by K. Bromberg
Both are equally crappy.
I yelp when I turn the corner and run smack dab into Finn. His eyes glint with a frustrated anger and his expression isn’t much better as he grabs my bicep and holds me firmly in front of the casino’s ticket booth for its big show.
“Christ, woman. You’re infuriating,” he grits out.
The sight of him knocks me from my funk and gives me exactly what I need—a sparring partner to take my frustration out on.
My smile is taunting, his words just what I want right now. “You like the challenge and you know it.”
He snorts. “I like a lot of things, but chasing you through a hotel at this hour when my body is on East Coast time isn’t one of them.”
“Then what is it you do like, Finn?”
My words hang there as the doors open abruptly and people begin swarming out of the casino’s theater. Finn and I are jostled to the side of the somewhat dim hallway so that we’re all but pressed against the wall. His hand is still gripping my bicep, but it’s his body now that is pressed against mine, bringing back thoughts and sensations from the other night.
Thoughts and sensations I can’t ignore.
I don’t know why I do it. Whether it’s because I remember that I thought it would be fun to break him and have something to use against him or because I’ve thought about doing it way too much during the dinner tonight, but I rise on my tiptoes and lean in to press my lips to his.
But he holds me in place so that my lips are a whisper away from his. I can feel the warmth of his breath. Can feel the thunder of his pulse where he holds my arm. Can see the desire darkening in his eyes while we stare at each other in the suspended state of anticipation, as patrons bump against us as they pass by.
“Kiss me, Finn,” I whisper just above the fray.
I know he hears me. It’s in the quick intake of his breath and the reflexive squeeze on my arm as his eyes hold mine in a way that tells me he’s contemplating doing just that.
“Finish what we started,” I murmur, my lips just barely touching his with their movement.
I hold my breath, already tasting his kiss before it begins.
But it never happens.
His lips never meet mine and take what I thought we both wanted.
Instead, he releases my arm and steps back with a shake of his head. A shake that I can’t seem to forget as I watch Finn Sanderson walk away and disappear into the casino crowd.
STEVIE
“STEVIE, IT’S RYAN CHURCHILL HERE. Hey, I hope you’re doing well. I didn’t realize you were shopping for an agent. Rumor is you’re thinking of signing with Finn Sanderson. He’s good for sure, but not someone I see you meshing well with. To be frank, he’s not what you need at this point in your career and life. You need more guidance and less demand. Someone to help you through all of . . . what you have going on. I’d love to be the one to provide that for you. Maybe we can sit down and chat. I’d be happy to let you know how I operate.”
I delete the voicemail as I walk into my suite and look at the four other numbers below it in my inbox, which no doubt sound much the same. I switch over to my texts and know just by the previews that the first six are more agents.
All of them are fishing to see if the rumor around town is true. I’m not even sure how it got out there but it’s now being shared nonetheless.
I scan through the texts. Each one is an introduction. Each one is a reason I should look at them for representation. And the one other consistent inference in each and every one is that Finn is too harsh for me because apparently, I need coddling. Coddling?
Does everyone think I’m fragile and that I’m going to break?
Guess the word is out.
Stevie Lancaster has a new agent.
And apparently, she needs to be coddled and handled with kid gloves.
Or so they think.
My dad was the one who always dealt with this side of the business. The day-to-day. The wheeling and dealing. Being my agent, my coach, my business manager, mentor all in one. All I had to do was get on the court and make whatever happened between the lines count.
Am I on the market? Do I want to be?
I glance over to where Finn sits at the desk in the suite. He’s sitting with his back to me, typing away on his computer, his body framed by the darkening Las Vegas skyline. My dad picked Carson to take over for him in the agent department, so I have no reason not to trust his judgment since my father never steered me wrong before. And now Carson has picked Finn.
I’m still not sure how I feel about that—or rather, I know exactly how I feel about that—but I can’t seem to separate his rejecting my request for him to kiss me two nights ago from whatever he seems so busy doing all the time as an agent.
Because let’s face it, I’ve never been rejected by a guy before and it fucking sucks. The self-doubt that creeps in is worse than the rejection itself.
Am I not pretty enough? Sexy enough? Anything enough? Or does he simply see me as a child now?
“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.”
Why does his opinion matter?
Normally, you’d walk away from the person and never contact them again.
I can’t.
In fact, I have to share a suite with the man who rejected me. I’m forced to look at his gorgeous face and be around him and his sex appeal when I don’t want to. The deep rumble of his voice on the phone through the walls wakes me up as he talks to people on the East Coast. His fresh-from-the-shower scent trails him around the suite like a pheromone that dares me not to be affected. Everything about him reminds me of the taste of his kiss and the feel of his hands on my body.
But I don’t like him. Not one bit.
Or at least I tell myself that.
It’s just the challenge of him that makes me take note. Just the need to know why being with me the first night we met was acceptable but now a kiss isn’t.
It’s frustrating.
It’s infuriating.
