Gunslinger: A Sports Romance

by Lisa Lang Blakeney

  Number three. I don’t want any new accounts distracting me from my real mission. Becoming a senior account manager. There’s no doubt that this ball player is probably young, dumb and has more money than he knows what to do with; how on earth am I going to impress management when I’m going to be stuck with such an unpredictable client. If they would just give me Spin, this would be so easy.

  I just love their story. Three high school friends, determined not to sell out, writing socially conscious music in their garage, determined to share their art with the world. Doing a lot of pop-up shows for free, so that all their fans have the opportunity to see them live. And the lead singer Marley. On top of the fact that he’s gorgeous, the texture and tone of his voice is haunting and makes you feel like he’s singing directly to you. About you. For you.

  I’m a numbers girl, and I don’t have an artistic bone in my body, so I really respect people who have the gift to create art like that and are brave enough to share it with the world. Not to mention that they make a ton of money at it, and from what Marisol has told me about them, they not only make great money but they spend it wisely. They often give a lot of it away to meaningful charities. Never seeking any press or recognition for their good deeds. Who on earth wouldn’t want to have them as a client? Who wouldn’t look good with them on their roster?

  Ugh. I can feel my nerves churning inside of my stomach like a mixture of bad barbecue and warm beer. This is so off my plan. A huge detour. I have to become a senior manager in the next twelve to eighteen months if I want to stay on track. If I don’t, then I’m going to have to re-evaluate my plan, which I really don’t want to do. Because like I said, I hate change.

  But if this is some sort of test from management, then perhaps I need to look at this whole thing differently. Maybe try altering my way of thinking. This could be a massive opportunity for me if I handle things correctly. Make the most out of it. Bide my time. And then I’m sure I’ll get what I deserve eventually. I’ve got good people in my corner like Marisol and Jason. Yeah, I’m just going to have to bide my time.

  “Thank you so much, Peter. I know that this is an amazing opportunity, and I’m honored that you’ve offered it to me.”

  “You’ve earned it, kid. Remember four p.m. in the small conference room. I’ll have Dawn order a platter or something and put it in there. You like Pepsi right?”

  “Yes, but make it diet,” I say brightly. Surprised that he remembers such an irrelevant piece of trivia about me. But I guess that’s why he’s the boss. He is excellent with small details, and he knows how to make everyone feel special.

  “And that, my friend, brings your mid-year evaluation to a close.” Marisol throws her arm around my shoulders.

  “Any questions about the account can be directed to me or your mentor Jason.” She winks.

  “Great.” I smile. “Thank you, both.”

  Peter gets up to leave first, and as soon as the door closes behind him, I snap my head around to Marisol in an almost panic. She throws her hand up to stop me before I can even blurt anything out first.

  “Stop it. I know what you’re going to say. You still want Spin. You hate sports. You don’t think that you can do this. But trust me when I say that they wouldn’t give you a twenty-two million dollar client if they didn’t have plans on making you a senior level manager very soon. Also, look at it this way, it’s the perfect excuse for you to work with Jason even more. He is the only senior level here with experience working with athletes.”

  “Then why on earth didn’t they give him the account?”

  “He’s getting one of the other ones.”

  “This makes absolutely zero sense.”

  “Just think about all the legitimate reasons you’ll have to ask for a consultation with him.” Marisol grins.

  “You do realize that you are not a professional matchmaker don’t you? This is my career we’re talking about. Plus, I don’t want to marry the guy. I just have a little crush.”

  “Little?! I think you need to remember who you’re talking to. You’ve had eyes for him ever since he started working here three years ago. That’s a long ass crush.”

  “It’s not like I’m waiting around for him. I’ve dated other people.”

  “I realize you have needs and that you’ve seen a few guys here and there, but let’s not forget that I know that he’s the one you really want. And I’m all for it. You just have to let go of the whole retreat thing and open up. Allow him to see the real you. Not just the persona you display here at work.”

  “There’s a bigger problem than my love life right now, Marisol. I have a meeting with the star player of a professional football team, and I don’t even know that I’ve ever seen an entire football game in my life.”

  “That’s okay. You’re his financial manager not his coach.”

  “I know music, not sports.”

  “You know money, and you’ll learn whatever you need to about sports. Do I need to reiterate how much money he makes? Don’t dismiss this opportunity, Sabrina.

  “There are just a few things I need to warn you about though. This guy’s family is football royalty, and they’re very close knit. They don’t do outside people well at all. So expect some push back from his camp.”

  “All right and what else?”

  “The other thing is that this Stevenson guy is like a rock star on steroids. Drop dead hot. Obviously loaded. He parties hard and runs through women like crazy. And he’s probably an ass. He was seen at Wimbledon last summer saying something in his date’s ear to make her cry. Cameras caught it.”

  “Wimbledon?”

  “Tennis, Sabrina. It’s the name of the tennis championship held in England every year. You must know about that?”

  “Of course I’ve heard of that.” Barely. “Celebrities go to that?”

  “Big ones,” she answers, as if she’s exhausted by my sports ignorance.

  “Okay, but what’s your point?”

