AC05 - Death Mask (7 page)

‘Football is their way out, which is why I’m such a fan of the game and the whole ethos of giving disadvantaged guys a chance to make it big.’ He took a couple of cashews from the bowl on the bar and popped them into his mouth. ‘Only trouble is, sometimes it’s taken too far. As soon as their skills are discovered, they get preferential treatment. Schools, colleges, university, and someone’s always covering their back. They’re constantly told they’re better than everyone else, and not just at throwing a piece of leather around. Guess sometimes the machine turns them into monsters.’

Anya wondered whether it was the machine or the choice of the players? Not every player had a criminal record.

The attendant delivered Anya’s cocktail. ‘Is there anything else I can get you?’ he asked in an English accent.

Ethan let him know they were fine and turned to Anya. ‘Of course, soccer players in England,’ he gestured to the steward, ‘have the same reputation as footballers in Australia and America. You pick a bunch of teenagers with ball skills, pay them outrageous amounts of money, treat them like gods and wonder why they go off the rails. No code or sport that behaves like that is exempt. A lot of people are wondering why it took so long for Tiger Woods to get caught out by his wife. They don’t know how protected and enabled these guys are, for whatever wrong activities they get involved in.’

Anya considered Woods’s situation very different from players who committed violent acts. It wasn’t a crime to have a number of mistresses and, as far as she’d heard, there was no violence involved in his alleged infidelities.

‘Wrong and illegal are vastly different things.’

‘Your job,’ Ethan grabbed another handful of nuts, ‘is to teach them the difference.’

K
irsten Byrne climbed from the taxi and pulled down the hem of her dress to obscure the chunkiest parts of her thighs.

The outfit was tighter than anything she would have chosen for herself. Representing Cheree Jordan Fashions meant she had to look the part. ‘Sophisticated Sassy’, the designer described her clothing. Cheree had reassured Kirsten that the dress was what people would see tonight, not the girl in it.

The crowd groaned when they saw Kirsten. They were obviously expecting a celebrity or a star player. Reporters and fans had lined the street outside the hotel. She breathed in the excitement. Here she was on 42nd Street, and for a moment she allowed herself to live the fantasy. This is what being rich and famous felt like. If only everyone back in Louisville could see her now.

She slowed and fidgeted with her handbag. What was she thinking? How did she ever believe she could fit in with these people? The girl at high school voted most likely to breed cats.

But that was before she had become an intern for a New York fashion designer and was given the task of signing Pete Janson, one of football’s biggest stars and most lucrative players. A line of clothing in his name would be a coup for her boss. He was just so difficult to get to, with all of his managers, minders
and hangers-on. A function like this was the best chance to meet him and make an informal approach.

She teetered her way past lines of fans holding posters and photos of their favourite team members. Boys as young as five jostled with men of all ages, wanting a glimpse of their idol, each adorned in purple, gold and green, the colours of the New Jersey Bombers. A small boy clutching a home-made scrapbook caught her attention.

‘Who are you waiting for?’ she asked.

‘Pistol Pete Janson,’ the boy announced excitedly.

‘Good luck,’ she said. ‘I’m hoping to meet him too.’

Catching a glimpse of her reflection in the glass doors of the hotel, Kirsten did a double take. Thanks to the hairdresser, gone was the mop of messy brown hair; in its place was a smooth, flat style highlighted by a sophisticated clip-on ponytail. An eyebrow wax, professional makeup and a sequinned halterneck dress completely erased the girl from last year.

Clutching the invitation, she headed through the revolving doors into the quiet of the foyer. A fountain trickled water and she felt goosebumps over her arms. As she rode up the escalator, she could already feel burning where the shoes dug into her toes and rubbed the balls of her feet.

Further along, tourists milled with more fans in team jerseys. Heading past the elevators and through double doors was a steady stream of tall, glamorous women.

Kirsten stretched the dress hem as low as it would go.

A sign saying
Private Function
told the world this was an exclusive party. Invitation only.

Handing across her entry ticket, she held her breath. This really could be the best night of her life; it could make her career in New York.

Inside she stood by the wall, taking in the scene. Revellers in one group cheered and laughed in unison; women in revealing dresses stood in groups, constantly looking around to see who else was in the room. For a moment, Kirsten felt her outfit was the most modest here.

