A-fucking-gain.
Chapter Five
SAINT
I don't even bother showering right after the end of the game, because I refuse to get cleaned up to go face the firing squad of reporters. So I just wipe the sweat off of my body with a towel, toss on one of my signature gold Nighthawk hoodies, lift the hood up to make sure it covers my entire head, and walk into the press room.
I really wish I could wear my shades, so they can't start making shit up about what my facial expressions say about my state of mind, but the team will probably try to fine me if I do that. So I compromise by only wearing the hoodie.
The questions start flying from all over the room, and like usual I answer only the ones I want. The way I want.
"Saint, what did you say to your teammates during halftime to try and get their heads back into the game?"
"Whatever I said didn't work, now did it?"
Next.
"Saint, how do you feel about Wachowski's injury?"
Fucking Annoyed. That jerk can't stay healthy to save his life.
"Disappointed."
Next.
"Saint, what do think about some of the official's questionable calls today?"
"They were bullshit."
Next.
"Saint, over here! Do you think you'll make the playoffs this year?"
A random reporter asks this stupid question. I've never seen him in the pit before. He's probably some sort of lame ass sports blogger. He looks all of eighteen years old. I guess the league gives anyone a press pass nowadays.
So Stupid.
"We gotta win at least one game first," I reply in a smart aleck voice.
Next.
"Saint, what do you think you need to do to turn things around this season?"
Now this guy I know. Jim Mathers. He's practically a relic. An old, balding guy from The Football Network, and he always asks the same irritating questions. Every single game.
"Score," I deadpan.
Next.
"Saint, unlike you, your brother seems to be having a fantastic start to his season in Seattle. How do you feel about that?"
And that question comes from a reporter named Myra Kitch. Rhymes with bitch. She's the worst out of the bunch. She's had it in for me since the day the Nighthawks signed me. She probably would play football herself if they allowed women to play in the pros. She's bigger and rougher than half of my offensive line, but because she's a woman, I have to be extra careful with how I handle her.
The team's PR people have repeatedly warned me that I need to be careful and make sure to keep my statements politically appropriate. That shit infuriates me though. Where's the equality in that? I should be able to rip her a new one like I do any male reporter when they ask me something asinine.
"That's a stupid question, Myra," I respond. Because it is.
"Is it? The way I heard it you Stevensons are highly competitive, and that you might not be so happy about your brother's success."
What the fuck is she talking about?
"You heard wrong." Myra Kitch the She-bitch.
No one has ever dared pit the two Stevenson brothers against each other like she's doing. We're America's football family. Hell, they had my mother on Good Morning America teaching Robin Roberts how to bake the perfect apple turnover and dancing to a live performance by Brad Paisley.
No one but this woman, this very evil woman, with a wider neck than my great-grandmother Stevenson (and that was one big woman), would make it seem as if me and Mikey are jealous of each other's success when that could be the furthest thing from the truth.
My dad's probably cringing right now as he watches me lose some of my composure on national television. He always taught me to be humble and smile when on camera, but I'm not in the mood for either of those things. I can't stand this part of the game. Whoever the hell came up with the idea to interview players ten minutes after they've put their asses on the line for four quarters and come up short was either an idiot or a sadistic genius. No player or coach wants to talk to the press after a loss. No one wants salt poured into their wounds when they've just been sliced and diced for the nation to see.
I can't wait for the day when I get to silence these jerks. The day that I finally get my championship ring. They'll all be kissing my ass when that day comes, because that's all you really have to do to shut reporters up. To shut everyone up.
Is win.
After wasting thirty minutes of my life in a press conference, I try scrubbing the layer of "loser" off of me in the shower, and when I'm finished I'm not surprised to see that I have a visitor waiting for me at the entrance of the locker room.
I always do.
This one is dressed in very little clothing, has the best tits her money can buy, legs for days, and is staring at me like I'm the answer to all of her problems. I'm not even going to bother asking security how she got all the way through to the player's locker room. A supposedly secure area.
All I have to do is take a look at how her huge National Geographic looking nipples are practically poking through her clingy Red Bull tank top to know. She's one of those girls. The kind that would step over just about anybody to get what she wants, and today what she wants seems to be me.
Typically a visit from a woman like this would be just the kind of escape I'm looking for after an abysmal game like today and a press conference like the one I just had.
They basically line up for us after the games. Cleat chasers. Ball groupies. Normally one will give me a blow job in the car, and if she knocks that out of the park, then maybe I give her a quick fifteen minutes of banging her from behind back at her place. That's all I usually want from girls like her, but I'm guessing by her body language that is what she wants too.
