Michelle Betham - Striker

‘Are we talking about Ryan Fisher here?’ Amber asked, swinging her chair round and crossing her long legs as her producer sat down on the edge of her desk, clasping his hands together on his lap.

‘Who else has just signed a record-breaking transfer deal with one of the biggest clubs in the region? Come on, Amber. I need you focused here. I’m sending you to interview him.’

‘Why me?’ Amber began rooting around in her desk drawer, looking for the Dictaphone she remembered throwing in there the other day after a particularly second-rate interview with a Durham cricketer who’d quite obviously been in no mood to talk sport but had been quite happy to make a move on her in the most clumsy and irritating of ways. ‘I thought you were sending Harry to Tynebridge?’

‘I was. Until we got word that Ryan Fisher was willing to speak to us one-on-one before the main press conference, so your plans for the day have changed, kiddo. You’re the only one I can trust to do this interview properly.’ Kevin Russell pushed a hand through his light-brown, slightly ruffled hair and stood up before shoving both hands in the pockets of his well-cut black trousers. ‘Ten-thirty, Tynebridge Stadium. There’s a pass waiting for you at reception. Come and see me when you get back.’

Amber threw her head back and closed her eyes. She actually loved this time of year, when the new football season was just beginning, the summer transfer window was drawing to a close and rumours and speculation were rife. There was a certain kind of energy filling the Sports Department as everyone tried to second-guess just who might be signing who, or which player was about to leave English football behind for the chance to experience, say, the excitement of La Liga over in Spain, or the opportunity to make more money than they could ever dream of over in Asia.

She’d been working on Newcastle-based regional news programme News North East for over ten years now, starting out as a junior reporter before climbing to the dizzy ranks of the show’s first ever female Sports Editor five years ago at the age of thirty-two. She loved her job. She was also extremely good at it.

Amber Sullivan had grown up surrounded by sport, so it was only natural that her work revolved around it. Her father, Freddie Sullivan, was an ex-professional footballer – and an ex-Newcastle Red Star player – who now managed a local lower-league club, so being around sportsmen, and footballers in particular, was nothing new to her. Although, as she’d got older it had become less of an enjoyable experience, because Amber had grown up to be nothing short of beautiful. Which brought with it its own set of problems. With long, naturally dark hair that hung in loose waves around her shoulders, pale blue eyes and olive-toned skin she’d inherited from her late Spanish mother it was as if, one day, she’d suddenly turned from that tomboy who loved a kick-about with the lads into a stunning young woman, which in turn meant that a lot of the sportsmen she knew suddenly stopped seeing her as ‘one of them’, and began seeing her as more of a conquest. Especially the footballers. Even though they knew her father, respected him, looked up to him, they didn’t seem to have the same respect for his daughter.

Because of that, Amber had always made a conscious effort to stay away from relationships with sportsmen of any kind, but she steered clear of relationships with footballers more than any other sportsmen in particular. She wasn’t perfect, though, and she’d strayed from that self-imposed rule only briefly a few years back when she’d embarked on a short relationship with a player called Ronnie White, a man who had gone on to become one of her closest friends. But Ronnie had been different to the others, an exception. So she had no intention of going there again, no desire to become emotionally involved with men who could quite easily hurt her with their selfish behaviour and egos that seemed to need boosting on an hourly basis. It just wasn’t on her agenda, despite these men being the people she hung out with both professionally, and personally, on a frequent basis. Amber Sullivan had no desire to be a WAG. The whole lifestyle some of those women signed up for was nothing short of abhorrent to her because, deep down inside, she was still that tomboy who’d accompanied her father to nearly all of his matches, learning all about the so-called ‘beautiful game’ from the very best. Her interest was in the sport – not the men who played it. Unless it was on a purely professional level, of course.

No, she was quite happy being single. Feisty and fiercely independent, Amber had no room in her life for a man. Except her dad. He was the only man who mattered to her right now, especially since the loss of her mother just two years ago. As an only child, that had pushed her and her father even closer together, so, in between making sure he was okay, and her job at News North East, she had no time for anything resembling a serious relationship. She had no time for relationships, full stop. They would only get in the way.

She sat up and looked over towards Kevin’s glass-fronted office. He was standing at the window tapping his watch and shrugging. Amber couldn’t help but smile. He was going to give himself another angina attack if he didn’t learn to relax a bit more. She’d never been late for an interview, never missed an appointment. Amber Sullivan let nothing get in the way of her work, and Kevin Russell knew that. Yet still he stressed out.

She stood up, grabbed her bag and mouthed ‘I’m going’ at her producer, who smiled his thanks and turned away from the window to answer his constantly ringing phone. Amber had a feeling today was going to be one of those days when her feet didn’t touch the ground, but those were the kind of days she loved – when she was part of something big and exciting. And, right now, as far as the world of North-East football was concerned, there was nothing bigger or more exciting than the arrival of Ryan Fisher.

It was something he should be used to by now, being shoved from room to room, passed on to every person who wanted a piece of him, but it still didn’t sit well with Ryan. Even after all his years in the top-flight of professional football this was the bit he hated the most – the interviews, press conferences, photo calls. But it was all part of the package, and it was a package he’d wanted ever since he’d been old enough to kick a ball.

Ryan Fisher was twenty-six years old, just over 6ft tall with beautiful, deep – almost navy – blue eyes, short, slightly unruly dark hair and a beard that gave him a somewhat rough-and-ready look that only made him all the more attractive, as did the multitude of tattoos he’d collected over the years that graced his extremely toned and incredibly sexy arms. In fact, the only word to describe Ryan Fisher was handsome. Very, very handsome. And it was this – combined with the hard, toned body – that had made him the pin-up player of the football world, which meant he didn’t just get the women, he also got the sponsorship deals, the modelling contracts, the invites to every celebrity party going. But Ryan also had a natural talent for the game that hadn’t been seen in a long time.

Growing up on a large, sprawling council estate just outside of Newcastle-upon-Tyne, he’d only ever wanted to be a professional footballer. As a child he’d spent all of his spare time kicking his beloved football against walls or organising five-a-side games with his mates on the playing field at the back of his house. Saturdays had been his favourite day of the week, when he’d sit with his dad, eagerly watching the football results roll in, then spend the rest of the evening waiting for Match of the Day to start so he could watch the professionals at work, hoping that, one day, he could be one of them, playing out there on some of the most famous pitches in the world in front of thousands of loyal supporters. When his father could afford it, they’d even go into town to see Newcastle Red Star play, giving Ryan a taste of what it felt like to be part of the excitement football could create. Days like that had only made him want it more.