  “He’s charming to say the least, and let’s call a spade a spade, you’re vulnerable. So just stay professional. Don’t let him get under your skin or inside your panties.”

  “You’re kidding right?”

  “I know who I’m talking to. I realize you have zero interest in pro athletes. Especially womanizers like him, but as a fellow woman, I felt like I should at least warn you. Stronger women have fallen under the spell of men just like him.”

  “You’re warning has been duly noted, but trust me when I say that you have nothing to worry about. I have a very friendly electronic boyfriend at home that takes care of the cobwebs in between fellas.”

  “Don’t we all.”

  We both cackle.

  “So does the office know about this guy already? I mean everyone’s been acting weird this morning.”

  “Well the team did get an email about the new sports division, but not about Stevenson specifically. Peter may have conveniently taken your name off of the email distribution list. He wanted you to be surprised. He was actually very excited to give this client to you. He really thinks you have senior level potential. He’s pushing for you, Sabrina. So this Gunslinger guy is your Spin. Make it work.”

  I seriously doubt that, but I guess stranger things have happened.

  As I make my way back to my cubical, I start getting a few “happy eyes” from coworkers.

  They know.

  Not just about the new sports division, but it’s obvious that they know that I have one of the clients in that new department.

  I try to graciously smile in acknowledgement of everyone’s stares, and then I sit down at my cubicle and take a look at my computer screen.

  I shake the mouse to stop the screen saver and check my inbox. Sure enough Peter sent another email about five minutes ago announcing the managers who will handle the three clients of the newly created Carson Financial sports division: Jason Humphrey, Samuel Parson, and myself. Out of us three, I am the only junior level manager, which means that this is definitely a bi
g deal for me.

  Perhaps Marisol is right. Maybe this is my gateway to becoming a senior manager. All right then, Mr. Gunslinger, let’s learn more about you…

  I pull my packet out which has the one sheet on top and can’t believe my eyes when I see his photograph.

  Client: Saint Stevenson a.k.a. The Gunslinger

  Height: 6′ 5″

  Weight: 245 lbs

  Position: Quarterback

  Team: New York Nighthawks

  Current Season: Fourth

  Contract Terms: Four years; 22.5 million.

  Endorsements: Lucky Sports

  It’s him.

  Those titanium eyes.

  That strong jaw.

  The man who touched me and damn near set me on fire.

  The man I made kind of a fool of myself in front of, because I didn’t think I’d ever see him again.

  The man I’m going to see and sign to a contract in less than seven hours.

  Oh my hell.

  SABRINA

  I’m a rule player, not a rule breaker. It makes life simpler when everyone’s clear on what the rules are, what people’s expectations are of you, and then you just follow that blueprint. But today I’m not going to follow the unwritten rule of working through lunch, like I usually do. In fact, today I’m going to go to an actual restaurant for an entire hour and make sure to order an alcoholic beverage while I’m there. Like a total rebel!

  I’ve got a meeting this afternoon with a man I had no intentions of ever seeing again. A man I verbally sparred with. Flirted with at the end. A man I’m obviously and inexplicably attracted to. A man that knows I’m attracted to him.

  Oh my God, how on earth am I going to be able to work for this guy? How will he even be able to take me seriously?

  Now my head is spinning. I understand so much more. Him wearing the ridiculous sunglasses at night. His spectacular body. The security guards. His complete arrogance.

  He’s a professional athlete.

  A good one.

  And now I’ve got to try and come up with some plausible reason why I can’t take him on. A reason that won’t get me stuck at junior management for the next ten years of my life or worse fired. And on top of all of that the only thing that could make this day worse has happened. Abby just walked in.

  “Hi, Sabrina.”

  “Hey, Abby,” I say with little enthusiasm hoping she’ll get the hint to move on.

  “What are you doing here? You usually work at your desk through lunch,” she inquires as she judgmentally inspects everything on the table.

  My phone (which is off). My choice of meal (I ordered a shit load of carbs). My frozen alcoholic beverage (served in an obvious daiquiri glass).

  “Just felt like taking myself out for lunch.”

  “Well congratulations. I read about you getting the football player.”

  She’s so disingenuous. She’s practically spitting nails.

  “Have you heard of him?” I ask with a saccharin smile.

  Abby gives me an incredulous look then sighs heavily as if she’s about to teach the dumb girl a lesson.

  “Of course I have. He’s a huge star, Sabrina. He’s like the second coming to the league. Everyone is looking for him to bring the city our first championship in over twenty-one years.”

  She places one of her pointy-nailed hands on her hip.

  “Huh, I’m surprised Peter even gave you Saint Stevenson considering you know nothing about football. It’s not like you’ve ever tried to hide the fact that you don’t follow sports. It’s just so odd.”

  Good grief. Is it that obvious to everybody who I work with that I don’t like sports? Just because I don’t participate in the various betting pools they always have going?

  “It’s not odd to me. I won’t be teaching him how to catch a ball. I’ll be managing his money.”

  I throw a few of Marisol’s words back at Abby, but instead of what I’m saying making some sort of poignant point and shutting her up, Abby bursts out into laughter instead.

