Chapter Two

Ethan Bower met his manager, Melanie, in the lobby of the hotel at six-thirty. At six-foot-two, Ethen still maintained the powerful physique of a professional athlete, though he’d been retired from competition for two years. Dressed in narrow-legged, grey trousers, a pale blue shirt and navy jacket, he cut an impressive figure. Many heads turned to look at him. Ethan paid them no attention but would have noticed straight away if he had not caused a reaction.

He was used to people staring at him. They’d been doing it since he was fourteen.

He liked it. Nothing wrong with that.

“Looking smart,” Melanie said, offering an air kiss that fell several inches short of his face.

“And you look beautiful.” He smiled.

Melanie Porter, of an indeterminable age, was dressed to the nines. Ethan had never seen her look anything less than immaculate. A haughty blonde with razor-sharp cheekbones, she could reduce the toughest businessman to putty with a few words and a carefully arched eyebrow. Tonight, she was out to make an impression in a plunging dress with her breasts hoisted up to her chin.

“You’re got the big guns out, I see,” Ethan joked.

She pursed her deep red lips. “This gig will be crammed with footballers and managers. Unless you’re a star centre forward, the only thing that will catch their attention is a great pair of tits.”

He laughed. “I can’t argue with that. Though, as I can’t claim any of those things, I’m not sure why I’m going.”

“It’s good for your image, showing solidarity with another ‘out’ sportsman. Make sure you get pictured with Fernando, and this will all work out perfectly.”

“Shall we have a drink before we go?” he offered, one eye already on the bar.

“No time. Traffic will be a bastard at this time of night. Let’s get moving. I’ll fill you in on the way.”

There was a black Mercedes waiting at the front of the hotel. Ethan held the door open for Melanie before jumping into the back beside her. She opened her handbag and produced two miniature bottles of Grey Goose vodka, handing one to Ethan.

“What? No mixer?” he asked.

“Don’t pretend you haven’t done it before,” she said, unscrewing the cap and taking a good glug.

With a laugh, Ethan followed her lead. What the hell. It would loosen him up. He wasn’t nervous about attending the launch of Fernando Inglesias’ book. He could do one of these PR events in his sleep, but it had been a tough drive down from his home in Northumberland that afternoon. The traffic had been hell, and he’d only checked into the hotel with half an hour to spare to get showered and changed. He’d wondered if it was worth the effort of travelling all that way for a book launch, but Melanie had guaranteed him it was.

“We need to keep your profile high, with the public and the industry. The coverage for this event will be huge,” she’d assured him. “If you’re to stand a chance of getting the Strictly gig, this kind of exposure is invaluable.”

Yes, Strictly Come Dancing—one of the biggest shows on British television. It had elevated the profiles of dozens of former sports players, raising them from ‘has-been’ to ‘cool’ in one swoop. Getting a spot on Strictly was essential if Ethan was to make the transition from one-time Olympic runner to media star. Things weren’t so bad at the moment. Ethan had a variety of work coming in, from coaching to after-dinner speeches and corporate events, but it wouldn’t last long. His name would soon be forgotten if he didn’t do something to keep himself in the public consciousness.

Any primetime TV show would do for Ethan. He liked the idea of taking part in an SAS challenge or slumming it in the jungle for two weeks, but Strictly, Melanie insisted, was the show for him. “Look what it did for Louis Smith,” she’d told him when first suggesting the idea. “From gymnastics to presenting, reality TV shows and starring in a West End musical, he’s done it all. That could be you if we play this right.”

Ethan wasn’t convinced he had what was necessary to make it big on the dance show, a huge ratings success on BBC TV, but he couldn’t deny that the exposure of performing to twelve million viewers each week could be invaluable.

She’d assured him that things were already happening. “You’re on the long-list for the next season,” she had told him a couple of weeks before. “We need to raise your profile and bring you to the attention of the producers, to ensure you shoot to the top of that list.”

So now here he was in Manchester for the launch of Fernando Inglesias’ book, a man he had never met before, though there were a lot of similarities with their stories—namely that they were very successful sportsmen and, now that Fernando had come out, both openly gay.

