by K. Bromberg
STEVIE
SURPRISE FLICKERS ON HIS FACE and I take the moment to walk toward the window and look down at the pool party I’m missing. Carson’s still talking on the phone, and I’m even more desperate to get out of this hotel room.
And then there’s Finn. The prospect of Finn being my keeper does make things more than interesting, but the last thing I need is the man I was going to have sex with last night as my babysitter.
I mean, it’s one thing to know you’re walking into a meeting where you’re most likely going to be corralled and caged back into your disciplined life. It’s a whole other thing to find out the man who’s been chosen to be your keeper is the same man who elicited from you the strongest orgasm of your life.
Shock. Anger. Confusion. Denial.
All four of them jolted through me as I all but choked on that first drink of water when I realized Rhett was who Carson had brought in. When I understood that Cards O’ Fun just backfired in a major way with me being the butt of the joke.
A joke I’m going to try to find my way out of right now.
Talk about complicating things.
And making it more than awkward.
When I turn back around, his attention is focused on me. I study him. This time it’s without the haze of alcohol or the thrill of a contest humming through my veins. It’s sober and without a dare hanging over my head.
And damn, he’s just as handsome as he was in the bar last night. Even more so.
“This is how you want to spend your time?” I ask him with one eyebrow raised. “I wouldn’t want to take you away from your busy schedule and important client list. I’d think this babysitting job would have you losing money and we can’t have that now, can we?”
He folds his arms over his chest and studies me in a way that is completely innocent but that heats my blood. “It’s impolite to talk about money, Stevie. You should know that by now. Besides, how do you know I have a busy schedule or a long list of clients?”
“Because Carson is very thorough—painstakingly so—and he wouldn’t have you here unless you had both.”
He nods. “Very true.”
“I’m just trying to figure out how exactly you plan to reprimand me if I step out of line.” I take a step toward him and lower my voice much like he did because hell, two can play this game and I’m about to play winner takes all. “I’d think it’s pretty hard to reprimand someone once you’ve had your fingers in them.”
I have to give it to Finn. The shocked expression I was hoping for doesn’t appear. He doesn’t flinch but rather coughs out a laugh and gives a shake of his head as he takes a step toward me.
“I know your type,” he murmurs just loud enough so I can hear it. “The good girl begging to be bad but not quite sure how to do that. The revered athlete who is itching to live a little when all she’s had is one practice after another, with structure and schedules her entire life. The grieving daughter who’s pissed at her dad for dying and is lashing out at the world to show them she’s nothing like they thought she was to get back at him in some sick, satisfying way. Yeah, I know you, Stevie Lancaster. You’re all about shock value. Anything to push away the people who are trying to help you the most.” He glances over to Carson and then back to me with a smug smile on his lips, while I try to process him and everything he’s saying that’s too close to the truth and way more than I want to admit to. “Newsflash, Lancaster. You think that subtle reminder from last night will stop me from doing my job, and yet it just makes me want to do it more, even if it’s just so I can piss you off.”
“So you’d take this job just to piss me off?” I narrow my brow and put my hands on my hips, needing something—anything—to say while I hear and reject everything he’s just said.
What kind of jerk knows someone less than twenty-four hours and thinks he has them pegged?
He doesn’t know me.
No one does.
One man did, but now he’s gone, and I will keep doing anything I can to avoid that pain. That loss. That loneliness.
“Big, bad sports agent thinks he can swoop in and save the day. I bet you’re agreeing to this simply to boost your ginormous ego after it was bruised so badly last night. I mean it says a lot about a man when the woman he’s with would rather fall asleep than have sex with him.”
His grimace is barely noticeable but it’s there. “Funny how you insult to redirect away from you. Classic avoidance. You might need to work on that because I wasn’t born yesterday and can see right through your shtick.” He chuckles. “You passed out because you were so busy trying to be something, someone, you’re not. You better thank God it was my room you passed out in because another man might have taken what you offered even when you weren’t coherent. Especially after you came all over his fingers.”
There’s a bite to his tone, a warning that I’ve overstepped, and there’s something about his words that sends a chill down my spine. A chill that says I know he’s right, that so much worse could have happened, but I refuse to let him know that.
“The god complex. Yes. I was waiting for that to make its appearance. Good to know you’re like every other guy I’ve ever met before.” Done with him and this conversation, I pull my phone out of my pocket and start skimming my social media. When he snatches my phone from my hand, I say, “Hey!”
“Better get used to it since it seems we’re going to be attached at the hip over the upcoming weeks.”
“Screw you.”
And now my words are out there, hanging between us. The literal ones I tried to act on hours ago.
His smirk says he’s on the same train of thought. “We could always try that again but I don’t exactly think that’s what Carson had in mind when he asked me to get you back on track.”
Smug bastard.
But his eyes are still hungry when they look at me, and I may take small satisfaction in that.
“Then tell Carson you won’t do it. Tell him you’re busy. Tell him anything and save us both from having to deal with each other.” I punctuate my words with a sweet smile.
