Tackled by Trouble, Ebook

I ’m sitting in one of Charlie Harrington’s chairs, legs sprawled in a way that says I don’t give a fuck.
Except I do. Wouldn’t be here if I didn’t.
My right knee bounces as if it’s got its own heartbeat. I’m early, she’s late. Maybe grabbing a coffee to buy herself two more minutes of not having to deal with me. Mac, one of the few people on Charlie’s team, let me in and said she’d be right back.
I check my phone. 11:23 pm.
By now, they’ll be lowering him into the ground. I wonder if anyone’s crying, if my maw is there. I highly doubt it, she hated my father. And he didn’t have friends as far as I know, except the mates he made in prison. My guess is it’s one or two surviving drug pals and a minister who’s never met him. Something’s wedged between my ribs, growing sharper by the minute.
I’m not at my father’s funeral because I’d rather be anywhere else. Even here, about to be skinned alive by my new agent.
I force the knot lower.
The door opens and Charlie breezes in, tablet tucked under her arm. No shouting or stomping. Only a calm, collected agent in her crisp white shirt and leather leggings.
‘Thanks for coming in, Finn. I take it you’re aware that we’ve got a bit of a situation.’
I slouch deeper. ‘Situation? I was more going with clusterfuck.’
Without blinking, she pushes her tablet across the desk. The headlines slap me in the face.

LENNOX IN THREE-WAY SHAME WITH TORY MP’S FIANCÉE
PINK-HAIRED FLANKER FACES RED CARD AFTER ALPINE ANTICS
DOUBLE SNOW JOB FOR SCOTTISH RUGBY STAR

‘Jesus,’ I mutter, scrolling through. Stomach acid eats through my gut. ‘They’ve been busy.’
‘So have your sponsors. The car dealership pulled their offer for you this morning. And the Rebels’ leadership demands a meeting first thing tomorrow.’
The walls of the office shrink inward.
‘Look.’ I pitch my weight forward. ‘It was all consensual fun. Everyone was having a great time. I swear, I had no idea who they were.’
‘That’s actually worse.’ There’s a flash of disgust on her face. ‘And the sisters angle?’
‘Stepsisters,’ I correct. ‘And no, I didn’t know. It’s not like I planned it. I hardly remember the details. Too bad, judging by these pictures. Looks like a proper belter.’
Now I get a rage-fuelled look, but she immediately reins it in. Her face is the picture of neutral professionalism. You’d think she wasn’t looking at human garbage.
Damn, she’s good. That’s why she’s my agent.
‘You’re taking this well,’ I say. ‘I expected more...shouting.’
‘Would shouting help?’
‘Might feel more normal.’ That – and random smacks to the back of the
head. My mother’s MO.
She sighs loudly. ‘Finn, I’m not angry. I’m disappointed.’
Uh oh.
‘Aye, well. Get in line.’ I scratch at a scab on my knuckle until it bleeds.
‘So what’s the plan? Sackcloth and ashes? Public flogging?’
‘How about taking this seriously?’
‘Fine. And then?’
‘Not sure yet. Community service or charity, a fundraiser. Something
that shows contrition without undermining our positioning.’
I nod, throat tight. ‘And the Rebels?’
‘I’m meeting with Coach Wallace later. Brodie’s coming too.’
Great. Captain Perfect to the rescue.
‘He’s on your side, Finn,’ she states, as if she could read my mind. ‘Everyone’s on my side until they’re not.’
‘Spare me the lost boy routine.’
The door opens again, and a woman walks in. Dark ponytail and a
fringe cut with military precision. Deep red on lips that are too full to be fair. She looks like a pin-up who hasn’t slept in a week and bleeds espresso. Curvy and vibrating with an energy that makes it hard not to stare. She has a glittery purple travel mug in one arm, a stack of papers in the other, and a step like she’s marching into battle.
I sit up without meaning to.
‘Sorry I’m late. Printer jammed again. We have a hate-hate- relationship.’ She turns to me. ‘Theo MacMickin. I believe we haven’t met in person.’
Her eyes are violet-blue and sharp. Like they’ve already decided what I am. And whatever it is, they’re not wrong.
‘Finn Lennox. Professional cock-up.’ I hold out a hand.
She sets the papers and mug down before taking it. Her grip is firm and no-nonsense. ‘Professional rugby player who went off track. There’s a difference.’
Something in my chest eases a wee bit.
‘Theo’s my assistant and our social media manager,’ Charlie explains. ‘She’ll be handling your public rehabilitation.’
