We need you

That morning, I woke up feeling surprisingly content.

It had been a while since I felt that way—since I'd woken up with a sense of purpose rather than a nagging sense of boredom.

For weeks, I had ignored job offers. Dismissed them outright. But now, I had actually signed onto something new.

Something different.

Something challenging.

I wasn't sure which player I was going to be managing, but I couldn't imagine it would be that difficult.

After all, I had worked for Carmen Steele—one of the most terrifying and calculating CEOs in the corporate world.

Cold. Ruthless. A woman who made grown men sweat under her gaze.

And I had handled her.

So how hard could one football player be?

Letting the hot water of my shower wash over me, I went over the details in my head.

$70,000 a month.

Full executive management of the player's schedule.

Complete authority over public relations.

The right to overrule personal decisions if necessary.

It was intense, but I had done worse.

After drying off, I dressed for the day.

Professional. Always.

A crisp white blouse, neatly tucked into a sleek black pencil skirt that hugged my form but remained tasteful.

A fitted black blazer, sharp at the shoulders, cinched at the waist. My best pair of heels powerful enough to command attention, yet comfortable enough to wear all day.

Hair styled to perfection, makeup flawless but subtle.

I looked untouchable.

Exactly as I preferred.

With one last glance in the mirror, I grabbed my phone and car keys, then stepped out of my apartment.

The streets of New York were alive with their usual chaos—honking cabs, hurried pedestrians, the scent of fresh bagels mingling with car exhaust.

But I only had one destination in mind.

My café.

The only place in the city that made cappuccinos exactly the way I liked them—smooth, rich, and with just the right amount of sugar.

The barista greeted me with a nod, already knowing my order.

I leaned against the counter, tapping my nails against the polished wood as I waited.

My phone buzzed.

Chloe: You better tell me who your mystery football player is once you find out.

Elena: Knowing Lydia's luck, it's going to be someone insufferable.

Chloe: Imagine if it's Vesper lmaooooo

Elena: She would QUIT immediately.

Lydia: Block both of you.

A minute later, my cappuccino was ready.

Perfect, as always.

With a satisfied hum, I took a sip before sliding back into my car, setting the drink carefully in the cupholder.

Now, it was time to get to work.

The drive to the New York Strikers' training center was smooth, the cityscape fading into something sleeker, more polished, as I entered the private facilities.

The New York Strikers. One of the most well-funded, high-profile teams in the league. Known for their elite talent, ruthless training, and less-than-stellar patience for nonsense.

Pulling up to the entrance gate, I rolled down my window.

A security guard peered in, clipboard in hand. "Name?"

"Lydia Whitmore," I answered smoothly. "I have an appointment with Coach Rivera."

The guard scanned the list, then gave a nod. "Go ahead."

The heavy metal gates swung open, and I pulled into the designated lot, parking in one of the reserved executive spaces.

Stepping out, I surveyed the facility.

Everything was modern, sleek, with vast training fields stretching beyond the glass-paneled main building.

Players were visible in the distance, engaged in rigorous drills, their figures moving with an intensity that even I—someone who did not care about football—could appreciate.

A woman in her mid-forties, dressed in Strikers gear, approached me. "Lydia Whitmore?"

I nodded.

"Follow me."

She led me inside, through pristine hallways lined with championship photos and framed jerseys. The walls smelled like polished wood and fresh-cut turf, the air crisp and controlled.

Eventually, she opened the door to an office.

And inside stood Coach Rivera.

Broad-shouldered, grizzled, with sharp dark eyes that held the exhaustion of a man who had dealt with far too much nonsense in his lifetime.

His handshake was firm. "Lydia. Thanks for coming."

I gave him a nod, sitting in the chair across from his desk. "Let's get straight to it."

Rivera exhaled, running a hand through his short salt-and-pepper hair. "I won't sugarcoat it. We need you. Desperately."

I arched a brow. "That bad?"

"Worse." He let out a humorless chuckle, leaning back in his chair. "You were Carmen Steele's assistant, right?"

"For six years."

He whistled. "Well, if you survived that, maybe you can survive this."

I took a sip of my cappuccino. "What exactly am I dealing with?"

Rivera sighed, rubbing his temples. "Talent. Immense talent. But reckless. Uncontrolled. Completely incapable of sticking to a schedule, listening to authority, or following basic rules. The team is at its wits' end."

I remained unmoved. "And what is my role in this?"

He steepled his fingers. "You are going to fix it."

I tapped my nails against my cup. "Meaning?"

"Meaning," he said slowly, "you are going to manage them. Their schedule, their training, their media presence. You are going to make sure they actually show up when they need to. You will be their handler."

I tilted my head. "And what if they don't listen?"

Rivera smirked. "You strike me as the kind of woman who gets people to listen."

He wasn't wrong.

I set my drink down. "What's the real problem here, Coach?"

He hesitated.

And that was the first thing that made me pause.

"There have been…issues."

I crossed my legs, watching him. "Issues?"

"Discipline problems," he admitted. "Missed games. Missed training. Bad PR. Stubborn as hell. Thinks they don't need to listen to anyone. And we can't fire them because they are…" He exhaled. "Too damn good."

I took a slow sip of my drink, weighing my next words carefully.

"Who is it?"

Before Rivera could answer—

The door swung open.

And standing in the doorway—

Was Freya Vesper.