Page 54 of Curvy Love

The only question is did Sabrina Wilde eat carbs for nothing or will the Scottish hottie take the bait?

chaptertwenty-one

ABBOTT

I’m glaring at my publicist in the mirror of the green room for this charity event. I’ve been in Austin less than a week and I’m already doing this kind of shit.

I’m a thirty-five-year-old professional athlete. More than a decade playing professional football in Scotland and England has taken its toll on my body. Every athlete knows the day will come. The day when your knees start to give out, no matter how much you ice them. The day you still love the sport, but you just don’t have the same blood-thirsty hustle the young bucks have.

The day your agent mentions the possibility of giving up being a proper footballer to play American soccer so you can live in a climate that’s less harsh and damp and hard on your old, creaky joints. And someone you manage to not gag.

Yep. That’s where I was six months ago. While I don’t love the idea, it turns out Austin isn’t a bad place to live (once you get over how fucking hot it is all the damn time). And my teammates are bloody fantastic, so that helps. I have to admit too that the warmer climate is easier on my knees. Fuck, I’m getting old.

What doesn’t help is the American press, who—to quote my agent—“Are not impressed with your antics.” Which is why the team hired a publicist to convince the media that I’m not just a snarling asshole, but actually a charming scamp who’s worth the millions the team is paying me.

Right now, my publicist is standing behind me and I’m pretty sure, despite her sky-scraper height heels, she still barely comes up to my chest. It doesn’t matter that she’s practically pocket-sized, Lezlee is a ball-busting Millennial and I’m glad she’s on my team. Even if she’s pissing me off right now.

“This is a stupid fucking idea,” I grumble.

“So you’ve mentioned,” she says. She circles me one more time and picks something off my sleeve and then smooths out the front lapel on my Prince Charles jacket. “But the bottom line is your reputation is terrible and that might work across the pond, but here in ‘Merica, we like nice people. This charity auction will go a long way into showing people that you’re not a complete jackass.”

I glare at her.

“Things wouldn’t be so bad if you hadn’t gotten into the altercation with that photographer the other night. You doing this charity auction and an anger management seminar is you getting off easy. So smile.”

“I didn’t have an altercation. I didn’t even touch the bloke. I only touched his camera. And he shouldn’t have shoved it in my face.”

She sighs. “If you can just pretend for the five minutes you’re on stage, I’ll deal with the rest.”

“Let’s just get this over with.”

She eyeballs me up and down critically, clearly. “You are wearing something under that kilt, aren’t you?”

I waggle my eyebrows at her. “Wouldn’t you like to know?” Then I walk over to where the other guys are lined up.

She follows quickly behind me. Her heels clicking on the floor. “Abbott,” she hisses. “I’m serious. Please tell me you’re wearing underwear of some sort. Because the last thing we need is you flashing your junk at a charity auction forchildren.”

She hisses the last word, as though it would be fine to flash the audience at a charity auction for … oh, say, animals.

I put my hand on my chest and do my best to look fronted which is damned hard to do because frankly nothing offends me. “Lezlee, I think this could be considered sexual harassment.”

She opens her mouth, then snaps it closed. She glares at me. A few deep breaths later, she calmly says, “I hate you. I hope you know that.”

“Take a number, lass, everybody hates me.”

A moment later, some kind of handler ushers both of us into the waiting area behind the stage where the other victims, i.e. the other bachelors, are queued up. The emcee introduces bachelor number eight. I’m number ten. This whole thing is fucked up.

Not the charity, obviously. I’m sure the charity is fantastic. But I would rather have just donated money directly to them than have to parade across a stage and have people bid on me like I'm a fucking horse.

“Now we have bachelor number nine,” the emcee says.

“Shit,” Lezlee whispers, taking in my scowl. “Maybe this was a bad idea after all.”

I could alleviate her worries. Tell her I promise to play nice. But that’s not who I am. It’s not that I’m an asshole all the time, I just don’t put up with anyone’s shit. So I don’t ease her mind. Instead, I just look down at her. “Probably.”

“Could you at least try to smile?”

I bare my teeth at her.

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