I’d let her handle plenty of things – if this were a different week, in a different life.
What? Calm doon, cowboy.
‘Lucky her.’
Theo sits down next to me and crosses her legs. ‘Let’s be clear. I can help manage how the world sees you, but I can’t change who you are. That part’s on you.’
‘Do you think I have to change who I am?’
‘Do you think you have to?’ She lifts a brow and slides a document toward me. ‘This is your new schedule. Media blackout until I say otherwise, I’ll handle your socials. Everything goes through me. Daily check-ins. We start tomorrow.’
Her gaze holds mine. Bright, unflinching, and too damn blue, measuring the gap between what I say and what I mean.
Charlie’s phone lights up. She frowns, checks the screen, and stands. ‘Give me a minute’, she says, halfway to the door.
Theo glances after her, unreadable.
Family call? Feels like it. Or maybe she needed a break from me. Wouldn’t blame her. Charlie’s heels click away, and suddenly it’s just me and the woman who’s going to hold me hostage for the foreseeable future. The silence stretches thin as I count the bricks in the wall.
‘So,’ I say and stretch lazily, ‘your name is Theo. Isn’t that...a boy’s name?’
‘So, you slept with two women at the same time. Isn’t that overcompensating?’ Her voice is calm but cuts like a blade. ‘Do you even understand the fallout of what you’ve done?’
I summon my practised smile. ‘Gave two ladies a good time?’
Her cheeks light up with anger. It looks surprisingly cute.
‘You’ve put this entire agency at risk. Charlie built this from nothing
after her fiancé cheated on her and her own father took his side. And you—’ She stops and inhales sharply through her nose. ‘Your behaviour wasn’t just reckless. It was selfish and childish!’
Air stalls behind my collarbone and the words almost get stuck halfway up. ‘I agree. And I’m sorry.’
‘Do you? And are you? Because this isn’t only about you. It’s about Charlie. About every person who works here. Every client whose reputation gets tarnished by association. Not to mention your team.’
‘I said I’m sorry.’
‘Oh, I heard you. But honestly? You don’t get to feel a bit sorry when other people are mopping up your mess.’ She taps her pen against the paper, a rapid staccato. ‘The Rebels might drop you. Did that occur to you?’
It has. Every waking minute since I sobered up. ‘They won’t, probably. They need me to play. I need to play.’
Her eyes stop flaring long enough to ask a question. ‘Why weren’t you answering any calls?’
My father’s coffin flashes through my mind. What should I say?
Because of the man who left me as a child and died in prison and now I’m skipping his funeral. Saying that would sound like an excuse and it’s not. ‘Forgot my charger and my phone died.’ Lie, obviously. Truth’s heavier
than that.
‘For over a week?’
‘I was busy.’
She gives me a once-over. ‘Clearly.’
I lean towards her. ‘Look, I was pished, awright? Fucking gone. First
time in over a year, so excuse me if I couldn’t handle the booze and lost the plot.’
‘Why did you drink so much then?’
Charlie walks back in before I can answer. Saved by the bell.
‘Sorry about that.’ She sits down, all business again. ‘That was
MacKenzie Sporting. They are reconsidering all active contracts. The exact words were something along the lines of “We pride ourselves on family values and expect the same from our partners and their associates”.’
Family values. Right. Because nothing says family values like dropping someone the minute they fuck up. I know that game all too well. That’s what family is, right? My leg starts bouncing again. Can’t help it.
I get it. They want squeaky clean reputations.
‘Brodie’s already fielding questions at the gym,’ Charlie says. ‘The press ambushed him this morning.’
Fuck. Brodie. Now he’s caught in my mess and that’s the last thing he needs after getting out of his own pool of shite with the gambling and all that.
‘Tell him I’m sorry.’
‘Oh no. No, you’ll tell him yourself and get the thrashing you deserve,’ Charlie says.
Not that I want to. But I know I owe him.
Charlie’s phone pings again, she glances at it and recoils. ‘My father’s seen the headlines. Now he’s reminding me of my incompetence and awful decisions. Love how this year’s starting.’ She switches it off, tossing it on the desk.
A chill sluices down my spine. George Harrington, the legendary, ruthless London sports agent. I don’t know the whole story, but I think he’s still livid that his eldest daughter – heir to his empire – left his firm last year. I heard some stuff about him. People talk. And now I’ve given him ammunition. ‘Charlie, I—’
‘Don’t worry about him.’
But I do. I’ve let her down. Let everyone down, not just myself.
I need to fix this.