And to make matters worse or maybe better, depending on how you look at it, the man won’t talk to me unless he has to.
Ever since I got lost in the moment and asked him to kiss me, he’s been as aloof as aloof can be unless he’s telling me what to do or answering a question from me clarifying what I need to do.
There hasn’t been one mention of why he walked away. Nothing. Just a cold shoulder and complete disassociation.
The banter I rather enjoyed is gone.
The cut downs and comebacks nonexistent.
The innuendo that told me he still looked at me as a woman, forgotten.
I stare at Finn’s broad shoulders and hear the clicking of his fingers over his keyboard and want to be noticed.
I drop my bag onto the floor with a thud.
He doesn’t even stutter in his typing.
“Hey,” I murmur.
He grunts in response, and I grit my teeth.
“How was your day?” I ask.
Nothing.
“I’m tired. That was a lot for one person to handle in a day,” I try again.
“If you wanted to share the responsibility, then you either shouldn’t have fucked off for the past month or chosen to play a team sport so you could blame others when you fail.”
His words slap at me. “Wow. Okay. Let’s try not to be a dick every waking moment of every day, shall we?”
“Noted.” He glances over his shoulder at me and nods.
“What’s your problem?” I ask, crossing the room and stepping in front of the desk so that he’s forced to look at me.
“No problem at all. Why? Can I help you with something? Did you get yourself in trouble in the short jaunt from the training center to the hotel that I need to be aware of?” Everything about him—his posture, his expression, his tone—tells me he’d rather be anywhere else than here.
“I—no.” I stand ther
e until his fingers stop typing and he peers at me from over the lid of his laptop. “Why are you being this way?” I hate that my voice isn’t stronger, that the tinge of hurt is woven through my tone, but it’s out there and I can’t take it back.
“Being what way?” he asks, completely tone deaf, when I know he sees my confusion.
“Nothing. Never mind,” I say. “I’m going to take a shower.”
I start to walk away when his voice at my back says, “I learned a long time ago not to get personal with clients.”
My feet falter. Honesty. Finn’s actually being honest. But that shouldn’t make me . . . invisible. “Being decent and getting personal are two different things, Finn. I thought maybe we were starting to get along. That maybe we could make the best of this bad situation.”
“And the other night in the casino was what?” he asks, voice still unemotional.
“You mean when you were willing to sleep with me or when you walked away from me? Because a few days doesn’t change the situation all that much.”
“If you don’t like it, you can find another agent. I’m more than sure your phone is blowing up about it like mine is. I believe the clause in your contract with Carson is that you give him a written ninety-day notice. So even if you were wanting to change agents, you’re still stuck with me for three months.”
“Good to know you already looked at the clause on how to take the easy out.” I swallow over the lump in my throat at what feels like more rejection.
“You’re the one who seems unhappy.” He shrugs as if I’m dismissed but his eyes hold mine, looking for what? I don’t know.
“I’m not unhappy . . . I just . . . they all seem to think I need to be coddled.”
“Do you?”
“Do I what?”
“Need to be coddled?” He lifts his brows and stares.
“No. Of course not.”
He nods but his eyes tell me he doesn’t believe a word I say. Screw him.
“Good. Welcome to the club, then.” There’s a self-deprecating chuckle that follows his words that I don’t quite understand but when he turns his back to me this time, I know for a fact I’m dismissed.
FINN
“THIS IS STUPID.”
A nod from Kellen that’s neither in agreement nor disagreement but acknowledges that he hears her.
“I should have backed out.”
The charity exhibition deemed Battle of the Sexes was supposed to be one for the ages. At the time it was booked, the game was pitting the number one men’s seed, Ian Greshenko, against one of the top women’s seed, one Stevie Lancaster. The goal was to raise money for Net Generation, a charity that promotes tennis in underprivileged neighborhoods, with the loser forfeiting their winnings to said charity.
Stevie’s father thought not only would it be great publicity and raise money for Net Gen, but it might prove once and for all what he knew, that Stevie was better than the best man on the circuit.
But then Liam Lancaster died.
And she fell down whatever rabbit hole she fell into that I’m trying to help pull her out of.
On top of that, Greshenko is such a self-righteous prick who is known behind closed doors between us agents as someone we don’t want to really deal with. Most men would see that Stevie is struggling in this exhibition that doesn’t count for anything and would back off some.
But not Ian.
No, he’s going in for the kill. He doesn’t care that the crowd has paid top dollar for the seats and that maybe he should stretch the match out longer to let them get the most for their money. He only cares about himself and fueling his ego.
And it’s not as if Stevie is playing horribly, not compared to most people’s standards. It’s more that the fire she’s known for is gone. The feistiness is absent. The doggedness with which she reels in opponents point by point, set by set, is barely a flicker when normally, it’s a roaring wildfire during a match.
She needs that fire back and clearly Kellen is struggling with how to light it. Her dad certainly knew how to.
We’re in a quick break between sets, and Stevie is already down two. A few celebrities are auctioning items off, entertaining the crowd to draw this whole experience out, and I’m here, struggling to know how to get my client back on track.
