This is the part where I want to turn around and walk out. This is the part where my job becomes so predictable and, just once, I want it not to be.
“I meant the team in general.”
“And I’m the heart of it, so . . .”
There is no shame there. Not an ounce. But I smile anyway.
“Then that does mean it includes you,” I acquiesce begrudgingly.
“Of course it does. What would a team be without its quarterback?” He glances around and flashes an arrogant smile at one of his teammates before focusing back on me. “But I’ll be the first to admit, my precision was off. I plan on putting more time in to fix that.”
An ounce of humility. I grab it and hold it tight, because that’s something I can definitely work with.
“That’s good to hear.” I nod.
“So what can I do for you, since you’re standing before me and definitely wanting something?” He licks his lips and takes his time glancing up and down the length of my body. He likes what he sees no doubt, but then again, as rumor has it, he’s not exactly indiscriminate when it comes to the company he keeps. When he’s done giving me the once-over, his eyes meet mine again. “Should we go out and have a drink or two to discuss whatever it is you want from me?”
“I hear you’re unhappy with your agent.” I take a glance around. Only a few players are left in the locker room, which is why I chose to enter now. Fewer ears overhearing mean fewer rumors being spread.
But they will be spread.
I’m counting on it.
“Isn’t everyone unhappy with their agent?” he asks.
“Not my clients.” I flash a smile and extend a hand to him. “Brexton Kincade. Kincade Sports Management.”
He takes his time shaking my hand in that way that screams of a man who thinks I’m charmed by him. My only response is to withdraw my hand when he releases it while holding his stare the entire time. “Well, Brexton Kincade, I do think that you owe me dinner and a conversation to discuss how exactly you can be of service to me.” He takes a step closer to me. “And make no mistake, I demand a lot of service.”
Gag.
He seriously just said that?
My smile doesn’t waver as my gross-o-meter hits its maximum capacity. “Good to know. Maybe we can schedule something later in the week? I’ve been given access to the conference rooms for meetings this week, so that would be a great time and place to discuss things.”
Where most guys’ expressions would fall after their innuendos were ignored, Justin’s towel “accidentally” falls instead. And in true asshole fashion, his amused eyes hold mine to see if I look.
I don’t. I refuse to give him the satisfaction.
Instead, I hold a business card out to him, completely unfazed by his average-sized dick simply hanging there in my periphery. “Here’s how you can get in touch with me.”
“I know how you can touch me.”
I lift a lone eyebrow. “I’m flattered. Truly, I am.”
“Come on.” He chuckles as he tries to figure another angle to entice me.
“I look forward to hearing from you.” I take a step back. “Oh, and you seem to have mistaken me for someone who actually cares if you drop your towel.”
I turn on my heel, catch a couple of coughed-out laughs from his teammates who overheard our conversation, and lift a hand in silent greeting. As the door closes behind me, I overhear one of the guys giving Justin shit for being a dick.
At least someone’s calling him out on it.
Normally it would be me. I’m the Kincade sister with the loud mouth who’s known for voicing my opinions, but not this time. Not when my dad has given me the task of recruiting Justin Hobbs away from his agent, none other than the prick extraordinaire, Finn Sanderson—otherwise known as FuckFace in my phone contacts.
Justin will be a pain in my ass. A player an agent tolerates simply because he’s a great commission despite being a cringeworthy human. But if he’s going to help Kincade Sports Management get some of its shine back after Finn tried to lessen it, then I’m game.
Anything for my family.
Or at least that’s what I said before meeting him.
Now as I make my way through the maze of corridors in the underbelly of the stadium toward my next meeting of the evening, I cringe at the prospect of possibly working with him.
But that cringe pales in comparison to the yawns of boredom I endure for the next few hours, as I negotiate and cajole and persuade the general manager of the New York Raptors that my free agent linebacker would be a great fit with the organization.
I love my job, I truly do, but as of late, I’m getting a little sick of inflated egos with ridiculous demands. Especially while I try to save their asses from whatever they did that was caught on a phone and is now viral.
I’m not burned out, but rather just totally sick of the bullshit.
Where did all the nice guys go?
It’s the question on repeat as I make my way from the confines of the now almost empty stadium, toward the far end of the parking lot.
I grumble at how far I have to walk across the lot in my heels, but it’s my fault. There might come a time in my life when I’m actually not running ten minutes late.
Maybe.
But I’m not holding my breath.
I startle at a noise to my left. It sounds like heavy breathing mixed with grunting combined with who knows what. It’s a sound most normal women would scurry away from. I head toward it and find myself on the outskirts of the parking lot, looking through a chain-link fence, down at the team’s pseudo practice field.
Or at least it used to be until the team built a fancy one outside of the city a few years back.
Nonetheless, in the moonlight, I see a figure down on the turf. He has what appears to be a headlamp attached to his helmet that bobs with each and every move he makes. He has about twenty footballs set up on kicking tees all around the scaled-down version of the field. I watch as he randomly picks a football up and then fires a throw into one of five target nets set up in various distances away from him.
With each grab of a football, he dances backwards a few steps, arm cocked back with the football in hand, and then fires a rifle straight into the target.
I take in his red T-shirt, gym shorts with a towel tucked in the waistband that he dries his hands on after every couple of throws, and the white of his helmet.
“Well color me impressed,” I murmur to myself, surprised to see him out here, but so very pleased that he is. “Justin Hobbs is the real deal.”
I can’t tell you the last time I saw a professional athlete finish a game, be unhappy with his performance, and then head straight to the field to improve it.
Now this? This is a man I can represent and sell.
One after another he hits his target with both natural talent and finesse that’s astounding. This is what Justin was missing in the game tonight. Sure he’s skilled, but there’s an instinctual confidence about him right now that he needs to translate to the field or else I fear it’s going to be a rocky year for him.
That is what I didn’t tell him to his face.
Those are things you reserve to tell people when they’re your contracted client, not when you’re trying to win them over.
But there is a massive glimmer of hope in what I’m watching and that, in and of itself, is worth me standing out here in the summer night air instead of driving myself home.