Linebacker's Second Chance (Bad Boy Ballers)

by Imani King

  Rich just looks at me like I have a horn growing directly from the center of my forehead.

  It’s confusing, I admit. I’m sure a job working on the league’s most notorious linebacker would look good on my roster, not to mention my bank account.

  Even if I’ve never shown my line to Rich before, well, I’ve got one. Its name is Macklin Pride. And I’ll be damned if I’m working with him.

  I sit there, staring, reminding myself in my mind over and over again that no amount of money is worth working with that scumbag. I’ll pay off everything with my salary over time. It won’t be Macklin Pride’s money that does it.

  Rich sighs and gives me an exasperated look. “Mack’s a good guy. Old Southern boy. He’s just a little... unusual as far as linebackers are concerned.” He looks up at me from his vintage wooden desk, probably a desk that used to sit in one of the great sports agent's offices from the 1970s. I’ve never asked because then Rich would tell me, and that would be boring.

  “What you mean by unusual is that he’s a loud-mouthed smart-ass who throws big, stupid expensive parties and gets in trouble with football groupies not much more than half his age. Is that about right? Because everything I know about Big Mack leads me to believe he’s beyond my reach, and he’s not the type of gentleman I want to work with.”

  “You once told me you’d work with O. J. Simpson if it paid enough,” Rich says.

  I chew on my lip. I might have said that. And the case I took on last month with the baseball guy who liked young men from abroad—well, how was that different? It wasn’t. It’s Mack himself that’s different.

  “Mack is where I draw the proverbial line, Richard. I don’t want to get involved in that Southern politics stuff when he’s getting his whole team wasted and encouraging barely legal beach bunnies to wrestle each other—”

  Rich laughs, probably because he’s like every other man in this PR firm. He loves Macklin Pride because he’s the thing all these guys want to be—six foot six, a brick wall of muscle, a legend among the women both in town and out of it, and a young, shining star on the rise in the NFL. “He just needs a little bit of…rebranding,” Rich tells me. “The team owner is a more conservative type of fellow, and he’s not much for Mack’s parties. Or his girlfriends. Or really anything he does. He’s looking for a reason to get rid of Mack, and Mack won’t listen to any damn person who tells him that. He needs a good PR agent. A woman to set him straight.”

  Instinctively, I put my hands on my hips. “A woman?”

  Rich swivels in his chair nervously. It’s a tic he has when he really wants someone to do something for him. And right now, I’m that someone. “Yes, Renata. A woman. I’m not going to pretend that’s not a sexist thing to say, but can we both agree that football’s a sport that’s not exactly ahead of the times politically?”

  I roll my eyes. “Yeah, fine. Granted. But I’m the best PR agent you have. You really expect me to go into a rickety-ass situation like this that’s doomed to failure? Mack Pride does whatever Mack Pride wants to do—that’s why he’s not listening to anyone. It’s clear he doesn’t give a happy damn about his job if he’s behaving the way he is when he knows he’s not supposed to. He’s on a downward trend. Most people can’t see it, but I sure as hell can. He’ll lose his job, and if I’m there when he does, everyone will look at me to blame.”

  “He’s the best rising linebacker in the NFL right now.” Rich looks at me and slows down those last two words for extreme emphasis. Of course, I know what he’s saying is true. Mack’s always been a football legend, from the time he played in college until right up until this very moment. It doesn’t matter to any fan that he’s got a pile of women crawling on top of him every weekend—in fact, they like it. It only adds to Mack’s mystique. My gut twists at the thought—but I suppress the wave of nausea and anxiety rising in my body. “And you’re damn right he’s going to lose his job. With this season coming up too, well, I’d be surprised if his playing didn’t suffer like hell. He was on fire last year, but I hear he’s getting more and more out of hand. And you’re wrong if you think he won’t listen to you, Renata. Everyone listens to you. You walk into a room and people stop to see what you’re having for lunch. You’ve got that kind of voice. That presence.”

  Rich looks at me like he’s proud of his compliment, but I’ve heard it from him before.

