Saint: A Football Romance (The Nighthawk Series Book 1)

by Lisa Lang Blakeney

Let's just say his stats don't do him justice.

  I already knew that Saint Stevenson towers over most human beings on the planet, but he's also wider and even more muscular than I remembered. I think I read somewhere online that he's unusually big for a quarterback, which apparently adds to his value as a player.

  He's dressed very casually in a dark gray sweat suit, white sneakers, and a New York Nighthawks baseball cap. The soft cotton fabric of his hoodie basically caressing every peak and valley of his rock hard upper body. His loose sweatpants not quite baggy enough to hide the large package between his legs.

  Avert your eyes, Sabrina.

  He's not wearing any ridiculous sunglasses this time (thank God), but the brim of his hat has been purposely bent and shaped into a curve that hides his eyes. Maybe they're bloodshot. From what I've heard about him, bloodshot eyes would confirm Marisol's description of him as a big partier.

  I run my hands down the sides of my skirt hoping to dry my clammy palms. I'm starting to wish I had worn my oversized gray power pantsuit which hides my curves a lot better than this skirt because after our first encounter, I need him to take me seriously, and not just look at me as a piece of meat.

  Hell–let me just rip off the Band-Aid and get to it.

  "Hello, Mr. Stevenson." I say in my brightest professional voice. "It's a pleasure to have you on board at Carson Financial. You've made a wise decision for your career."

  "Why are you talking like that?" he asks while taking a seat at the table.

  "I'm sorry what did you say, Mr. Stevenson?"

  His sentences are being muffled beneath the brim of his hat.

  "I asked," he takes off his cap and stares me straight on, "Why are you talking to me like some corporate hack, and call me Saint please, Mr. Stevenson is my father."

  I am almost too dumbfounded to respond. This is my first time seeing his complete face, uncovered and close up. He is the epitome of perfect imperfection.

  A close shaved beard which compliments his hard angles.

  A very crooked nose.

  Wide bloodshot eyes with pools of steel in the center.

  A slight cleft chin.

  And a permanent scar across his upper lip.

  It's a crime for someone to look this good without even trying, or it really should be one.

  "Okay, Saint then." I almost exhale the words without breathing.

  "And who's this?" Saint turns his head and stares directly at Jason, but I can tell by his tone that he remembers exactly who Jason is, and now the realization of all the things I said that night hits me like a ton of bricks.

  I told him Jason was my date.

  I told him a lot of things.

  "Pleasure to meet you, Mr. Stevenson." Jason extends his hand to shake Saint's. "I'm Jason Humphrey, senior account manager here at Carson Financial. I'm sitting in on this meeting as Ms. White's point person."

  He doesn't say anything in response to Jason's introduction, but rather turns his head back to me, slightly tilted, with a curious glint in his eye.

  "You date coworkers, Miss White? Do you think that's wise?"

  I tap my foot nervously as I quickly try to think of a way to clean this up.

  Jason clears his throat. "I think you have it wrong, Mr. Stevenson. Sabrina and I are coworkers. Our relationship is purely professional."

  "Oh?" He looks down at me with a huge grin. "Maybe I did have it wrong. Sorry about that."

  He grabs one of the bottled waters on the table, twists it open, and takes a long swig. "But you know what, Jase?"

  Oh God, who on earth calls people by a nickname without having some sort of relationship with them first? Condescending jerks do that's who.

  "I think that Miss White and I will be fine on our own today. You don't mind do you? I want to get to know my new business manager without any distractions. Without any barriers."

  That last statement sounded pretty dirty, but I suppose he can't help it. Everything that comes out of his mouth sounds like sex. At least if feels that way to me.

  And Jason looks a bit taken aback by the sex god's blunt words. In fact, as long as I've known him, I think this is the first time that I've ever seen Jason look a little intimidated by another man. But it's understandable. Everything about Saint Stevenson is intimidating.

  "It was requested that I sit in–"

  "Should we call the head of this division in then? Uh, what's his name?" Saint snaps his fingers obnoxiously as if he's trying to remember Peter's name.

  Boy this guy is a terrible actor and a bully.

  "Peter," I say in a huff to end his shenanigans.

  "Oh that's right–Peter."

  "Uh no, Mr. Stevenson. That won't be necessary. Sabrina is one of the best account managers in this office. She can absolutely handle this meeting on her own. I was just trying to be helpful."

  "Well if we need your help, I'll make sure she calls you back in."

  Jason leans into me. Our shoulders touching. His mouth very close to my ear.

  "You all right with this, Sabrina?" he whispers. Still sounding unsure about leaving me to deal with this rude new client of mine.

  "I've totally got this. I promise," I assure him.

  He smiles in return.

  "Of course you do. Call me when you're done okay?"

  "Will do."

  "Pleasure, Mr. Stevenson."

  "Likewise."

  Chapter Eight

  SABRINA

  When the door slams shut, I immediately get to the heart of the matter. No need to beat around the bush. This is how you have to deal with guys like him.

  I adjust my seat and cross my right leg over my left, which is no easy feat in this skirt, and look him square in the eyes.