“How do I fucking fix this?” she shouts to no one and everyone in the room.
“Greshenko is an ass and everyone knows it. You’ll come out looking good regardless if you win or you lose,” Kellen says, trying to find a way to comfort her and calm her down.
“Look good or look like the poor victim who lost her dad? I don’t need a pity party, Kell, and I sure as fuck refuse to look like the victim.”
He opens his mouth and then shuts it. Smart man.
“Isn’t that the look you were going for?” I ask, clearly not as smart as Kellen and not giving a flying fuck either. My job isn’t to coddle her. It’s to push her and make her better. To make her see through the bullshit and get back to being at the top of her game where she normally deserves to be.
“Fuck you, Finn. No one asked you to be here,” she says, turning her animus on me.
I know her words are empty and she’s taking out her frustration on me—she won’t be the first athlete and definitely won’t be the last either—so I take them with a grain of salt.
“You only have yourself to blame.” My nonchalant shrug is to push her just as hard as my words do. To try and spark that fire in her.
“Get him out of here,” she says, pointing to the door, but neither Kellen nor her bodyguards stationed at the door move. Apparently, they’re sick of her bullshit too.
I’m just super competitive and refuse to lose.
Her words come back and hit my ears. Words that I’m suddenly trying to figure out how to use in my favor to spur her on.
“Get. Out.” Her eyes meet mine for the first time. There is desperation, anger, and frustration all mixed in them, but the one that affects me the most is the one that looks like a lost little girl trying to find her way.
I don’t have time to process that look or acknowledge the shit it stirs inside of me. I’m not here to play psychologist. I’m here to make her look like Stevie fucking Lancaster on the world stage, which is being broadcast across the globe. The stage that she needs to shine on instead of briefly sparkling on.
I’m just super competitive and refuse to lose.
“Double or nothing,” I blurt out, my mouth working faster than my brain as I try to figure out how this could work.
“What?” Both her and Kellen narrow their eyes at me.
“Go back out there and challenge Greshenko on the court to double or nothing. Make a big deal of it. Grab a microphone and play it up to the crowd. Joke and tell him that he’s so sure he’s going to win he’ll have no problem agreeing.”
Stevie stares at me with her face flushed red from exertion, eyes widening while she tries to figure out what I’m getting at.
I continue. “Tell him if he wins, you’ll donate your portion of earnings that you’re receiving from this exhibition to Net Gen and if you win he’ll have to do the same. The crowd will go nuts and it will liven them up too.”
“Are you crazy?” She turns to face me, her hands on her hips, her eyes alive. “Do you know how much money you’re talking about? Do you—”
“I’m well aware of the figure,” I say. It’s a rather large one. “And that’s why he’ll take the bet because he’s Ian and only wants to look good for himself. He’ll think he’s safe and when he finishes the game in one more set it’ll only be a further insult to you.”
“Exactly. When he wins the next set.” She snorts but there’s a flicker there in her eyes. There’s anger as a result of my words.
“Then when you kick his ass, you’ll look like a hero.”
“You realize I’d have to win three straight sets, right?” She rubs a towel over her face almost as if she’s dismissing me.
“I’m aware.”
&n
bsp; “Against Ian Greshenko.”
“And?”
“You don’t see this as obscene?” she asks, her voice rising in pitch.
“Not in the least.”
“Do you not see how I’m playing out there?”
“Then play better.” I add a little fuel to her fire.
“Says the man who’s sitting on the sidelines.”
“Says the man telling you that you can beat him.”
Stevie snorts, braces her hand on the back of the chair in front of her, and lets her head hang down as she chuckles. Kellen steps back, clearly wanting out of this conversation. I’m assuming it’s to avoid the fallout if I’m wrong . . . but at the same time, he should be pushing her just the same.
I’ll need to have a talk with him. He’s the one who’s contributing to her doubt right now by being too careful with her. Her dad wouldn’t have handled her with kid gloves. Hell, everyone who follows tennis knows that. Instead he made her tough, feisty, strong. She needs that. To be pushed. Questioned. Challenged.
And Kellen needs to foster that.
“You’re crazy,” she murmurs.
“Don’t you believe in yourself anymore, Stevie? Because I do.”
“I believe in the old Stevie.”
“Well you better start believing in the fucking new one right this minute,” I shout at her.
“This one, right here, hasn’t trained hard enough to trust her.” Her voice is all but a whisper when she speaks and lifts her eyes to meet mine. And fucking hell, that haunted look is in her eyes again, and I look away to avoid it. I pace from one side of the room and back, running a hand through my hair and sighing in frustration as I do.
“Fine. Do what you want. No skin off my back. But the old Stevie you still believe in would never lie down and die for a prick like Greshenko. Never.”
And with that, I waltz out of the locker room and back to my seats in her box next to the court, hoping the ember I just sparked turns into fire.
Hoping that it burns so bright it consumes her so she forgets everything else and just plays the game her way.