It's what they all want
Quick and dirty. Something to brag to their girlfriends about. Sex with the Gunslinger. Sex that their delusional asses are hoping will spoil it for all the other women after them, so that I'll come back specifically to them for more. But what this woman doesn't understand, just like all the women before her, is that there is no pussy in the world that will make me give up all the others. Forget all the others? That's never going to happen. I'm not built like that. Not anymore.
I've been getting pussy thrown at me since I was damn near fourteen years old. I guess because playing football is like catnip for certain women, case in point, this one standing in front of me licking her lips is a prime example.
Yet for some reason I can't explain my dick isn't jumping at her blatant offer. All I can seem to think about is the straight-laced, uppity woman, wearing the tight pencil skirt and bad attitude, with curves for miles from the restaurant the other night.
The girl who has no idea who I am.
Who doesn't remember me at all.
Twenty-four hours before I met her that first time, I had just been dumped by my fiancée Adrianna. Even though I trashed one of the rooms of the hotel, management was understanding. First of all the wedding was paid for, all my childhood friends and family were in town, and I'm kind of a celebrity. So we decided to stay and we spent the rest of my wedding weekend getting fucked up.
I noticed her the minute I walked into the bar that night. She was throwing back tequila shots and wobbling around on her stool with little grace but boundless beauty.
I listened to her sob story about liking some loser at her job, and then I gallantly tucked her into her hotel room bed without even as much as a peck on the cheek.
It's been a few days since our second meeting, but I still have her business card lying in the center console of my car, and I have no explanation for why I haven't tossed it or used it. In fact, all I've been doing is reading it over and over, and adjusting the hard-on between my legs every time I do.
Sabrina White.
Junior Account Manager, Carson Financial.
Midtown Manhattan.
212-555-5484
"You need a ride somewhere, Gunslinger?"
The groupi
e's provocative questioning snaps me out of my train of thought like a splash of cold water.
"Nah, I've got a ride."
"Then how about I take your mind off of things and onto better things while you take that ride."
Quick and dirty girl makes her move in a tone full of sexual promise, but one I'm not really in the mood for. Usually, I rely on noncommittal girls like her to make me come hard and snap me out of the funk a bad game puts me in.
But not tonight.
The groupie and her Red Bull tank top remind me of something. I'm Saint fucking Stevenson and bad season or not, I should at least have endorsements flying out of my ass, and I know just the girl that can get them for me.
Chapter Six
SABRINA
I notice it immediately. The office feels transformed the moment I walk off the elevator and into the main foyer. While Mondays are my favorite day of the week, they typically aren't anyone else's at my workplace. Yet today there seems to be a vibrancy floating through the air and bouncing around from person to person.
Contained excitement.
Reserved glee.
I'm not sure that I can explain it. Everything seems normal. My coworkers are at their cubicles with fresh lattes and small Pyrex bowls of warm oatmeal, typing away, writing on sticky notes, or texting on their cell phones about one thing or another. But something is definitely different, and I can't quite put my finger on what it is. Whatever's going on, I'm clearly the last person to know. I just hope it's a sign that I'm going to have a good mid-year evaluation.
"Morning, Sabrina"
"Morning, Peter."
It's common at the company for employees at my level of junior management to have mid and final year reviews with a supervisor and a senior level account manager both present in the room. In my case today that's my team supervisor Peter and my friend who's a senior account manager, Marisol.
"So before we get into the thick of your review, Sabrina, we wanted to talk to you about some changes that are happening within the company. Exciting changes."
My eyes widen. Oh my God, is Peter going to give me Spin? Marisol silently nods her head back and forth behind Peter's back as if she can read my mind.
Spin is one of Carson Financial's top clients. They are an award-winning, platinum-selling band, that sells out stadiums every time they tour. Their account manager Priscilla Carson just left the company after finding out her husband, and Carson Financial founder, has been having a long-standing affair with his executive assistant. So now Spin is abruptly without a full-time money manager, and the company needs to fill the spot quickly, before the group walks away from us completely and takes their money with them.
It's no secret at my office that there is only room for one new senior account manager to join the fold, and that both my coworker (and frenemy) Abby and I want the position. If one of us is assigned the Spin account, that will speak volumes about who's going to get the promotion. It means that we're trusted with a Tier-One, A-level client. Opportunities typically offered to only senior level or rising senior managers. For me it's a serious long shot, because I'm so young. Abby has seniority, but I truly believe I work twice as hard as she does.
"So it's just come down from the powers that be that Carson is expanding our brand. No longer will we be limited to musical entertainers, but we've now opened our doors to professional athletes. In fact, there is an entire new division of the company under development. The Carson Athletic division."
