This is the first in a series of stories I’m going to write, all of which will be 500 words or shorter. It takes forever to write even a regular-length short story, and so I’ll be powering through one quick, 500-word story per week. I’m calling this little project “500-Word Wednesdays.” That’s hashtag-worthy right there. If you find this idea interesting and want to get involved, shoot me a tweet with your entry and I’ll post it ASAP. If not, enjoy the reads. Let’s get after it.

Jessica Valentine had just broken her toe while on her way to the most important lunch of her life. There was no point pretending otherwise. It had happened only moments ago — a powerwalking judo kick delivered to the cinderblock strewn carelessly across the sidewalk — and already her left big toe was darkening to purple and throbbing with a low fury every time her heart pumped blood through it.

But Jessica was not a woman who took her problems lying down. She had not scored a Friday afternoon table at Gennaro’s by being meek or unresourceful. Gennaro’s had a certain aura about it, a mood, one might say if one were being pretentious. It wasn’t the fanciest joint in the city (that dubious honor would go to Mon Coeur, the French bistro that insisted all its waiters produce French passports), and it didn’t boast the most expensive food (Clark’s sold a $250 Kobe strip steak). What it did have was a good mozzerella fritta, a great shrimp and garlic pasta dish, and all the exclusivity of a five-star restaurant without the prices. Or the fawning waiters who re-filled a water glass when it was half empty and swept in with the entree just as you picked up the final steamed mussel.

The latter was more important. Discretion was the name of the game.

Well, the name of the game was actually soccer. But that was semantics.

She couldn’t walk. That was another reason she knew her toe was broken. But that turned out not to matter. Because she was only a half a block away from Gennaro’s, and the short, balding man stepping out of the black SUV about 200 feet in front of Jessica was the man she had been waiting for.

“Steve!”

She yelled the name that they had agreed upon, and the pudgy, suited man turned towards her.

“I can’t.. Just.. come here!”

Not her best opening line. Ostensibly, she had the upper hand in this deal. It would be hard for him to find another billionaire with a criminal enterprise approaching Valentine’s, not to mention one with the kind of soccer clout that her father possessed. Still, not a strong start.

As “Steve” moved towards her, Jessica Valentine, daughter of New York Red Bulls majority owner Mark Valentine, leaned casually against the brick facade and tucked her left foot behind her right. The effect slimmed her already slender frame, accentuating the subtle taper of her legs as they descended from her dark blue skirt.

Sepp Blatter smiled, opening his arms as he waddled towards the younger woman, looking at her as a golfer views a particularly challenging but beautiful tee shot.

Anything for the bid. Jessica’s father’s mantra ran through her head as she explained her issue and accepted the shoulder of the president of FIFA, the governing body of world football, making sure to allow his pruned hand a brush of her breast on its way past.

Anything for the bid.