  “Gee thanks, Rich. I do appreciate it. Honestly—but Mack. Jesus. I can’t tell you why—but I can’t do it.” I swallow hard. Realistically, I know I’m Rich’s favorite. I’m everybody’s favorite. He’s right. I’m the best damn agent in this place. “I can take on any other project, move my schedule around, accommodate you any way you want...” My voice trails off and I bite my lip.

  Rich taps his pencil against the desk. I’ve never refused a client before—and truth be told, I’ve dealt with a lot of men like Macklin. I’ve reformed their images a million times over. I work magic. But Macklin himself comes with a different set of concerns, ones I’m not willing to share with Rich.

  My boss, Richard Darrow, owner of the top sports PR firm in the whole damn country, sighs deeply and gives me a legitimate stink-eye. “Ren, let me sweeten the deal. Macklin’s agent is going to pay us a lot. Because you know what? Macklin makes a hell of a lot of money. And his agent—Wingate something or other, his cousin—is willing to funnel a lot of money into this. This would come with a considerable bonus for you.”

  I sit in the chair across from Rich, slumping down. Rich doesn’t offer bonuses unless it’s the holidays. He doesn’t offer anything to sweeten any deal. Working here is the sweetened deal for any PR agent in the sports business. My pulse quickens. “Say what now? Are you the real Rich I’m talking to? Not a clone?”

  Rich laughs. “No, I’m not a clone. Wingate wants you, specifically, as Mack’s agent. And he’s willing to give you a sizable bonus.”

  Me? God no. Don’t let it be a number I can’t refuse. Don’t let it be the answer to everything…

  “No size will get me to do this, especially if Wingate requested me. Was it Wingate—or was it Mack?” I ask, leaning forward and putting my head in my hands. “You know what? I don’t really care who it was. Really, not at all.”

  “Ren, Wingate whatshisface—” Rich looks at his laptop and hits the scroll down button. “Wingate Richards, that is—he’s willing to pay you $500,000 directly. And another $400,000 to me. Directly.”

  Rich’s face lights up into a grin, and at the same time, my heart must stop—or my lungs, or something. Because I can’t feel myself breathing. That amount of money is life-changing, even for a woman with a $200,000 salary already. That kind of money pays off my house, every single one of my mother’s credit cards, my daddy’s debt at the farm, and helps finish off the college funds I started for my twin sisters—who are about to turn seventeen. That kind of money solves everything.

  Goddammit.

  “That’s a good amount of money. Why the hell is Wingate spending so much?” I feel my face grow hot at the thought of that much cash entering my bank account all at once. “That pays off… everything.”

  “And for me, it buys the boat I’ve been looking at,” Rich replies with a wide, cheesy smile.

  I glare at him. He knows how I feel about his boat since I’ve been working to get my family out of debt for years. It’s been a task. That kind of money all at once—that’s a game changer. That settles most everything and leaves room for more.

  I groan. “Fine. Okay. I’ll do it. But under one condition—”

  Rich examines me again, like he’s trying to figure something out. “I don’t know why you have such a problem with this kid, Renata. Do you know him or something?”

  I shake my head, even though it’s a lie. Even though it’s a big, bold-faced, linebacker-sized lie. “Let me finish, Rich. I want limited contact with Macklin himself. I can reform his image, I can get him in line. But I’ll work through Wingate Richards.” There’s a big piece of my mind that’s shouting at
me to backpedal and get the hell out of dodge before I agree to this travesty of an assignment. Money talks, though. My daddy was always right about that. “And I’ll take $250,000 up front, $250,000 after Mack’s job is secure. And $100,000 more if he retains his position with Carolina until the Super Bowl.”

  Rich taps his pencil at me again and looks at me like he’s thinking. “With how much Wingate wants you, I think that can be arranged.” Rich pauses. “You know that Wingate fellow any? Is that what this is about?”

  Rich, you’re a damn genius at public relations, but you can be thick as all get out. “Peripherally,” I shrug, like it’s no big deal. “That’s not what this is about. I just don’t like working with players with Mack’s reputation.” I may or may not stick my nose in the air when I say that. Those are true words, but hell, I work with athletes all the time, and they all have a reputation for something.

  In general, male athletes who whore around don’t bother me.

  Mack bothers me.

  The fact that he hasn’t spoken to me in six years bothers me.

