or something?”
Raising his brow, Jamie sat back and crossed his legs, his forearms on the wide armrests. He looked like a king on a throne rather than a coach. “You going to tell me why you’re here, or are you going to keep posturing? You certainly didn’t come here to catch up.”
On the field, Danny would have called him an asshole, but he knew better than to do that here. He needed the guy too badly. “Maybe I did.”
“The last time we met,” Jamie began, “I thought you were going to throw a punch at me.”
“That’s not true.” Danny shook his head. “The last time I got a red card for headbutting you. The time before I almost punched you.”
“Oh, yes, you’re right.” The man smiled, looking entirely too delighted. “I think I cast aspersions upon your manhood.”
That was exactly it. He remembered itveryclearly. Normally he’d have sloughed it off, and that morning his dad had ragged on him in front of his “brothers” about acting like a girl—all because he’d been cleaning the kitchen so he could find the stove to fry himself a fucking egg. He’d been smarting still when he’d stepped onto the field. It’d been dumb luck that MacNiven had hit so close to home. The one thing he knew about MacNiven was that he didn’t play dirty. The man liked to win fair and square.
“You still haven’t told me why you’re here,” the man said calmly. “I know it’s not to congratulate me on my new endeavor.”
“I want to hire you.” He leaned forward. “What are your terms?”
“I haven’t agreed to take you as a client,” MacNiven pointed out. “We’ve never been on friendly terms, so the fact that you’re here means something is very wrong.”
He frowned. “We haven’t been on bad terms either.”
“According to the press we have.” MacNiven gazed at him steadily. “And you’ve never done anything to correct the impression.”
He hadn’t, because every time he showed that sort of aggression, his dad praised him. “Neither have you.”
“But I’m not throwing myself on your mercy, hoping you’ll help me,” MacNiven replied with a sardonic lift of his brow.
True. He nodded. “I’ve heard the other players talk about how you always give good advice.”
“I do,” MacNiven said without hubris.
That was the thing about his guy: he didn’t mouth off. It wasn’t bragging if you could back it up, and Jamie MacNiven could always back it up. “I—”
The door burst open and Didier Pascal stood on the threshold.
Danny jumped to his feet, on guard, for a second forgetting that he was in an office and not on the field. He and Pascal went as far back as he and MacNiven did, except they were even less friendly given they played for rival teams. When taunted, MacNiven just gave back what he got. Pascal didn’t take any shit—he came at you like a shit-ton of bricks.
He knew Pascal had left Manchester United, suddenly and without any reasons disclosed, but he had no idea the guy would behere. He forced himself to relax back onto the couch. “You here for help too, Pascal? You’ll have to stand in line.”
“Ah putain,” the Frenchman spat out, looking at him like he was gum on the bottom of his shoe. “Lottie avait raison. Il est vraiment içi.”
MacNiven smiled mildly. “It’s a surprise, isn’t it?”
Pascal let loose a few more choice words.
Danny’s French vocabulary wasn’t great—he knew enough to get around when they played in France—but he got the gist from his tone.
Then it occurred to him that if Pascal had quit football and was here, there was a good chance he was working with MacNiven. It was rumored that they were tight, so it’d make sense. “Don’t tell me you work here.”
Pascal arched his brow. “Oui, bien sûr.”
He knew enough French to understand that. He wanted to let a few swear words loose himself. It was one thing to unburden himself to MacNiven, but to Pascal too? Fuck no. He looked helplessly at MacNiven.
The man shrugged. “Didier decided he liked it here.”
He returned his attention to the Frenchman. Didier Pascal was the sort of man who made you feel like an oaf, both on and off the field. In the game, the man had a reputation for being one of the most disciplined players in recent times. Off the field, he was known as a Casanova, and he dressed the part. Every time they’d been at an event together, even though Danny had been dressed to the nines, he’d felt like a bumpkin next to Pascal. How the man didn’t look like a pussy in his colorful scarves and velvet, he had no idea. It had to be a French thing.
The thing was there was never any smack talk about him. A lot of players were known to be dogs, cheating and womanizing, partying past reason, but there was never a whiff around Pascal in those regards. MacNiven either. Danny had that in common with them—he hated that shit.