I dig my fingers into my knees to stop the bobbing. The silence in
Charlie’s office feels like the hush before a eulogy. Fitting, since my career is apparently about to be buried on the same day as the man who fathered me.
‘There might be a way forward.’ Charlie breaks the quiet. She’s staring at her laptop, scrolling through what must be an endless parade of my public humiliation. ‘MacKenzie Sporting just emailed. They’re willing to reconsider their position if – and I quote – “Mister Lennox demonstrates a visible commitment to personal growth and family values”.’
I answer with a dry noise in my throat. ‘What does that even mean? Should I grow a beard? Take up meditation? Ferment kombucha and get a puppy?’
‘It means,’ Theo cuts in, not looking up from her lists, ‘they want to see you become less of a liability. They need reassurance you’re not going to drag their brand through another tabloid scandal, frolicking with three influencers and a bottle of Wreck the Hoose Juice on a golf course.’
Charlie’s eyes light up. ‘All they need is proof you’re trying. That you’re committed. Stable and settled.’
Theo scoffs, a small sound that somehow fills the room. ‘As if the likes of him ever settle.’
‘But what if he did?’ Charlie says, voice rising with excitement. ‘When an athlete gets caught in a scandal, they often redeem themselves with a dependable partner. A wholesome girlfriend or love story. The public laps it up.’
I stare at her. ‘Do you want me to lie? Pretend I’m suddenly madly in love?’
‘That’s the idea, yes,’ Charlie says slowly.
‘I hold someone’s hand in public and pretend I’ve changed? Fuck me. That’s bonkers. And also borderline blackmail.’
Charlie shakes her head. ‘No, Finn. This is publicity. Of course, you’re free to not do it. You have free will – but you might not have a team or a contract anymore. So, you need either a girlfriend or a time machine.’ She lets out a ragged exhale. ‘And I swear to God, if I lose this agency because of one man’s dick...’
Okay, yeah. But... My voice nearly sticks in my throat. ‘I never had a real girlfriend. That’s a known fact. Nobody’d believe it.’
‘They will if we sell it right.’ Charlie braces her arms across her chest. ‘Let’s run with that idea for a minute. Let’s say you didn’t go on a hedonistic bender because you’re a daftie – but because you were heartbroken. You had been dating in secret, she dumped you, then you spiralled. No cheating, that’s important.’ A shadow crosses her face. ‘You were split up. But now you both realise what a terrible mistake you made. The public loves a grovelling man in emotional pain and a happily ever after.’
I shake my head. ‘That’s mental.’
‘Wrong. It’s brilliant,’ Charlie insists. ‘The rugby bad boy, humbled by true love. We sell the public the three Rs,’ she explains. ‘Regret – you didn’t cheat, you were broken up. Reform – you’re fixing yourself. Romance – you did it all because you thought you lost your one true love.’
Theo’s pen stops moving. ‘It could work.’ Her tone stays cool and analytical. ‘But we’d need the right woman. Someone credible and professional. Someone who doesn’t get...caught up. Someone who balances out his...whatever this is.’ She gestures vaguely in my direction.
‘And who the hell would be insane enough to agree to that?’ I ask, because I honestly have no idea. It’s not like there’s a ‘fake girlfriend for hire’-agency. Or is there? Either way, I’m not interested. And if we can’t find anyone, this bullshit idea might go away. I can sit it out.
The quiet stretches, taut as a pulled hamstring. Theo’s eyes flick to Charlie, then to me. One beat, two.
‘Me,’ she says suddenly. ‘I’ll do it.’
Charlie turns her head sharply to stare at Theo.
My jaw drops. ‘Wait. You?’
‘Yes, me.’ She meets my gaze head-on. ‘I’m already handling your
social media rehabilitation. This is merely an extension of that.’ ‘But—’
‘I’m organised and reliable. The opposite of your type. Gives it a realistic edge.’
‘My type?’
‘Blonde, leggy, rich, famous, likes to party.’ She ticks them off on her fingers. ‘I’m none of those things.’
‘I don’t have a type,’ I protest, but my eyes drift to her curves despite myself.
Not that I’d say it aloud, because I know better, but they painted curves like that on bomber planes in the Second World War.
‘Are you serious about this?’ Charlie’s focus narrows to Theo’s face.
‘Deadly.’ Theo adjusts her posture, subtle but exact. ‘We can frame it as workplace romance. Happens all the time.’ Now her gaze darkens for a second. ‘It’s the most logical and efficient solution. I’m familiar with the strategy and can control the narrative. Keep him in line.’