  The fact that the ring he gave me is still sitting in my top dresser drawer bothers me.

  It cost him $900, and he emptied his bank account to buy it.

  Every word he’d said that night had sounded so sincere. I was twenty-two, and I said yes, against every bit of better judgment I had.

  I didn’t care if he was as poor as dirt and had nothing. I didn’t care if his daddy owed my father money, or that we were all entrenched in an endless feud in Tick Bite, North Carolina. The smallest of small towns. Who would have thought we’d both come so far?

  It was his brother that told me the engagement was off. Mack didn’t even have the decency to do it himself. He sent his damn brother to my house after I made it back from California. He sent his horrible brother to break my heart.

  Maybe I should have sent the ring back.

  But he never called. He never came by. He didn’t even stop to ask if I was okay before he split and went to the pros.

  Rich breaks me out of my reverie. “Well Ren, looks like you’re getting on Macklin Pride’s personal plane tomorrow. And I’ll see if someone can get that check to you as soon as you arrive in Charlotte.”

  “They’ll get me my check, or I’m back on the first plane back to San Francisco the day after that. And Mack won’t be on that plane tomorrow, or I’m ditching him as a client.” I tap my nails against Rich’s expensive desk. There’s not much that could get me to go to North Carolina in July—$500,000 with a potential $100k bonus is one thing that will.

  I’ll just make sure that Mack knows I didn’t come for him.

  I came for the cash and what it can do to change my family’s life, once and for all, to get us out of the convoluted mess that is Tick Bite, North Carolina.

  My daddy’s voice echoes in my head.

  Anything you take on is a challenge, baby girl. The more challenging it is, the better you can do.

  Rich is on the phone with Wingate Richards as soon as I walk out of his office, and by the time I’m getting ready to leave for the day, I’ve already got six ideas to turn my ex-fiancé’s career around, get him the hell out of trouble, and do it all in the span of three months. Hell, I might even drag his sorry ass to the Super Bowl.

  This isn’t a travesty, I think as I walk out and catch my Uber, bound for Sausalito. It’s a challenge. And my daddy was always right. And what’s more, Rich is probably right too.

  I’m the best woman for this job, and Macklin’s going to do everything I say.

  I wonder for a second as the car gets onto the Bay Bridge if Mack expects to see me at all, or if he even knows I’m coming.

  Doesn’t matter. There’s not a damn thing between us anymore.

  And I’ll do anything to prove it.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  “Now, Wingate, I don’t need a damn bit of rebranding.” I say, crossing one leg over the other and leaning back in the leather recliner sofa my decorator absolutely insisted I didn’t get. Well, she had another thing coming. I’m a linebacker, not a New York lawyer who wants a goddamn couch with fancy fabric you can’t spill anything on. I wanted a leather sectional, with custom-made La-Z-Boy recliners on either side and in the middle too. Makes it easier for me to watch football during the season, and it makes it a damn sight easier to bed a woman when I don’t want to carry her over my shoulder to the California king in the bedroom.

  That’s the thing with women who come around wanting to get some action with a linebacker. They expect me to carry them everywhere like a caveman. Just because I’m a huge individual doesn’t mean that I need to be tossing women over my shoulders every second of the day. The sofa makes for a perfect sexual alternative. As a bonus, I can look out at the Charlotte skyline when I’ve got a nice looking lady friend bouncing on my lap.

  That’s what I call interior decorating.

  “You do need rebranding.” My cousin Wingate Richards replies as he walks back and forth, blocking my view of the TV—and I’ve got college basketball on. Just because I’m a football player doesn’t mean I don’t need to keep up on other sports. Just like he has every day since we were kids, he’s getting on my nerves worrying about things that he doesn’t have any power to change. That’s what makes him a damn good personal manager, but it's also what makes him annoying as shit when it comes to being a cousin and my best bud.

  “Get out of the damn way, Wingate.” I turn the volume up to drown out his droning. Carolina would be stupid as shit to get rid of me—I’m their ticket to the Super Bowl if ever there was one. Well, this season I am. Maybe I wasn't last season. Oh well. I've all but put that out of my head, and I'm sure everyone else has too.

