Michelle Betham - Striker

Slipping out of bed, she wrapped her robe around herself and walked over to the window. She loved the view she had from the back of her modest, semi-detached house on the outskirts of Newcastle-upon-Tyne. It was a view that could almost lead you to believe that you were anywhere but a few miles from the city centre. With green fields stretching as far as the eye could see, it felt more like the countryside than a suburban village, and that’s what Amber loved about it. It was peaceful, yet just a few minutes’ drive from work and less than half an hour from the coast. She’d bought the house not long after she’d started working at News North East and over the years she’d slowly made it her own, so much so that she couldn’t see a time when she’d ever want to leave. She had a life she loved, a career she’d worked hard for, and a home she adored. What else could she possibly need?

Walking downstairs and into her cosy kitchen, she filled the kettle and sat down on the brown suede sofa next to the French doors that led out onto a small patio area. She liked to call the sofa ‘lived in’, whereas some people would probably call it tatty, but she’d had it for years and it was probably the most comfortable piece of furniture she owned, so she had no intention of getting rid of it just yet. It was where she spent most mornings, sitting on that sofa, watching the sun come up with a huge mug of tea, thinking about the day ahead and what it might bring – just like she was doing now, although the tea hadn’t yet arrived. The sound of the kettle boiling told her it wasn’t far away, though. And exactly what was today going to bring? Amber pulled her knees up and hugged them to her chest, resting her chin on them, looking out over her simple yet pretty garden as the sun began to sweep across it.

She wondered what Ryan Fisher was doing right now. Was he waking up with yet another young and beautiful stranger in his bed, ready to pack her off out into the cold light of day, marking her down as nothing but another conquest he’d managed to notch up? Another disappointed young woman whose dreams of becoming that glamorous footballer’s wife would now have to rest with someone else? Because it seemed apparent that Ryan Fisher didn’t do commitment. And why would he? He was a twenty-six-year-old professional footballer with the world at his feet.

Amber threw her head back and sighed heavily, closing her eyes as she listened to Ronnie padding about upstairs. Sometimes she wondered if her life would have been simpler if she and Ronnie had just got it together, stayed a couple. Who’s to say what might have happened? But it would never have worked. She had absolutely no desire to be a footballer’s wife. Not even Ronnie’s. She couldn’t do it. It just wasn’t her.

The sound of the kettle switching off brought her back to reality and she opened her eyes, jumping up off the sofa to fill the teapot, sliding two slices of bread into the toaster, even though she was anything but hungry. Her head was spinning with thoughts she couldn’t seem to shake off, feelings she wasn’t used to experiencing, and it frustrated her because it was almost as if she couldn’t control them, which she couldn’t. Not really. If she could control them then she could stop them from infiltrating her usually rational and sensible brain, and that just wasn’t happening today. But, the scariest thing of all, and it was something that Amber still couldn’t quite get her head around, was that she couldn’t stop thinking about Ryan Fisher.

‘I like it,’ Ryan smiled, spinning 360 degrees on his expensive trainers as he took in the vast space that surrounded him. ‘I like it a lot.’

‘It’s the first one you’ve seen,’ Max said, leaning back against the breakfast bar and folding his arms, watching as Ryan spun around again, looking like a kid in a toy store who’d just been given free rein to play with anything he wanted. Mind you, as far as Max was concerned, professional footballers like Ryan were no different, in reality. On the kind of money some of them earned they really could have anything they wanted and bugger the price. Which is what was happening here, with Ryan. He wanted a place of his own, money was no object, therefore he could live anywhere he wanted without so much as a thought as to what it might be costing. Max doubted very much whether Ryan – along with most of the other footballers he had on his books – actually had any real idea of how much things cost, anyway. Whatever they wanted – be it a new car, a holiday or, in Ryan’s case, a new home – they could have it just by asking someone to find it for them.

‘So why waste time trailing round other places when I’ve already found the one I want?’ Ryan pointed out, nudging Max out of his daydream about a quiet, footballer-free retirement in Monaco.

‘This is the one you want, then, is it?’ Max asked, already pulling his phone out of his jacket pocket, ready to call the estate agent who was waiting downstairs in the lobby.

‘Yeah… Why not?’ Ryan grinned, looking out at the view of the river, the famous Tyne Bridge just a stone’s throw away. He could even see Red Star’s Tynebridge Stadium in the distance. This place was perfect. There was a resident’s gym and swimming pool downstairs, private car parking, a concierge service, and the best thing of all – it was close to the city centre bars, clubs and restaurants he still had yet to explore. Yes, this was much more Ryan Fisher, not that vast detached house way out in the country. This was what Ryan called a home. ‘How soon can I move in?’

‘Give me a chance, kiddo. I’ve got to talk to the agent yet… Oh, yeah, this is Max Mandell, Ryan Fisher’s agent… Yeah, he wants the apartment…’

Ryan left Max to make the deal and walked out onto the balcony, shielding his eyes from the late-summer sun as he looked out across the city. It was good to be home, in a funny kind of way. But he still couldn’t help wondering if he ever would have returned back here if this move hadn’t been borne out of some kind of necessity. Because, in reality, the decision to return to the North East wasn’t one he’d made because he’d been missing his roots. Far from it. He’d had to leave London. He’d had to. He couldn’t stay there any more, even though his club had done everything in their power to try and keep him. But circumstances and events had seen to it that Ryan had been left with no choice but to return back up north and leave the bright lights and the London lifestyle behind him. Because it was exactly that which had led to him needing to leave in the first place.

‘Next Monday,’ Max said, slipping his phone back into his pocket.

‘Huh?’ Ryan asked, turning round and leaning back against the balcony railings as Max joined him outside.

‘You can move in next Monday. The agent’s on his way up with papers for you to sign, and I’ll organise the finances, okay? Get everything transferred for you.’

‘Yeah. Yeah, thanks, Max.’ Ryan suddenly felt a little bit dizzy. It was all real now, wasn’t it? The moving back home, the brand new club, a fresh start. If it could be a fresh start, that is. Because Ryan had no idea how this was going to pan out. Not really. Nobody did. But it was a risk he’d had to take.

‘You okay?’ Max asked, the look on Ryan’s face not escaping him. He’d been with the kid for far too long not to notice these things. Max had a kind of unwritten rule to stay away from close personal relationships with his clients, but Ryan was different. He actually cared about this one. Maybe it was the northern solidarity thing – Max was a Lancashire lad through and through – or maybe it was just that, sometimes, he could see beneath that cocky exterior Ryan liked to hide behind.