Page 2 of Hotshot

Sara beamed at Sloane saying her name.

Sloane knew all the tricks. Impressing women was the same whether you were charming a potential date, schmoozing a journalist or pleasing a fan. Turn your attention fully onto them, remember their name and repeat it back. It was a sure-fire way to make that woman feel like the centre of your world. It had always worked great for Sloane. Right up until it didn’t. But she wasn’t going to think about her.

Sloane produced her blue American passport and handed it to the man at border control. She was almost due a new one. Her photo was from nearly nine years ago, when anyone aged 28 was ancient. Yet here she was, 28 and not on death’s door just yet. If you’d told 19-year-old Sloane what was going to happen in her life and career over the next decade, she’d have been pretty pleased.

“Welcome to the UK, Ms Patterson,” the customs officer said, with a smile that emphasised the dimple in his cheek. “I hope you settle into your new job.” He paused and leaned forward. “But not too well, because in my house, we’re fans of Salchester United.” He gave her a wink.

Sloane let out a hoot of laughter, and her shoulders loosened. She hadn’t realised how tense they were until that moment. She peered at the man’s name badge. Simon.

“Thanks Simon, I needed that laugh. But I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news. Our Rovers are going to give you a soccer lesson this season, and I plan to be right at the centre of the action.” She returned Simon’s wink, and could still hear him laughing as Sara pushed open a set of double doors into the shiny VIP arrivals lounge.

Sloane blinked as camera flashes popped and the volume exploded. She grinned. If her mom could see her now.

Maybe coming to the UK was the right move, after all.

CHAPTER2

Ella stood and stared at Salchester Rovers’ elite training facility in front of her. The impressive new building had sprung up in the last five years, providing state-of-the-art training pitches, gyms, accommodation, and recovery for the men’s and women’s teams, as well as the youth set-up. Now, it was her workplace. She balled her hand into a fist. Deep breaths. In through her nose, out through her mouth.

This was it. Two degrees and nearly a decade working with her own clients, she’d finally landed her dream job. Scratch that, she wasn’t arriving here to play football just as she’d wished when she was a little girl. However, when that dream hadn’t come true, the next item on Ella’s list was to work at Salchester Rovers in some capacity. Here she was, ready to start work as the women’s team’s very own performance and lifestyle coach. The first of her kind in the Women’s Super League.

How proud her mum would have been. How stoked her family and friends were. She’d even allowed herself a moment to be proud of herself.

She took another deep breath and grabbed her new, posh black bag from the back seat of her metallic-green Mini. First day was all about looking the part. Fake it ’til you make it. It had been a while since Ella’s previous first day. Just after her mum died. She’d faked that day just fine. If she could do that, she could do anything.

An impressive-looking black car with tinted windows pulled up a few feet away.

Ella bent to see who was inside, but she hadn’t added x-ray vision to her list of achievements yet. She straightened. Did she need her navy blazer from the back seat? The July sunshine was fairly hot, but this was Salchester. It could change in a moment. She hesitated, then grabbed it. She might be overdressed, but it was better to look professional on her first day. She could suss the rest out as she went.

“You think you’ll be able to handle the job, Ms Carmichael?” the People manager had asked in her interview. “These are Women’s Super League stars. Players who get recognised when they walk down the street. Some of them are famous faces worldwide. The game’s expanded in ways you’d never have thought possible ten years ago. Now, the women, just like the men, are superstars. How do you think you’ll do working alongside them?”

Ella was aware things had changed since she’d last laced up her football boots. However, the question hadn’t fazed her. She was used to dealing with professional athletes. She was a skilled and experienced elite performance coach, who’d helped sports people from all walks of life. She’d handle every person in the same way she’d treat any client – with care, respect, and with a professional attitude.

She’d also told the interviewer she’d expect the same in return. “We’re all on the same side, with the ultimate aim of getting fit, healthy players – in body and mind – onto the pitch to do the best they can for Salchester Rovers.”

That, of course, was the professional answer. The one she’d practised in the mirror prior to her interview. But right now, the reality of her new job started to sink in. She was working at the heart of her childhood team. Butterflies flapped in her chest, and she smoothed them down. The team she’d come to see with her family as a kid, the team she still supported to this day. Only now, she had a front row seat to every game. A behind-the-scenes pass to every day.

She’d been hired first and foremost to look after the women’s team. To make sure their mindset and lifestyle were as fit and finely tuned as their bodies. She wasn’t a psychologist, the club already employed them. Salchester had hired her to work part-time in a brand-new role to help the team level up. To do for them what she’d done for other athletes. To make them the best.

Because this year, Salchester Rovers were set to fight not only for the league with their arch-rivals, Salchester United, but also for the FA Cup and a second consecutive top-four finish. They’d spent big in the transfer market. They’d brought in Ella and a raft of other staff. Salchester Rovers were taking their women’s team just as seriously as their men’s.

A car door slammed behind her. When she turned, a hooded figure got out of the shiny, black car, slinging a holdall over their left shoulder. The holdall looked expensive. Ella was useless when it came to labels, but her cousin Marina had given her a crash course when she’d learned about her new job. “If you want to get on with the players, especially the big ones, you’re going to have to get to know their lives. That means being up on fashion.” Her eyebrows had almost joined together when she spoke, she was that serious. This person’s bag was brown with gold. Louis Vuitton? Ella was 90 per cent sure.

Ella shrugged on her blazer, hitched her bag up her shoulder, and locked her car with a beep. She walked along the pavement and was just about to steer around the hooded figure, when whoever it was pushed their hood down and stepped back. Right onto Ella’s shiny black brogues.

Pain shot up her leg and she let out a yelp.

“Shit! I’m sorry!”

An American accent.

Ella blinked, then focused. Then took a huge intake of breath.

Holy shit.

The woman holding the designer bag, who’d just stepped on her foot was none other than the best striker in the women’s game right now. Salchester Rovers’ new signing, Sloane Patterson. Queer pin-up. Very out. And very fucking good at football. In signing her, Salchester Rovers had broken the world record transfer fee for a woman. Sloane was a media staple, a darling of the tabloids with her English midfield dynamo fiancée Jess Calder, and a very big deal. Her job was to take the club to the next level. It was part of Ella’s new role to make sure she was in the right head space to do just that. Hence, she wasn’t going to shout at her for standing on her foot.

Instead, Ella shook her head. “No problem,” she replied, making light of it. “I’m just glad I didn’t step on your foot. That would have been worse.”

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