  Our offensive players don’t hit the other team with near as much of a bang as I do when the other team crosses my line. I’ve got magic feet, magic hands, and I’m a lot more... elegant than I look. No one expects fancy footwork from a man with a six and a half foot frame and two-hundred and fifty pounds of muscle. But I deliver every goddamn time.

  “You listen to me, Mack.” Skinny-ass old Wingate walks up to me and snatches the remote from my hand, his neatly parted blond hair coming undone with anger. “Eddie told me he’s about done with putting up with your behavior. Coach tells him every time you show up late for practice, every time there’s some angry girl coming around insisting that you’re the reason her entire life is ruined, and every damn time you get the whole team drunk at one of your stupid parties. That’s right, Mack. Coach has started tattling on you—and Eddie, the freaking owner of the team, has noticed too—”

  “Don’t say freaking, Wingate. You’re not twelve. And your mama’s not in the next room listening to us fight.” I look away from Wingate’s icy blue stare. He’s about twelve inches from my face, and his own face is so red it looks like steam’s about to erupt from his nostrils like in the cartoons. Wingate’s tall like I am—but he’s wiry as shit, looks like he hasn’t eaten a sandwich in ten years. Even though he’d blow over in a stiff wind, Wingate is one of the only men in either Carolina that makes me nervous. Those stiff-ass muscles—and the stick up his butt—are like steel, and that sonofabitch could get me in a headlock like none other despite the fact that I could lie down on him and crush him in his sleep.

  “You listen to me, cuzzo.” Wingate aims the remote at the TV without looking away from my eyes, turning it off with one click. He then flings the remote on my coffee table, and I cringe as it clatters against the antique wood. If either the remote or my coffee table is damaged, I might have to test out Wingate’s headlock for the first time since I was twelve. My neck hurts just thinking about it.

  “Hey—” I start. But Wingate has one finger pointed firmly at my chest. “It’s all been downhill since you graduated from college. Everyone in the country sees you as this great hero of football, the man who dances across the field and distracts every offensive line he comes in contact with, blocks every move, has his defensive linemen perfectly coordinated. But I kno
w better. I know you’re more.” Slowly, Wingate’s finger comes down against my sternum. I bat his hand away, and he blocks me. I half expect him to slap me in the face like he used to when we were kids, and I instinctively flinch away from him. But he just laughs.

  “You’re a dickhead, Wingate. No wonder you can’t get a date, even on Grindr.” I look pointedly at him, and he rolls his eyes. Usually that sticks in his craw pretty bad, but he’s determined as balls to get me to listen to him. And that makes me not want to listen to him at all.

  “All the beer and the parties and the women...” Wingate starts on one of his tirades, and I groan, leaning the recliner back so it knocks him in the knees. He kicks at me and then sits down on the opposite end of the sectional, throwing his hands up in what looks like resignation. “There’s more to you than this. I saw you go out there on the field hungover twice last season, and more than once, there’s been some woman in the crowd shouting at you. With every game, you go downhill a little more. You’re the most talented linebacker in the league, and each game, you get very slightly worse. It doesn’t look good. And pretty soon someone’s going to notice.”

  I wave my hand at him and stare sullenly at the remote Wingate put down on the coffee table. “I’m doing just as well as I always did. And furthermore, I don’t give a shit about what looks good and what doesn’t look good. It’s 2016, and I can act how I want, date who I want, and throw parties that celebrate my team. Ain’t that what America’s about?”

  Wingate snorts. “That has nothing to do with anything. Don’t get me embroiled in a political discussion this early in the day.”

  I shrug. Bringing up the election usually works to keep Wingate ranting for at least an hour and a half, particularly when there’s a mention of Governor McCrory and his medieval bathroom garbage. Sometimes I’ll even pretend like I sympathize with our dear idiotic governor or like I’m considering not voting Democrat to get Wingate to leave the room with his fists clenched, shouting about civil rights and the degradation of the American political climate. Embroiled. He always uses fifty-cent words when a one-cent word will do just fine. I snicker. “Let’s just put this discussion up on a shelf. It’s the offseason. I have a party tomorrow, and I’m not in the mood for you to talk to me like I’m six years old and you’re the big grown-up who knows more than I do. I know plenty about football, plenty about my career, and plenty about where I’m going with my life.”