Shit. I’m going to need to fix this sooner than Tuesday. But first, I have to have a talk with my agent about Date Night. Too bad I can’t forget this meeting.
Before I hustle out of there, I rip the word of the day from my calendar. Jouissance. French origin, meaning pleasure or enjoyment.
Even my calendar is calling me out.
I don’t usually wear my rings. They’re big and tend to draw attention. Which is the point of winning the biggest game of the year, I suppose.
But there are two places where I like to wear the twins. One is when I meet my football buddies at the gym because my team, the Renegades, has won more Big Games than our cross-town rivals, the Hawks, and I’m friends with guys on both teams.
The other is on the golf course because I might run into the team owner there. And since he owns the golf course, too, there’s a better than even chance of our paths crossing.
Wilder Blaine likes to see the bling on his players’ fingers. Totally his prerogative. The man pays our very pretty salaries, hires the best coaches and trainers, and makes sure his GM drafts the best players.
The Renegades are a well-oiled machine, and I’m damn lucky to play for them.
When I pull up to the course—on time, thanks to my matrix of alarms—I say hi to the valet then tip him well on Venmo. I head straight for the clubhouse to look for Maddox LeGrande. My agent is always early. It makes me a little jealous, how easily time management seems to come to him.
I’m pushing open the door when a high-pitched voice calls out, “Mommy, that’s Carter Hendrix! Number eighty-eight.”
I spin around to find a girl—maybe nine or ten—pointing at me from ten feet away. “You’re my favorite Renegade!”
“And you’re my favorite fan.”
A woman in khakis and a polo sets a gloved hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Grace, what did I tell you about the members? Give them their space, honey.”
“I don’t mind,” I say as I walk over to the mom, who I’m pretty sure is the club’s new golf pro. “You work here, right?”
“I do. I’m Alice,” the woman says, then squeezes her kiddo’s shoulder. “And this little troublemaker is tagging along today.”
“I like to make good trouble,” Grace declares. “And I’m going to hit a hole in one today.”
I offer her a fist for knocking. “I like that attitude,” I say as she knocks back.
“Can I have a pic for luck?” the girl asks.
Alice gives me an apologetic look. “We’re not supposed to ask members. You don’t have to.”
I wave a hand to dismiss that worry. “But I want to,” I say, then I bend to kneel next to the confident little kid as her mom snaps a shot with her phone.
“Carter, since I’m going to hit a hole in one, can you make a big catch on Monday? That only seems fair,” Grace says intensely.
Damn, this kid would make a great agent. She’s a helluva negotiator. “I think that can be arranged,” I say. This convo is more fun than facing the music about my sponsorships, so I chat a little more with Grace about the upcoming game.
A few minutes later, I say goodbye and head inside.
Maddox stands by the counter, and I’m relieved he doesn’t seem to be waiting for me. He’s busied himself chatting with the man who pays the team’s bills.
Wilder Blaine looks every bit the badass billionaire who came from nothing and made his money in Vegas real estate. Even his golf clothes seem custom-fitted, but they’re not preppy. He wears black slacks and a dark gray shirt. It’s like they say do not fuck with me. The dude has ink on his knuckles, too, like he rode through the night in a rebel biker gang before he took a wrecking ball to the sorriest properties on the Strip and built new beauties instead—buildings that have funded the team.
As I near them, he turns to me. “Morning, Hendrix,” he says, with a casual chin nod.
“Morning, sir.” I can’t not call him sir.
“You can call me Wilder.”
“No, I really can’t,” I say honestly.
Maddox laughs, then meets Wilder’s dark gaze. “I’m afraid you’re not going to win this battle with my client.”
“But I’ll keep trying. I’ll leave you two to your business,” Wilder says, clapping Maddox on the shoulder, then looking me in the eye. “But I hope to see you around more.”
Why is he directing that comment at me? “Here at the club?”
“More like…around town. But only if it works out.” He gives a smile that says it—whatever it is—better work out. On that vague note, his attention lasers on a little sprite racing toward us from the ladies’ room, wearing golf pants and a polo.
“I’m ready, Daddy,” the kiddo calls out as she rushes over to him.
“Let’s do that lesson, sweetheart,” he says warmly, then wraps an arm around his daughter.
“And Grace is going to help teach me too. Along with her mom,” Wilder’s daughter says.
“You’re going to devastate me on the links soon, Mac,” he says with parental pride as he calls her by her nickname—short for Mackenzie. Then the man in charge gives us a chin nod, his gaze landing on my hand. “Rings looking good, Hendrix.”
“Thanks, sir,” I say before he leaves with his kid. When he’s out of earshot, though, I turn to Maddox, a little thrown off. “What’s that all about?”
“I presume you don’t mean his daughter’s golf lesson.”
“I do not.”
My agent nods to the driving range. “Let’s talk.”
I hate those two words. I feel like I’m in trouble, like I was nearly every day in school.
It’s not a comfortable flashback.
I only have thirty minutes to spend on the driving range. At ten-thirty, I’m due at the Renegades facility for our final red-zone game-plan practice before tomorrow’s walk-through, then Monday’s game.
“So, we’ve got an issue with Date Night,” Maddox says as we walk.
I knew this was coming, but I still dread it. “They want the videos I owe, right?”
He nods, resigned but resolute too. “They do, buddy.”
I drag a hand down my face, groaning. “Well, I’d love to, but there’s that little issue of Quinn twirling on ropes or sheets or a fucking hula hoop from the ceiling.”
My ex and I were supposed to do a bunch of videos together on great dates for Date Night, a dating app that shot up in popularity recently. The quarterback on the Hawks hooked me up with the app a couple years ago, since he knows the founder, Zena Palladium. I’d already been using the app on my own and loving it, so it was a perfect fit for me sponsorship-wise. I love dating. I love getting to know women. I love spending time with a special someone and figuring her out. Women are wonderful puzzles. Talking up Date Night was easy, since Zena wanted someone who actually went on dates via her app. I’ve been the spokesperson ever since then, and the partnership has been gold.
For my bank account.
For the team.
For me.
A few months into the deal, I met Quinn on the app, and damn, did that make Date Night look good. Like a gold mine for real romance. The pro baller and the acrobat—two athletes who discovered true love online, just like the app promises with its Find the One tagline. As part of my contract with them, Quinn and I posted pics and videos of our dates on the app, which they then used in their social media marketing.