Ethan had been around the same age as Fernando when he’d come out in his late twenties. Unlike the footballer, Ethan had never made a huge secret about his sexuality. There had been rumours in the press since the 2012 Olympics in London, but Ethan had avoided answering questions on the subject. He’d neither confirmed nor denied it until the time was right for him. It had never seemed important. Throughout his teens and twenties, Ethan had been too focused on his training and competitions to ever entertain the idea of having a boyfriend. Relationships had never been important to him—winning had. Whenever rumours about him sleeping with other athletes or coaching staff arose, he ignored them all. At the time, he regarded sex as a basic human function, like eating and breathing—not something to get distracted by.

As he had grown older and a string of injuries had hampered his career, Ethan’s priorities had slowly shifted. The personal life he’d neglected for the best part of two decades had become more important, and when the question of his sexuality was raised again by a journalist in Barcelona, he’d decided to tell the truth.

And the world had not ended.

Something he thought Fernando would discover for himself right now.

Good luck to the man.

The launch was taking place in the function room of another plush hotel on the other side of the city. A large crowd of onlookers had gathered outside, and as Ethan stepped out of the car, he was immediately recognised.

“Work it,” Melanie told him. “Those are the people who will vote for you on Strictly if you get through. Get them on your side now. Go on. Seduce them with your charm.”

She stepped back while Ethan got to work, moving along the barrier to sign autographs and pose for selfies with the crowd. This was one of the hardest parts of the job. For every person who obeyed the rules and treated him like a human being, there was another who’d get over-familiar and drag him in for a kiss…or worse. At least the barrier was there to keep wandering hands off his butt and crotch. At a previous event, he’d gone home black and blue after everyone there had decided his arse was fair game.

Admittedly his big, chunky runner’s bum was one of his most famous features, but that didn’t make it free for all.

Eventually, Melanie gave a curt nod, indicating that he had done enough, and they went inside.

“Well done,” she said. “The BBC guys filmed you doing that, and the paparazzi got plenty of shots. It should be good for a bit of coverage in the next week. You’ll be in all the supermarket rags, I’m sure of it.”

“Err, thanks,” he said, not sure he even liked the direction his career was taking.

An enormous poster of the book cover was on display outside the function room, a very moody close up of Fernando. The Spanish hunk looked good enough to eat.

“God, he’s a hottie,” Ethan remarked, leaning closer to read the wording on the poster.

“Isn’t he? And he’s even better in the flesh. Just wait and see.”

Playing with Pride, the banner declared. The official autobiography by Fernando Inglesias and Alex Shaefer.

Ethan froze. “Hold on. Is this for real?”

“What?” Melanie asked.

“Alex Shaefer? He wrote this?”

“I guess so. You know how these things work. Sports stars almost never write their own books. It’s unusual to credit the author so clearly. That’s one thing I’ll say for Fernando. He’s got class.”

“Alex fucking Shaefer,” Ethan muttered.

“You know him?”

Ethan stared at his agent. “Seriously? You don’t know? Alex Shaefer wrote my biography.”

She shrugged. “He did? Sorry, but that was before my time. So, what’s the problem? Didn’t you get on?”

“I thought we did until I read the fucking book. He twisted everything. He made me sound like a spoiled arsehole—privileged, stupid, self-obsessed. It was warped.”

“All stars are self-obsessed,” she said. “That’s how they get where they are.”

“Ghostwriters are paid to write what they’re told to, not what they think.”

“This Alex guy is a pretty big deal. I’m guessing he didn’t have that kind of clause in his contract. People respect his opinion. The publisher must have given him free rein.”

Ethan tutted. “Alex Shaefer threw me under the bus. I tried to stop the book from coming out, but it was too late. They’d already pre-sold it and had a tight deadline.”

Melanie looked at him carefully. “Hang on. I remember now. Aren’t you exaggerating this a little? That book was a relative success, wasn’t it? I had a friend at the agency who worked on the release plan. I don’t remember there being any problems. It was quite well received, I seem to recall.”

“It bombed,” he snapped. “I hated the damn thing. It was a piece of shit. I’ve been really cautious ever since around reporters and writers. That guy”—he jabbed a finger at the name on the poster—“he twisted everything I said.”