My supervisor Peter sounds almost excited as a kid on Christmas morning as he talks about this big expansion the company's making. And I get it. Athletes make tremendous amounts of money and have huge international profiles. What's not to like ... if you're management. If you're Peter. But this isn't the direction I'd hoped this conversation was going to go.
Now I'm starting to understand the silent head nod from Marisol. She knew I wasn't getting Spin or getting the promotion I was hoping for at all. She also knows how much I hate sports and despise professional athletes. They're just overgrown kids who get paid way more money than anyone should be allowed to earn for kicking or hitting a ball. I've never been able to understand that concept ever since I was a kid.
"We're starting off small. The Downtown office is getting three players. I think two of them are baseball and one is tennis, and our office is getting three new clients as well. One of them I feel very confident about giving to you, Sabrina. Best of all he's a football player."
Best of all?
"They call your new client The Gunslinger. Ring any bells?" Peter asks excitedly.
I think I'm supposed to have heard of this guy but I haven't.
"Umm, not really."
Peter chuckles, "That's all right. Marisol mentioned that you don't really follow sports. So maybe I'll have Jason help get you up to speed. He worked with ball players at his previous company. Is that okay with you?"
I'm a little shell shocked, but I go ahead and nod yes. Marisol grins like she always does whenever Jason's name is mentioned. I swear she's going to get me to the altar and popping out Jason's babies even if it kills her. She's worse than my mother, albeit a little more optimistic about getting me married.
"The only important things to know for now are that he's the franchise quarterback for the New York Nighthawks, he's being paid the rookie wage cap of twenty-two and a half million for four years, and he's never signed with a money manager before. His father has been taking care of his investments."
It's quiet for a moment in the room until Marisol breaks the silence with a loud clap. "That's a fantastic client, Sabrina! Congratulations, girl," she says with a little extra added enthusiasm in her voice.
I guess she can tell by the look on my face that I'm completely overwhelmed by Peter's news and maybe a little freaked out. I know zilch about football.
"That's right, Sabrina," Peter chimes in. "The company is giving you this account and with it is expressing pretty much everything that I planned on verbalizing in today's mid-year review. You are an excellent account manager. You have the type of work ethic and attention to detail that Carson Financial values. You've met all of your goals last quarter, and more importantly we value you as a person.
"Good work and congratulations," Peter commends as he hands me a plain manila folder with a stapled packet inside.
"The Gunslinger's one sheet is in here along with a portfolio of his current assets. His game and practice schedule is grueling, so unfortunately the only time he has over the next two weeks to meet with you and sign his paperwork is later today at four o'clock.
"When you meet with him, make sure to have him sign the contract and discuss how things work with us. I've come up with a few goals that you can discuss, which I'll email you, since I know you weren't prepared for all of this today, but feel free to run with any ideas you may come up with.
"I'm giving you full rein with this client, but obviously we'll be watching you closely. He's pretty important to us. So make sure you document things well. Add all significant meetings to the calendar. And just do what you do. Making sure to leave a paper trail that management can check if need be."
I accept the folder reservedly, while my brain is moving a mile a minute. Change is difficult for me. It builds a level of anxiety within me that I am working very hard to keep at bay this very minute. A trait passed down to me from my wonderful nervous Nellie of a mother.
Signs that my nerves are frayed? Well, right now I am dying for a bag of potato chips and a Pepsi, and it's only nine in the morning. Grease and sugar cravings are a sure giveaway that I'm spiraling.
I'm dying to ask Peter why the hell he gave me, of all people, this particular client. Is this some sort of test? I want to yell at Marisol and tell her to stop laughing at me with her eyes, because trust me, she's cracking up at the fact that I'm silently unraveling. And most of all, I want to smack myself for being so ungrateful. While any sane person would look at this meeting as a sign that their career trajectory is on the right track,
and be jumping up and down with excitement, all I can seem to dwell on are all the things that could go wrong, very wrong.
Number one. Carson Financial is known for its management of music entertainers. That is what we specialize in. That is where most of the managers' passions lie (such as myself), and it is where most of our connections are, with companies that want to do business with music entertainers. We (I) don't know the first thing about athletes.
Number two. I don't like sports. I don't watch football, baseball, soccer, hockey, or tennis. I don't even watch the Olympics. Winter or summer. And when the sports segment comes on the evening news, I turn the sound down and read a book. Some of my attitude might have to do with the fact that I suck at sports, some of it might have to do with a little crush I had on a very evil baseball player in high school, but mostly it has to do with the fact that I have a big problem with grown men being overpaid to do what they've been doing since they were three years old ... play. Imagine someone paying me millions of dollars to play Words With Friends on my cell phone? Now that would be freakin' awesome.
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.
Saint: A Football Romance (The Nighthawk Series Book 1) Page 4
