Player's Challenge Read Free

Sp—”
    Click.
    Gemma tossed the remote control on the couch. She’d studied Devin long enough. Even if she watched a month’s worth of media appearances, she would never be ready for their first face-to-face encounter in over eight years.
    “Big girl panties.” Shoring up her courage, but heart pounding like a rabbit staring into the eyes of a coyote, Gemma picked up her cell phone. She pressed #21. One of the six clients she personally handled, Devin had his own code. She’d programmed his number into her phone three weeks ago when he’d formally signed onto Top Flight. A coward, she’d skipped all the pageantry by taking a last-minute cruise along the Mediterranean coast.
    Filled with nervous energy, Gemma banged the pen against her leg. So many questions sprinted through her head. The one most at the forefront was why Devin had chosen Top Flight. Like every potential client, he’d received the company prospectus beforehand. Surely, he’d recognized her from her stock photo and bio. And with only four full-time employees, there was no way he’d missed her.
    Of course, she’d changed considerably over the years. The baby fat had melted from her cheeks as did much of the weight around her middle. She hadn’t lost the eleven stones which contributed to secondary school being a living hell. The extra pounds had simply shifted when she’d grown six inches from a diminutive five feet.
    Her mousy brown hair no longer floated around her head like a frizzy halo causing her fits with its sheer volume and unmanageability. Shorn and dyed a hip cherry-cola hue, her hair now hung to her shoulders in a sleek asymmetrical bob.
    One thing which hadn’t changed was her voice. Husky and full-bodied from countless hours of vocal lessons, her voice had been shaped by her mother’s misguided dream that her only daughter would one day become an opera singer. As a result, Gemma sounded like a fifty-year old butcher who smoked a pack of cigarettes a day. Bullied by her classmates and given the nickname toad, her only respite had come through Devin, who’d made her read Lord Byron’s poems to him.
    Maybe she was just being paranoid. More than likely, Devin didn’t remember her at all. While their sixth form remained etched in her memory, he’d probably written it off as some childhood fling. After all, he was one of the best goalies in the Premier League, filthy rich and a bad boy with enough notches on his bed to rival Mick Jagger’s.
    “Talk to me.”
    Gemma jumped almost dropping her cell. She hadn’t heard Devin pick up the other end.
    “Hello…anyone there?” His voice poured over Gemma like warm Nutella. Deep, rich and surprisingly cultured, his accent was devoid of the brummie intonations of their native Birmingham. Unlike cockney, which had an unusual cult following, absolutely no one outside the west midlands appreciated the local accent.
    “I…ah…hello.” She took the phone from her ear and slurped in a deep breath. In less than a second, he’d reduced her to an awkward schoolgirl. Gathering her bearings, Gemma took another soothing breath and then launched into what she hoped was a professional introduction. “Hello, Devin, this is Gemma Clarke with Top Flight. You’ve been shackled to me (well-timed chuckle) and I believe we have an appointment this evening, six o’clock at the Belvedere Supper Club.”
    Gemma gave herself a high five for execution. She sounded like a wind-up doll, but at least she’d spit it out without any of the embarrassing hiccups.
    “I’d rather meet here, at my place.”
    Thrown for a loop, Gemma’s heart beat double time. “Y-y-your place?” she asked, once again tongue tied.
    “My place offers privacy. Trust me. With the transfer window in full effect, every bloke will be underfoot and our meeting would be a waste of time.”
    His reason for meeting at his place made perfectly good sense. Then why did she feel woefully deflated? Because deep down, she’d hoped his