  “He doesn’t catch anything, silly. He’s paid to throw the ball. That’s what quarterbacks do. Throw the ball.”

  “Catch. Throw. It doesn’t matter,” I say slightly embarrassed. “My only job is to keep him out of bankruptcy court.”

  “Wow. You don’t hold much regard for professional athletes do you? I think that you should perhaps have higher aspirations for your client’s financial well-being other than keeping him out of trouble.”

  I didn’t mean it like that. Dammit, this girl has the extraordinary ability to push all of my buttons.

  “Thanks for your concern, Abby, but I’ve got it under control. I know what I’m doing or they wouldn’t have given him to me.”

  “Okaaay,” she says with exaggerated uncertainty in her irritating singsong voice.

  I should have known she’d be pissed. Everything with her is a competition.

  “Have you heard any news about Spin?” I ask trying to change the subject.

  “May I sit?”

  I rather you didn’t.

  “I’m almost finished with my lunch so–”

  “That’s okay. I’ll just wait while you finish. I’m not ordering food or anything. Some of us have to watch what we eat.”

  I suppose she’s referring to the alcohol and carbs on the table, and the fact that Abby is at least three sizes smaller than me.

  “Some of us are happy with a little cushion,” I say defending my broad childbearing hips and ample bottom.

  “I guess some of us are.”

  I wonder if I’d get arrested for tossing this frozen strawberry daiquiri in her face. I’d be really tempted to do it if it didn’t taste so damn good.

  “So do you have any information on Spin or not?”

  She smirks before speaking.

  “Well I overheard a conversation Peter was having on the phone. He’s still trying to convince them into staying. So I guess he’s not going to assign them a manager yet, since he isn’t even sure that they’re still clients. He’s still got some sweet-talking to do I suppose. Especially to Marley. From what I heard, he’s the main one who wants to leave.”

  That’s not good news.

  “So when do you meet Saint Stevenson?” she asks.

  Now we’re getting to the real point of her inserting herself into my peaceful lunch today. She wants information. She always wants something.

  “Today.”

  “You need any help? I can help you prepare. Maybe sit in on the meeting with you, so you don’t make a complete fool of yourself when he starts talking football. I grew up with two brothers who played since pee wee league. I know a lot about the game.”

  She must have been drinking daiquiris too, because if she were in her right mind, she’d know that I’d never agree to that ridiculous offer. Her in the room at my first meeting? In any client meeting? So she can try to sabotage it. Hell to the no.

  “I have Jason for that,” I brag.

  “Oh?”

  “He’s worked with pro athletes before. So he’s advising me.”

  “Oh right, I do remember him telling me that the other night.”

  Abby is on my last nerve. She wants everything I want for no real reason other than because I want it. She wants the senior management position, but doesn’t work nearly as hard as I do. She wants Spin, but doesn’t even own any of their music. And then one day she must have bumped her head, woke up, and decided that she wanted Jason. She flirts with practically every man in the office, but with him it’s so obvious that it’s nauseating. Evidently the male ego feeds off of obvious though, because Jason seems to lap it right up.

  “So … I need to finish up my lunch and get ready for my meeting.”

  My subtle way of telling her to go the hell away.

  “Good luck with that,” she says with zero sincerity.

  “Yep. Bye.”

  ***

  The frozen daiquiri I drank at lunch is doing wonders for my nerves. Must have be
en the top shelf rum I requested or the fact that I never drink. That’s why one drink always does the job for me. It’s settled me down enough to take a longer look at my file and do a little further Google research on one Mr. Saint Stevenson.

  I knew there was something familiar about this guy. Seems like Saint Stevenson was a football prodigy. I must have heard of him over the years at some point. A talented kid from a famous football family who went on to become a star in college but apparently is flailing in the pros.

  Explains a lot about the vibe he gives off. A sense of entitlement, with a touch of arrogance, and something to prove. I’ve seen it a million times with so many of our celebrity clients. Young, rich, bored and reckless.

  The stage has been carefully set for my first meeting with the man they call The Gunslinger. Peter’s assistant ordered a mixed hoagie tray and another tray of assorted fresh fruit, which are set up in the small conference room. Apparently this guy likes to eat.

  The whiteboard and my laptop are ready for me to give a slide show presentation, and several printed materials on Carson Financial are on the table.

  I’ve done my best to freshen up. Other than smoothing out my slightly wrinkled skirt with my hands, I’ve brushed my teeth in the bathroom, applied a fresh layer of blush and lipstick, and popped a mint in my mouth for good measure.

  Kate, our bubbly receptionist, pops her head in with a wide grin spread across her face. “Sabrina, he’s here! Should I send him back here? Are you ready for him?!”

  Kate looks around the room as if she’s double checking on its cleanliness or something. She’s quite excited.

  “I’m ready. Send him in.”

  “Oh hi, Jason.” Kate turns her head.

  “Hey, Jason,” I say with surprise and a little too much brightness in my voice. I need to remember to turn it down a notch, if I don’t want to appear desperate and obvious to him. I work really hard to appear as if I’m not plotting on him every single second of the day.