The glass of champagne tickled her nose and she wished she hadn’t been too nervous to eat lunch. Music pounded as she squeezed her way to the bar for a drink of water.

Suddenly a hand was on her bottom, creeping under her dress. Horrified, she spun around. A group of men laughed.

‘Look, fellas, it’s new blood.’

Another meowed and they laughed again.

‘Manners, boys,’ a booming voice commanded. Kirsten stood back, amazed at the size of the man. He must have been at least six foot six of solid muscle.

‘That’s no way to treat a lady,’ he said and moved forward. The others parted without a word. He put his arm around her shoulder and led her to a table where four people were engrossed in conversation. When they arrived, the occupants made room for them and the men exchanged high-fives.

Blond wavy hair, a dimpled chin. This had to be Peter Janson. Only he was far better looking than his pictures. He asked Kirsten her name but didn’t introduce himself. This man knew he was important and assumed everyone else knew too. She just hoped she wouldn’t say the wrong thing.

A number of drinks arrived at the table, and she stirred her pink concoction with the straw.

The others drank and laughed at Pete Janson’s jokes. He began to tell them about a recent game, the details of which went over her head. She didn’t know what a quarterback did specifically, apart from throw balls and set up touchdowns. He didn’t hesitate to mention how crazy the fans went every time he got hold of the ball.

Kirsten tried to join in the conversation. ‘Did you see all the people out the front lined up for autographs?’

‘Hell no,’ the big man said, sliding his arm along the chair behind her. ‘We always come in the back. That way the paparazzi and fans who check into the hotel so they can camp in the foyer don’t see us. This is our time.’

‘They looked like they’d been waiting for ages; some kids have travelled a long way.’

He touched her shoulder. ‘Kirsten, right? We work our butts off all week training and giving everything for the fans, so now’s the only time we get to unwind. Tomorrow we go into lockdown for a camp. Besides, most of those are professional memorabilia collectors. Within an hour, anything we sign will be on eBay. Who wants another round?’

Kirsten thought of the little boy waiting patiently, having travelled especially to see his favourite football star.

‘Excuse me, can anyone tell me where the bathrooms are?’ She wanted a moment to catch her breath.

One of the women, who introduced herself as Stacy, offered to show her the way.

As they manoeuvred a path out of the function room, Stacy winked at the doorman and told him they’d be right back.

Outside, Kirsten felt a sense of relief that she could gather her thoughts without loud music thumping.

‘He’s got his eye on you. Do you know how lucky you are? Thousands of women would kill to be in your shoes right now,’ Stacy gushed.

‘What do you mean?’ Kirsten asked.

‘Are you trying to tell me you didn’t notice the way Pistol looked at you? He doesn’t invite just anyone over to his table, you know.’

Kirsten’s heart raced. She couldn’t believe her luck. All she had to do now was to work out how to bring up the idea of a clothing line for Cheree Jordan Fashions.

Inside the bathroom, women in tight mini-dresses with bulging cleavages jostled for space in front of an extensive mirror.

‘OMG,’ a platinum blonde with teased hair declared, ‘I just saw Giant Joffie. God, I hope he picks me tonight. They don’t call him Giant for nothing.’

A brunette with hair extensions gasped, while reapplying Hollywood tape inside a gold lamé top. Her outfit was complemented by spray-on jeans, which on second glance were leggings with printed pockets and seams, tucked into knee-high stiletto boots.

‘Joffie’s the best lay I’ve ever had,’ said another.

The brunette looked Kirsten up and down. ‘Girl, you are
way
out of your league tonight.’

‘Don’t mind her,’ the blonde said. ‘I’m guessing the closest she ever got was screwing the team’s water boy. Love your dress.’ With that, she was out the door.

‘Ignore the pack of bitches,’ Stacy whispered. ‘You stick with Pete and you’ll be taken care of.’

After fixing their makeup, they left the bathroom.

Kirsten excused herself. ‘I’ll be there in a minute. I just need a quick breath of fresh air.’

‘Whatever you do, don’t smoke cigarettes. He can’t stand the smell.’

