I’m still smiling when Jazmine arrives on the dot of one thirty.
“Please get that scouting report to me by . . .”
I hand her the hard copy before she finishes. “It’s also in your inbox. And I’ve updated your schedule—you have drinks this evening at F&B at eight. Also, your father called to say that . . .”
“I know, I’ll be at Maya’s match at four thirty and . . .”
“Her match has been moved up to four o’clock, so I rescheduled your two thirty to tomorrow right after a twelve thirty lunch at New York Prime just to be safe. There’s a fresh latte on your desk.”
She doesn’t stop or comment, but a small smile appears on her lips. Which is high praise from Jazmine.
An answering smile tugs at my own as her office door closes behind her.
“Impressive.”
I jump at the sound of Rich Hanson’s voice. The guy does have a way of materializing out of nowhere.
I look up and meet his eyes, which are always kind of probing even when he’s being friendly. I’m not the only one wondering why he’s even here at StarSports Advisors, which is way smaller than the LA agency he came from, with its legions of star agents; worldwide offices; and fashion, event, and marketing divisions. Their baseball, tennis, and golf academies have turned out some of the biggest-name athletes on the planet.
Hanson was at the top of the heap there, and football and baseball were his things. Now he and a handful of his biggest clients are here, and nobody knows how Larry Carpenter lured him away or even if that’s how it went down.
He nods toward Jazmine’s office. “Please buzz her and let her know I’m on my way in to talk with her.”
Jazmine
“Tell him I’m not in,” I reply when Erin buzzes me. The last thing I need today—or any day—is Rich Hanson.
“He just watched you walk into your office.”
“Then tell him I’m on the phone. Tell him I’m . . .”
“. . . busy?” Hanson asks as my office door swings open and he steps inside.
I grit my teeth. I am not going to engage in a conversation about knocking before entering. Or get into tit for tat or any other cat-and-mouse games. Because he will automatically assume that he’s the cat, and I’m not about to scurry out of his way or look for a hidey-hole. I just wait quietly, allowing my irritation to show, while he looks me and my corner office over, taking in its view of the traffic down on 400 and what locals refer to as the King and Queen Buildings in the distance.
“You don’t have a single memento of your playing days,” he observes, as if he just stopped in to chat.
“I was a college athlete. That was a long time ago.” He’s the last person I would ever tell that I threw out virtually every reminder of my brief career the day I came home from the hospital. Xavier was gone, and I knew I’d never play competitively again. I didn’t want any reminders of my former life.
“I’ve known people who pitched maybe one inning in Double-A ball and milked it forever,” he says as he takes a seat that I have not offered and he hasn’t asked for. “But then I guess that would have been a reminder of everything you lost.” It’s said almost gently, but my blood goes cold. I can’t seem to find the words to tell him this is not his business.
“I understand you have a daughter who may be as talented as you were.”
I blink in surprise. “Is there a point here somewhere? Or are you working on a psychology degree in case the agenting thing doesn’t work out?”
He smiles. “I fell in love with sports during my first T-ball game. I played three sports in high school—everyone else picked one to excel at, but I wanted to play everything. I was pretty good, but I was never great.” He looks down. “I have a huge amount of respect for people who have the talent and the drive. All I had was the drive.”
“And the ego. I think you got plenty of that.”
He smiles, not at all offended.
“Are you here for a reason or purpose of any kind? Because if not, I am, in fact, busy.”
“Right.” He straightens. “The wide receiver I mentioned, he’s good and he needs the right kind of representation. But I can’t take him on because I’ve got . . .”
“. . . Cosgrove.”
He nods.
“So, you want to have your cake and eat it, too. And you want me to pretend to bake that cake for you.”
“No, I want to do everything I promised for the client I already have. But I hate to see a really promising player get overlooked. He’s not ready for the draft right now, but I think he can go pretty high next year if he can be convinced to wait.”
“So, you want to use me to convince someone else’s prospect not to enter the draft. After you stole Tyrone Browning’s endorsement deal for your client.”
“Someday you’re going to have to explain why you always see me in the worst possible light.” He looks at me with an earnest expression I don’t recognize. “But for now, I’ll just say that if you’d had Verizon locked up for Browning, no one could have taken it from you. He was counting his chickens, and he wouldn’t have embarrassed you both if he’d kept his mouth shut like I’m sure you warned him to.”
I resist the urge to argue, which has become practically automatic whenever I’m around him. I’m not sure where all that sincerity he just served up came from, but even though he’s right about Browning mouthing off, that doesn’t mean I’m not looking forward to rubbing his nose in the Sony PlayStation deal. Or that I’m going to take on the wide receiver he claims he’s just trying to help.
He hands me a file folder that includes Isaiah Booker’s photo and stats. The name is familiar. “Didn’t he take over for Juran Holmsby up at Appalachian State at the end of the season?”
“Yeah. He’s a junior. Didn’t get much playing time until Holmsby got injured. I saw him at a small pro day. He’s five-ten, smart, agile. Knows how to run a route. Ran the 40 in 4.45.
“The only agent interested in him is urging him to declare for the draft, which would be a mistake. The kid needs more time and opportunity to develop. Someone needs to convince him to stay where he is another year.” He’s watching my face. “If it would make you more comfortable, I could introduce you . . . and maybe offer help from the sidelines once he’s eligible to sign.”
“If I sign an athlete, he’s mine.” I stare into his eyes, but they’re not giving up much. “Tell me the real reason you want to bring me in, and I’ll consider it.”