“I can’t.” He glances over to Carson again.
“Yes, you can. You’re a grown man. What could he possibly have to hold over your head to make you say yes?”
“I was once a defiant brat like you and Carson saw something worthy in me to help. Much like he does you for some unknown reason. That’s why I’m staying. Not because I think you deserve it or even want to, but because I’m repaying a long overdue debt. Got that?”
Fury consumes me. Agents all over the world want to work with me, would give their eye teeth to work with me, and this asshole calls me a brat?
“Just for the record, Rhett,” I spit the name at him. “You were right. Last night was a game, nothing more than a dare of sorts, and lucky me pulled the one-night-stand card.”
“Card?” He lifts a lone eyebrow.
“You just happened to be in the right place at the right time. I never would have looked twice otherwise. I’m just super competitive and refuse to lose.”
“So that’s what you call it when you strip for a virtual stranger after exchanging no more than a quick conversation? Being competitive?”
I stare at him with my mouth open and then close it. I guess he’s not afraid to play either. “You’re—”
“So I see you two are getting along just fine,” Carson says. We both startle and look his way, uncertain how long he’s been standing there listening.
Finn chuckles softly and gives a shake of his head before his eyes leave mine and his attention turns to Carson. “I was just letting Stevie know how I operate.”
“Jesus.” Carson laughs. “Don’t scare her away just yet.”
“He doesn’t have to scare me away, Car, because this isn’t going to happen. Like I told you, I’m a grown woman who—”
“Who is acting like a petulant child,” Finn finishes for me. “A teenager who is getting way too much press for her antics off the court rather than on it. A woman
who seems determined to throw away some of the best talent I’ve seen in a long damn time. So you can stand there and pretend that’s exactly what you want, or you can step up to the fault line and figure your shit out.”
I start to cross my arms over my chest and then stop when I realize that only serves to reinforce the broad stroke he just painted me with.
“I’ve got shit to do,” I mutter and start to stalk out the door.
“Like practicing with Kellen?” Carson asks. “The court is reserved and he’s waiting.”
I snort in response.
“I’ll see you after practice,” Finn says as I grab the handle. “In the meantime, Carson and I are going to lunch to discuss my level of involvement in your affairs and where we go after the exhibition match this week.”
His words stop me.
“Excuse me?” I turn to face him and would love to knock that smug, cocky smirk off his lips.
“We start now, Stevie. No more dicking around.”
“So just like that, you two men get to discuss me as if I were your property?”
“Someone has to since you haven’t seemed capable of claiming it as of late,” Finn says.
“Are you kidding me?”
“Not in the least,” Finn murmurs while Carson’s expression softens for the first time, almost as if he might suddenly feel sorry that he’s sicced Finn on me. “But please, keep up the spoiled-brat routine because it makes my job that much more exciting. When you act like a grown-up, I’ll start treating you like one.”
I turn on my heel with an exaggerated huff and slam the door behind me.
Or at least I try to but that damn metal lock bar is still across the jam so there’s no satisfying slam of the door, only a clang against metal.
I stalk down the hallway toward my room, my thoughts flying and my temper raging.
Finn Sanderson thinks he’s better than me?
Maybe I’ll show him he’s not. Maybe I’ll make his life so miserable that he wants nothing to do with me.
But then again . . . wouldn’t Finn—good looking, great-kisser Finn—be a much better babysitter than Carson or whoever the fuck else he’d pick to handcuff me to?
This is a no-win situation.
Clearly.
And while I have no one to blame but myself, that doesn’t mean I have to go down without a fight.
FINN
“WHAT’S SHE LIKE?”
“Who?” I ask as I glance up at Greg, my fresh-faced intern, who’s standing in my office doorway as I collect everything I think I’ll need over the coming weeks.
“Stevie Lancaster.”
I stop and stare at his expectant gaze. The kid has a crush on her. It’s written all over his face. While my male clients definitely outweigh the number of female clients I have, few and far between look like Stevie.
“Currently she’s a train wreck, which is why I’m being sent in to fix the situation.”
“Why you?”
“Because of Benji Garrison and Hank Thompson and Jonny Barnes and—”
“So basically, because you deal with troubled clients and turn them around?” he asks, inferring from the list of players I offered. The players who had screwed up their careers majorly somehow, or were trying to, and how I came in and straightened them out.
“Apparently,” I grumble, putting my hands on my hips as I survey my office. The last thing I expected Carson Vega to do during our lunch earlier today was play hardball. Not that I didn’t know it was in him, but not with me, an agent trying to help him out.
I thought he’d say I was to meet Stevie at her next event. Next week. That I was to head back to New York and get my shit in order before heading out on the road with her over the coming weeks.
Little did I expect that her first public appearance was tomorrow afternoon and that he required me to be there guiding it.
I was given twenty-four hours. Twenty-four fucking hours to return home and then back to Vegas ready to play nanny.
I told Carson no. I told him it was impossible. I told him I had shit to take care of.
