“What’s the rush?”
He opens his mouth, but I’m looking into his hazel eyes and I see them shift. They go just a little cloudy.
“No. No lying or bullshitting or fudging or whatever you want to call it,” I say. “You give me a straight answer or I’m out of here and on my way to lunch with my family.”
It’s Hanson’s turn to sigh. He does it loudly enough that it could qualify as swearing.
“I heard that IMG is looking at expanding into Georgia, and if that goes well, possibly into the Carolinas.”
IMG sports academy in Bradenton, Florida, began in the late ’70s as Bollettieri Tennis Academy. It’s grown into a behemoth sports training destination for athletes who play baseball, basketball, football, golf, lacrosse, soccer, tennis, and track and field. It’s spread over six hundred acres and even includes a preparatory boarding school for students in K–12.
The academy makes tons of money and creates an important pipeline of athletic talent that keeps their sports agents at the top of the heap. They’ve staked out Florida as their own. Letting them get a toehold here in our own backyard would not be in StarSports Advisors best interests.
“Okay, I get it,” I say. “But we have to be careful not to get pushed into something just to keep them from having it.”
He smiles. “Well said. Pretty good piece of dating advice, too. You might want to remember that when you’re putting together your online dating profile and all that.”
I ignore this. “Assuming we wanted to build something, we’d have to really think it through. Proceed with caution. Take care not to overextend. Stick to two, maybe three sports we have expertise in.
“What?”
His eyes are riveted on my face. A small, pleased smile plays on his lips.
“What’s wrong?” I’ve never seen him look this way before.
“Not a thing,” he replies, as if he’s almost surprised at what he’s saying. “You can be a real pain in the ass sometimes, Miller. But I knew you’d get this. I frickin’ knew you’d understand.”
Twenty-Eight
Judith
When I arrive at Between the Covers for Meena’s Online Dating 101, the children’s story time is just breaking up. I linger for a few minutes to watch the little ones and their parents, swamped by my own memories of those early years with Ethan and Ansley, which felt like they would last forever and then somehow flew by.
This is our first gathering since last Friday’s drunken confessions, and I steal a glance at Sara, afraid to see censure of my story or a flash of discomfort over her own, but she smiles and waves from behind the counter, where she’s ringing up a large stack of children’s books. Nearby, a young mother attempts to pry a small, squawking, cherub-faced toddler out of Dorothy’s arms.
“Wanna stay wit Dot-Dot!”
I expect a flush of annoyance from Sara’s mother-in-law, who made it clear she wasn’t okay with one “Dot,” let alone two, but her face and tone are surprisingly gentle as she helps transfer the little girl to her mother with promises of a special surprise next time. The smile she sends me is unencumbered. Methinks some people are a lot softer on the inside than they’ve led others to believe.
Annell hugs me hello and points me toward the carriage house without the slightest hint of embarrassment or regret, and I relax further. “Meena and her photographer are already here, and Carlotta’s setting up a whole makeup and wardrobe section. Refreshments are out. As soon as we get everybody rung up here, we’ll head back so we can get started.”
It’s a gorgeous day, and with the French doors thrown open, the carriage house smells as fragrant as the garden outside. There’s a table with wine and nibbles. Meena is huddled with a young woman who has chin-length blond hair and oversize bright-pink glasses. Several cameras hang from straps around her neck.
Carlotta’s makeup and wardrobe stations are tucked into a corner near the bathroom, which is now a “changing room.” Angela; her daughters, Lyllie, Mollie, and Kerina; and Jazmine’s daughter, Maya, are checking out the makeup and looking through the rack of clothing, which includes some pretty out-there designs but also some simpler pieces in soft, flattering colors.
“This is so beautiful.” I reach for a pale-violet tunic with three-quarter sleeves and a boatneck that’s cut in deceptively simple lines.
“I designed that for you, Judith,” Carlotta smiles. “I knew that color would be just right with your dark hair and eyes.”
“You designed this just for me?” I hold it up in front of me, hardly able to believe it.
“Um-hmmm. You know I enjoy things that sparkle, but I’ve been thinking that I could bring some more subtle ‘pop’ to people who aren’t looking to make a huge statement. Especially now that I’ve learned firsthand how hard it is to find things that fit and flatter when you’re not a size zero.”
Jazmine arrives and is surrounded by her daughter and the McBrides. Wesley and Phoebe grab glasses of wine and huddle around Carlotta with the rest of us. Soon they’re oohing and aahing over matching white linen button-down shirts, Phoebe’s sleeveless, Wesley’s long-sleeved, topped off by beautifully tailored navy blazers with oversize gold buttons.
“Hey, everybody. What’s going . . .” Erin skids to a stop just through the doorway. I’m not sure how Sara and Dorothy, who are right behind her, manage not to slam into her. “No one said we were dressing up.” She looks down at her black jeans and plain white top.
“You just leave that to me,” Carlotta says. “I brought things for everyone to wear for photos today. I’m kind of practicing on y’all. Plus, I thought we could get a group shot at the end—as a memento and something I could use to show off my creations.”
“I’m in. I cannot wait to put this tunic on,” I say truthfully as Carlotta presents Jazmine and Angela with denim wrap dresses—Jazmine’s is brushed light-blue denim that sets off her honey-brown skin, while Angela’s is in a stonewashed black that contrasts perfectly with her pale skin and blond hair.
Chaz is the last to arrive. “You don’t really have something for me, do you?” he asks skeptically when we point him toward the rack.
“You better believe I do.” Carlotta pulls out a T-shirt with a hand-painted American flag that covers the entire shirt.
“Wow. That’s awesome,” he says, reaching for the hanger. “Is it okay to put it on?”
We all suck in a breath when he pulls his plain white T-shirt up over his head, exposing pecs and abs you generally only get to see in Peloton commercials. We are careful not to ogle or make him uncomfortable, but I don’t think I’m the only one who’s sorry to see the flag T-shirt cover him back up.