THE PENANCE LIST Complete, Steamy Psycho Thriller

THE PENANCE LIST Chapters 8 - 19

Brommers had been around a long time. He kept his word; the world of football was very small. He knew the importance of respecting and nurturing all relationships, from kit man to chairman to the press. Be careful whom you shit on, they could be sitting across a boardroom table from you one day, making decisions about you or your ‘boy’s’ future.

He only took on players with a professional, hard-working ethos, had no time for babysitting spoiled egos. Before taking a player on, he would look at the parents. He had a general rule that a player with a solid family support system behind him was less likely to go off the rails once the damaging amounts of money and fame rolled in, therefore a better bet to invest years of nurturing, some players were just out of nappies, they needed caring protectors, not hangers-on and users.

He wasn’t a saint, he would be on call 24/7 if his boys really needed him but expected them to be grownups, run their own day-to-day minutia of life. Pick up their own laundry, know how to avoid volatile nightclub situations, know what present to buy their girlfriend/mother, know when to say no to a press-hungry glamour girl, or a prematch curry piss-up with the boys. Know what clothes to wear, what bills to pay, what laws to adhere to. To turn up on time and drug-free for training, to get on with the manager and work their socks off. He didn’t want to be bothered with their private life every five minutes; that was their business, he respected them to get on with it. This encouraged a mutual respect with his players, kept their feet on the ground, maintained street sense and touch with reality.

Brommers way of working suited Franco. His last agent had tried to wet-nurse him; it got on his nerves. It worked for some players, but was dangerous, you could too easily get used to someone doing everything for you. Before you knew it, you were incapable of doing anything for yourself. You became reliant on the agent, frightened to leave him, even if he was no longer right for you, you’d outgrown him, your fear of organizing the smallest details in life alone tied you to him like a resentful, expensive marriage.

Brommers also had respect for a true sportsman. Not pushing too hard for just the money-making deals, he would encourage space for training, rest periods, and family. He saw the player as a long-term investment, well after the playing days were over, encouraging whatever the player’s forte, be it TV and media or management and coaching.

Too many agents just looked at the main chance of the day, at lining their own pockets. They would fill a players’ diary with sponsorship deals, photo shoots, interviews, book launches, the opening of a paper bag, with an eye only on their own percentage. Before you knew it, the player was overexposed and out of control. The press and public owned him, stalked him, burned him out. Yes, he was very pleased with Brommers. They had a mutual respect.

Hating the phone and idle chit-chat, Brommers got straight to the point; communiqués were curt. Franco did not need to call him back today unless he disagreed with the points raised. They would speak tomorrow.

Other messages were from his coach, his physio, his ex (Maria: seventeen missed calls!), and his newly acquired interior designer, Felicity Ramsey-Jones. Some arty-farty lady his chairman’s wife had kindly put him in contact with. Not knowing anyone else in the interiors business, he nervously took her on.

His new apartment in Chelsea had taken up more time and money than expected, but he was determined to be part of its creation and not leave it completely to a stranger’s taste. It would be his nest. He knew the feel he wanted but didn’t know how to create it. He had a sneaking suspicion that he and Miss Arty-Farty did not speak the same language, and it could cost him dear in the end, but he didn’t have time to traipse around stores choosing fabrics, paints and furniture, not to mention the public chaos his fame tended to cause. The traffic stopped if he stepped out to buy a newspaper.