Kirsten hurried down the escalator and out the front door, looking for the little boy and his father. He was still standing with his scrapbook in hand, hoping to see his hero.

‘Remember me?’ she said. ‘I’m with Pete Janson inside. You can’t actually come into where he is, but I could maybe get him to sign your book if you like.’

The boy’s face transformed.

‘If you come with me into the foyer, you can have a seat in one of the sofas and I’ll take it in and bring it back. Only it might be a little while. He’s really busy.’

Kirsten didn’t have the heart to tell him his hero was avoiding fans tonight. This little boy deserved better.

‘We’ve waited this long. What do you think, Adam?’

The child nodded, and the trio walked back into the hotel and up the escalators. When it came time to part with his precious scrapbook, Adam hesitated.

‘I promise to take really good care of it. How would you like it signed? Specially for you?’

The boy nodded and handed over the book; in exchange, Kirsten gave him her card with her phone number on it. ‘If you need to go, just call me and I’ll get it straight back to you. OK?’

She hurried back to the function room, feeling pain now with every step as she struggled in the heels. Inside, more people
were standing around Janson’s table, hanging on his every utterance. Her best chance of talking business was if she could get him in a quiet place for a few minutes.

Thankfully, he stood and ushered her into the same seat. Stacy winked at her.

‘What have you got there?’ he asked, sliding his arm back around her.

‘A little boy outside absolutely idolises you. I was wondering if you’d sign this for him. His name is Adam.’

‘Since you asked so nicely,’ he said, leaning close enough for her to feel his breath on her face. ‘This isn’t your kid, is it?’

‘No, I mean, I just met him on the way in tonight.’

He signed an illegible squiggle and put the pen on top of the closed book.

‘Now, tell me about you.’

Kirsten saw her chance. ‘I work for Cheree Jordan, the fashion designer.’

‘Who?’ He leant in close. The noise in the room seemed to have escalated.

‘Cheree Jordan Fashions,’ she said loudly. ‘Actually, we’re looking for a superstar footballer to work with us on a line of clothing. The potential return for this player is enormous.’ Kirsten didn’t want to admit that she’d come specifically to target Janson. ‘Don’t suppose you know anyone who would fit the bill?’

He laughed. ‘Who do you have in mind?’

‘Someone athletic, successful, a wonderful role model, oh, and handsome.’

She noticed how he crinkled his nose before breaking into a captivating smile. Even his teeth were perfect.

Another round of drinks arrived. ‘What sort of money are we talking?’

Kirsten rattled off the potential earnings and he listened intently, occasionally moving even closer to better hear or ask a question. She couldn’t help noticing his musk aftershave. After she’d finished the presentation she’d practised all day, another round of drinks appeared.

The footballer took a glass of champagne and handed one to Kirsten.

‘It’s an attractive proposition. I get lots of offers, but this time I’m definitely interested.’ He clinked her glass with his. ‘This could be the start of a beautiful relationship.’

She couldn’t believe it. Pete Janson was actually talking about doing business with Cheree Jordan Fashions, with her! This had to be the best night of her life. She drank and he toasted to success and they drank again. She pulled out her card and suddenly remembered little Adam in the foyer.

‘Almost forgot. The boy needs his book back.’

‘Whoa. You can’t mention a great business deal then disappear. It’s not like you’re going to turn into a pumpkin at midnight. My agent’s upstairs. He has to sign off on all my deals. We can catch him if you want and give him your proposal.’

Kirsten couldn’t believe how easy Janson was to talk to. He was born in a town in Arkansas and spoke kindly of his parents and grandparents. He seemed to share the same family values and said how proud he was of his two daughters.

Janson stood up and put out his enormous hand for her to take. Holding hands, they forged through the crowd, their path slowed by well-wishers squeezing through to high-five, pat him on the back or say, ‘Pistol, my man.’ One of the women from the bathroom slipped something into his hand. Kirsten presumed it was her phone number. Without missing a beat, Janson tucked it into a much shorter man’s shirt pocket and patted his chest. ‘Great job today. Here’s your tip.’

Kirsten wondered if this was the water boy.

In the foyer, she steered him over to Adam, and Janson stopped to meet the little boy and his father. He even posed for photos, much to Adam’s delight. The joy on the child’s face was priceless.