She does not mention a boob job or tummy tuck, but the transformation is stunning. So is the smile on her face. “I wanted to look good for my online dating profile. I hired this adorable young girl to shoot photos for me.” She pulls out her phone, and within seconds I’m looking at absolutely gorgeous shots of Meena, both posed and candid.
“You have an online profile, and you’re . . . are you really dating?”
“I am.” She pours us both a glass of wine and lifts hers to mine. “And it’s so much more fun than I ever imagined.” She laughs this light, happy laugh. “I wanted to be prepared in case I’m ever naked in front of someone who didn’t know me before I had children.”
I cover my gasp as the waiter approaches to take our orders, then down my entire glass of pinot and start on a second as Meena chatters on about swiping right and swiping left. “It’s this incredible validation to see how many men find you interesting when your husband has barely looked at you in years.” She scrolls and taps her phone. “This is Frank. We’ve been out a few times. He’s a very successful software sales rep. His office isn’t too far from my condo.” She angles the screen toward me, and I see a smiling, clean-shaven man with even features, a squared chin with a comma of a cleft in it, and bright blue eyes. His dark hair is threaded with gray. He looks to be in his mid-sixties.
“He’s cute. And he has a really nice smile.” I feel an actual rush of what may be jealousy as we finish off the bottle. “Did things get settled all right financially?”
“Better than all right.” She leans forward. “I was completely freaked out when Stan first told me he wanted a divorce, but I had the greatest attorney. I absolutely loved her, and honestly, it was inspiring to see a woman kick butt like that.”
We finish our meals and contemplate the dessert menu. Meena’s the one who orders the dessert and a glass of champagne for each of us. When the bill comes, it’s delivered to her.
“Oh, no. I invited you for lunch. It’s definitely my treat.”
“No, it’s mine. A lot of my friends beat a hasty retreat when Stan and I broke up.” She toasts me with what remains of her glass of champagne. “Your friendship means the world to me.”
When we walk out to the valet to retrieve our cars, she’s still smiling. She seems confident, taller somehow, as if a weight has been lifted from her shoulders. We hug and promise to see each other at book club in January. She flashes me a wink and a last smile as her car arrives. I realize the weight she’s lost is named Stan.
Two
Jazmine
Favorite book: Becoming—because isn’t that what it’s all about?
I was ten years old when Oprah started her book club. My mother watched her show every day no matter what. Me, I just loved that Oprah! often had an exclamation point attached to her name and that she didn’t have to sing or be sexy to become a one-namer. Just smart and determined.
Determination is something I know something about. It’s why I’m walking through the double doors of the intentionally impressive offices of StarSports Advisors in Atlanta as its first and only female sports agent and not as the next Serena Williams I once hoped to be.
My eyes are on my phone as I nod to the receptionist at the front desk and head for my own glass-walled corner office. I slow as I approach my assistant’s desk and almost stumble when I see the stranger sitting at it.
“Good morning!” The voice is as bright and perky as the blonde who jumps up to hold out a small, slim hand. “I’m Erin. Erin Richmond. Louise had a family emergency, and Larry, er, Mr. Carpenter, asked me to fill in while she’s gone.”
My assistant, Louise Lloyd, is a formidable woman in her early sixties with a no-nonsense manner that no one, including the most arrogant athletes our firm represents, has ever attempted any nonsense with.
This tiny blonde with her bright-blue eyes and pale skin is the antithesis of Louise, who took me under her wing when I joined the firm three years ago. On a good day, Louise would no doubt fuss over the girl at her desk just like she fusses over me. On a bad one, she’d eat her for lunch.
“I was told to let you know that Louise will call you when she can. She’s on her way to Memphis because her mother fell and fractured her hip.”
I know how close Louise is to her mother, and I understand why she’s on her way to her side. What I don’t know is where this girl came from or why she ended up behind Louise’s desk.
“Would you like me to send flowers to the hospital? Or food to the house? Or . . . something? Her mother’s address is right here. And I have the name of the hospital.”
“I’ll give her a call, but flowers to the hospital would be good.” I study the girl more closely—she can’t be more than very early twenties. She looks like a bit of fluff. But she also looks familiar.
“How do you know Larry Carpenter?” Larry founded the firm twenty years ago, when he signed a good part of the Atlanta Braves pitching rotation. He’s built the agency into a powerhouse, with sixty-five clients and three hundred million in contracts spread throughout the NFL, the NBA, and MLB.
“My, um, fiancé, Josh Stevens, is a client of his, and I interned here over the summer.”
“Ahhh.” Mystery solved. Stevens has a 101 mph fastball and a wipeout slider. The Braves took him in the first round two years ago and have just called him up from Triple-A.
“So, you have experience in sports management?”
“Just the internship. But I do have a degree in sports management from UGA, and I’ve been shadowing Marc Sutton’s assistant for the last three months.” She takes a breath. “And I know sports, especially baseball. My three brothers played through college. And I’ve known Josh since we were kids.” It’s clear she’s nervous, but she holds my gaze. “And I’m super organized. Kind of borderline OCD according to my brothers.” Her chin lifts. “When I heard they were looking for someone to work for you, I went to Larry and asked for the opportunity.”
I don’t point out that it’s me and not Erin who should have been given the choice, but I wouldn’t leave any young female in Marc’s office—or at his mercy—under any circumstances. The man is the very sort of troglodyte who made the #MeToo movement necessary and who has not learned a single thing from it.
“Okay, then.” I look down at my phone and pull up the day’s schedule. “I’m going to be out most of the day. Do you have any questions?”
Her fingers fly over the keyboard in front of her, her eyes on Louise’s monitor. “It shows Ron Collier for lunch at Le Bilboquet at one. Then you have a call with John Prentiss in Detroit at two forty-five. Which you can take while you’re in the car on your way to drinks with Tyrone Browning at the InterContinental.” Erin looks up. “There’s a note from Louise reminding you not to let him have more than two drinks or you’ll never get out of there.”