‘Keep me in line?’ I cough out a laugh. ‘I’m not a dog.’
‘True. Dogs can be trained.’ Her gaze flicks over me. ‘Consider it a professional arrangement, leash optional.’
‘What’s in it for you?’ I watch her too closely and let her sense it.
Her shoulders lift a fraction, lips firming into a neutral line before she answers. ‘Elite Edge’s survival. My job, which I happen to really, really like.’
I lean back and take her in. The navy pencil skirt. The way she holds herself, spine straight, shoulders back.
Charlie clears her throat. ‘This is...unexpected. But yeah, it might work. We can trust Theo. She’s smart and capable with girl next door vibes.’
‘And completely not my type,’ I add with a wink. ‘Your words, not mine.’
Theo’s eyes frost over. ‘Which makes it perfect.’
Perfect isn’t the word I’d use. Insane, more like. ‘So, you’ll be my... girlfriend.’
‘Your redemption arc and colleague,’ she corrects. ‘Nothing more. Nothing less.’
I study her face. Those full lips, the cool depth in her eyes. She’s not afraid of me. Not impressed by me. And not interested in me at all.
The last one stings a bit, I have to admit.
‘So, we’re agreed?’ Charlie taps a manicured nail against her phone. The tap-tap-tap grates on my already frayed nerves.
‘Aye,’ I mumble, even though ‘agreed’ is a vast understatement. More like reluctantly strapped to a rocket headed for Planet Awkward.
‘Fab. We tell the team you fell in love at work and had been secretly seeing each other for a while before you briefly broke up. Needed to keep it quiet. Professional and personal reasons. Blah blah. The usual bollocks. The team needs to buy it,’ Charlie explains and ignores my existential dread.
‘Except... We have to tell Brodie. He can smell bullshit from a mile off and no one in this room wants to incur his wrath when he does.’
I glance at Theo, who’s busy making a list. Her fringe falls across her forehead, and she blows it aside with an impatient puff. Focussed and precise. Everything I’m not.
‘Okay.’ I tap a finger against my own knee, trying to match Charlie’s irritating rhythm. ‘And what exactly would that involve?’
Theo hands me a sheet of paper, bullet-pointed in meticulous handwriting. ‘Only touching in public. Kissing is acceptable, but no tongues.’
Charlie coughs into her fist.
Kissing Theo? The thought lights up the part of me that never learns, a mix of panic and...intrigue, perhaps. Or the lingering aftertaste of last week’s debauchery. Who can tell?
‘Social media posts,’ she continues. ‘Photos of us together. Casual dates. Just enough to...’
‘...convince the world I’m not a self-destructive sexaholic?’ I finish for her.
She nods. ‘Aye. I’ll create a schedule of appearances. This is strictly performative and professional.’
No one speaks. The space between us turns dense enough to feel. Theo watches me, those violet-blue eyes searching for the catch, the angle, the hidden play.
I let out a defeated sigh. ‘How long will this charade last?’
‘Until the season ends in May, so roughly five months,’ Charlie says, fingers steepled under her chin. ‘With my luck, I’m sure that by then, some other player will have screwed up royally. And you two can have a civilised, amicable, quiet split.’
‘We go our separate ways,’ Theo says. ‘No hard feelings. No messy breakup. Just...puff and gone.’
Puff and gone. As if whatever shred of reputation I might’ve had hadn’t already puffed and gone in a cloud of champagne and glitter.
Five months of pretending to be someone I’m not. With someone who’s the exact opposite of...well, everyone I’ve ever been with, myself included.
But then I think of the exhaustion etched around Charlie’s eyes. How her words wobbled when she mentioned her father. Of Brodie, catching flak at the gym. The Rebels, the lads who’ve become my family in the past eight months since the team’s formation.
‘Fine,’ I say, tighter than I mean. ‘I’ll survive five months.’
Not for the optics or for the sponsors or even for myself. But for them, for Charlie and Theo and the team. I’m not in Glasgow today to bury my father. But I might be burying the part of me he made. For the first time in my life, I’m trying to do the right thing.
I’m going to lie through my teeth.
But for a good cause. My redemption and my career, Charlie’s agency, Theo’s job.
‘Awright, Miss MacMickin,’ I say, ‘Let’s see how you turn me into boyfriend material.’

Print books shipped from my independent printer in the UK. Shipping times & costs may vary.

Ebooks are delivered by email through Bookfunnel. Check your email and then download or read/listen on your favourite device.