Then of course, he wrote a six-figure number on a napkin and slid it across the table that had me doing a double take before he said, “That’s how much this kid means to me. Don’t screw it up.”
At least he’s making it worth it. I guess the coffers run deep when it comes to her. The downside of the deal is that I have to spend the next six weeks holding her hand while doing my day-to-day work. The upside? She’s definitely better looking than the rest of the clients I have to work with.
“So?” Greg asks.
“Go away, Greg.”
“Ah, c’mon, man. She’s on my island. The least you can do is let me know if she’s as pretty in person as she is online. If she smells good. If she’s nice. That kind of shit.”
His words have thoughts and images flashing through my mind of Stevie against the wall and my mouth on hers. Her smell. Her taste. Her moans.
Forgetting about the night might be a tad harder than expected when I’ll be faced with it on the daily. But I don’t date female clients. I don’t fuck female clients. I don’t get overly friendly with any clients. That was the first lesson that Carson taught me during my tenure at Vega Management.
Distance is how you keep your nose clean and your reputation stellar.
So as tempting as it would be to finish what the two of us started, all bets were off when she walked in the room and was no longer Scarlett from the bar but was Stevie Lancaster, the athlete Carson wanted me to manage.
“Your island?”
“Like if you were stranded on an island and could pick five women to have on it with you forever type of five. Stevie’s one of my five.”
“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard. First off, why would you have only five? Why limit yourself?”
“That’s the rules.”
“Whose rules? Why not just break the rules, be smart, and don’t get stranded? Seems pretty simple to me. Then you can have any woman you want. Life’s too short to be strapped to any woman.”
I look up from my desk at the utter confusion blanketing Greg’s face. “Because that’s not the rules,” he repeats.
“Greg, here’s the deal, sometimes you need to make your own rules. Sometimes you need to break a few now and again to change the situation you’re in. It’s the people breaking the rules who are the ones succeeding. So screw having just five. Don’t get stranded at all and then you can have all the women you want.”
“Yes, sir,” he says and clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable with my commentary and advice.
“The whole theory implies that you could only get these women if you were stranded. Why not have the confidence that you could land them in everyday life?” I shove some papers in my briefcase and look back up at him. “Confidence is paramount in this career, Greg. Even if you don’t think you can land someone, you have to pretend that you can. You have to fake it till you make it.”
He stands there quiet for a beat as he shifts on his feet and frankly, I’m proud of myself for having this much patience. Normally I’d have run him off by now. But the poor kid is gangly and slightly clueless despite his more than impressive job performance since he’s come on board.
“So you’re telling me you think I’d have a shot at her?” he asks and it takes a second for it to register what he means and even longer for me to clear the shocked-as-shit look off my face.
Especially when his words feel like flint to my temper. It’s a reaction I don’t expect nor want. Stevie is nothing more to me than a client I don’t want as a client.
“I’m telling you that she’s a pain in my ass.” And no, you’ll never have a shot with her. “A royal one at that who I now have to babysit because she’s determined to ruin herself or her career or perhaps both.”
“I’d be glad to come and assist you.”
“I’m sure you would.” I chuckle. “I’m sure you would.”
STEVIE
“BE
TTER BUT YOU’RE STILL OFF. You need to add more lift to the racket.”
I think I’m going to die.
“You’re not getting to the ball fast enough. Speed up your footwork.”
Screw you, Kellen.
But aren’t I the one who’s screwed? Aren’t I the one who was seeded in the top five in the world only to now feel out of shape and off my game?
There’s no one else to blame but yourself.
I shove the thought away as I gulp in air. Isn’t a girl allowed to grieve? Isn’t she allowed to fail a little in the process?
At the same time though, the women I chased down on the court, beat, and then outranked are now breathing down my neck. Are now threatening to take that rank I worked for back.
“C’mon, Stevie. Get there,” he shouts as he hits one to the corner of the court that is just beyond the reach of my racket. His hiss of disappointment is a loud echo in my head that piles on top of the dissatisfaction I feel everyone has with me these days. Freaking par for the course.
I hold up a middle finger to him as I gulp water, and his laugh reverberates around the empty court. The last thing I need is to be lectured right now. Dare I say I’m actually enjoying myself?
The squeak of my shoes on the court. The jolt to my forearms when I hit the ball in the sweet spot. The burn of my muscles as I repeat the same stroke over and over. The satisfaction of the ball landing perfectly just inside the line.
At least the indoor tennis courts provide us with air conditioning and cover from the sun or else I would be hurting on a much larger scale.
The problem is, even though I’m sucking major wind, there is peace in being here. A feeling of rightness. For the first time in weeks, I feel settled and maybe that’s because I’m on the court. In the place I’ve always found comfort.
Where I feel closest to my dad.
It’s also a double-edged sword because every time I look across that net, I expect to see my dad there. I expect to see his red hat and stern look that tells me I’m not working hard enough. I expect to hear “Game on, Stevester,” in that gravelly voice of his that demanded more from me even when I didn’t think I had more to give.