Melanie rolled her eyes. “I doubt anyone remembers now, darling. You know what sports books are all about—something for the kids to buy their dads at Christmas. The percentage of people who get given the books who actually read them is tiny. They’re destined for the charity shops in the New Year. No one cares what’s written between the covers. This book? This is different. Fernando has a story everyone wants to hear, but ninety-nine percent of these things are stocking fillers, nothing more.”

“Wow,” he said. “Is that really supposed to make me feel better?”

“Of course it is, because you know it’s true.” She linked her arm in his. “Come on. Let’s get a drink. If you get on Strictly, we’ll have a whole new bio out for next year, and no one will remember the old one.”

The main room was packed. There were displays of Fernando’s book everywhere, and Melanie had been right—there were a huge number of football players in attendance. For a sport that had always shunned openly gay players and at best encouraged ambiguity, they had rolled out the red carpet for Fernando.

Ethan grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing tray and took a sip. It was the real deal, not just sparkling wine or prosecco. No doubt about it, they were throwing the cash around tonight.

Melanie spotted a photographer from OK! magazine and steered Ethan in their direction.

“Time to go to work,” she said.

For the next hour, he played the game, moving through to the crowd and talking to all the important journalists, playing up the similarities between himself and Fernando. “Of course, I know exactly what it’s like for him,” he said with enthusiasm. “Fernando has been so brave in his decision, and I wish him all the best.”

He gave variations on the same thing to reporters from all the major newspapers, as well as TV and radio. Eventually, as he worked the room, Ethan came face to face with the man of the moment, Fernando Inglesias himself. Fernando was with his handsome boyfriend, John, and Ethan made sure he was photographed between them. ‘Three gay buddies having a grand old time’, was the message the pictures would convey, though Ethan was meeting both of them for the first time.

“Congratulations,” he grinned, shaking Fernando’s hand.

“Thank you,” the sexy Spaniard said.

Fernando and John made an incredibly hot couple, and it was obvious, even under contrived circumstances such as this, that they were totally into each other. Despite all the other distractions, he couldn’t miss the way Fernando looked at John and how close they stood together.

Ethan experienced an unexpected pang of regret. These guys shared something he’d never known himself, a deep connection, both emotional and physical.

Ethan had never let another man get that close to him.

Running had always come first. If injury hadn’t stolen it from him, it still would.

If Fernando was lucky, he’d get to experience the best of both worlds—a fantastic career and a satisfying personal life. Maybe it’s possible to have both.

Ethan was done. Fixing a grin in place and working a room full of press could be exhausting, especially when it was in aid of someone else. Things would have been different if he were the centre of attention. Like most successful athletes or players, Ethan felt put out when the spotlight wasn’t on him.

Time for a real drink.

There was only so much champagne he could stomach. After three glasses of fizz, he needed something more substantial. He made his way to the bar. As most people were content to drink the free stuff, there was no queue.

“A double Grey Goose with Diet Coke,” he ordered. “Just a splash of Coke, please, not too much.”

The barman set about fixing the drink. He would go after this one, he thought. He’d done his job, schmoozed the press and ensured some publicity. He would not hang around like some desperate reality TV star, milking every moment for attention. If that wasn’t what it took to make the producers of Strictly notice him, Melanie would have to come up with another plan.

He took the drink and handed the barman his card for payment. It tasted delicious. A perfect blend.

He would go back to the hotel, maybe watch a movie before bed, then get on the road early tomorrow for the journey home.

It hadn’t been a bad trip after all. He’d got to meet Fernando, at least. And thankfully he hadn’t run into that arsehole Alex Shaefer. Jesus, Ethan had almost forgotten about him. The experience of that book had been such a negative one that Ethan had almost wiped it from his memory.

Alex had been kind of hot back then, especially for a writer. Ethan had been exclusively into other sportsmen at the time, but he could have gone for Alex, if things had worked out differently.

If Alex hadn’t been such a back-stabbing piece of shit.

At least he hadn’t showed up tonight. That was one thing to be grateful for.

As Ethan brought the glass to his lips for a second sip, a voice behind him said, “Hello, Ethan. It’s been a long time.”

There was something familiar about the speaker. He couldn’t quite place it until he turned around and found himself looking into a pair of twinkly, blue-grey eyes.

Alex Shaefer.

Shit.

Why didn’t I get out when I had the chance?