  "So let's talk real talk, Mr. Stevenson," I say to him in my best big girl voice.

  "Real talk, huh? All right let's do it," he says excitedly, then he flashes me a thousand watt smile, which has probably dropped a thousand pairs of panties across the nation.

  "It can't possibly be a coincidence that you've hired this company to handle your financial affairs. The company I work for."

  "You seem pretty sure that I'm up to something, Miss White."

  "Well–"

  "You think a company looking to enter sports management in a big way wouldn't have approached someone like me a long time ago?"

  I shuffle uncomfortably in my chair. Is this just a coincidence, and I've now put my foot in my mouth? Did I offend him?

  "I guess that–"

  "But let me stop you there, because you would also be correct," he cuts me off. "It's not a coincidence that I'm here."

  "So you're saying that you hired Carson Financial, because I work here?" I ask still a little unsure of what I may actually be insinuating.

  "That's right."

  I almost choke on my own saliva.

  "Why?"

  "I don't know. Why did you tell me you were on a date with your 'point person' when we met?" he counters using air quotes when he says the words point person.

  "I'm not sure what one thing has to do with the other, but you were being quite presumptuous with me in the restaurant. You didn't know if I was on a date or not. Lying seemed to be the easiest solution for shutting you down."

  "Is that still the case?"

  "Is what still the case?"

  "That you're not dating your coworker, because he seems very interested in what's happening in this room right now. In fact, I'd bet a hundred dollars that he's standing right outside of this room right this very minute."

  Saint's eyes drop to my thighs.

  "I bet it's killing him that the door to this room is closed, that you're dressed in this, and that he has no idea what I'm saying to you or doing to you."

  "Doing to me?" I repeat appalled and aroused.

  He walks over to the seat closest to me and sits down. His massive body taking up not only the space around me, but it almost seems as if he's filling the entire room. Just the insinuation of Saint Stevenso
n doing anything to me makes me pause. I mean I'd have to be dead not to be drawn in by the raw sexual heat this man emits.

  "Yes," he practically growls. "Doing to you."

  "Listen, Mr. Stevenson–"

  "We've been over this, love. The name is Saint."

  "Saint. Look, I want to be perfectly clear here. I'm not sure what game you're playing, but I have very little interest in games or in you as a client at this point."

  He pauses for a moment as if he's carefully thinking of a response to my very frank but honest statement, and then he just goes ahead and asks me a question which is totally off topic.

  "Are those authentic Philadelphia hoagies over there or New York's lame version of a sub?"

  "I don't know. I didn't order them," I say flatly.

  "Oh did the cute girl who walked me back here order them?"

  Ugh, this guy.

  "I. Don't. Know." I reiterate strongly.

  "I'm just asking, because I usually eat clean during the season. If I'm going to cheat, I might as well go with the good stuff."

  "I'm sure they were ordered from a reputable place."

  "An authentic Philadelphia hoagie in New York? I doubt it. But could you be a darling and hand me one of the turkey and cheese ones anyway?"

  The nerve.

  "I'm sorry but did you hear anything that I said?"

  "Something about no playing games. No interest in me as a client. Blah, blah, blah."

  "That's right. I'm not interested in taking on you or any other professional athlete as a client. Especially under these ... circumstances."

  He saunters over to the hoagie tray.

  "Guess I'll help myself then," he says as he grabs one chunk of hoagie. Which is funny to me, because I bet he could probably eat all ten of those chunks and burn them off by dinner.

  "Listen, Miss White. I don't think you're fully aware of what's at stake here."

  He adds some of the side fixings to his hoagie, grabs another bottle of water, and has a seat across from me this time.

  "Enlighten me then."

  "I am one of the highest paid rookies in the league. Without having been solicited, I personally called your office, talked to your boss for fifteen minutes, and then agreed to sign with Carson Financial for a year but only with the stipulation that you would be my account manager."

  I audibly gasp.

  This guy is insane.

  "You're finally getting it now, are you?" He licks his lips after chewing a small bite of his sandwich.

  "If you don't take me on as a client, then I'll take my business elsewhere. I certainly didn't sign here to end up with that guy you've been schoolgirl crushing on for years to manage my money. He doesn't look fun at all."

  "You are out of your mind."

  And how does he know I've liked Jason for years?

  "That's what they tell me, darlin'."

  What should I do right now? If this Gunslinger jerk leaves the company because of me, I can certainly forget about my promotion. I may even lose my job. But if I take him on as a client, then I don't know what I'm in store for. I have no idea what he's up to. I don't play games, and I don't even pretend to know how to.

  "What exactly do you want from me, Mr. Stevenson?"

  He uses his strong legs to roll the chair he's sitting in completely around to my side of the table then sighs heavily before speaking again.

  "You're all business aren't you? It's killing you to call me by my first name no matter how many times I ask you to. And look, you have stress lines etched across your beautiful forehead from this conversation. This isn't supposed to be a tense transaction. This is supposed to be good news. I'm the client that's going to make you a star around here. Don't you want that?"

  Of course I do, but at what cost? And what's in it for him?

  "I have to say that I'm really confused as to why you've offered me this opportunity. We had a five minute exchange in a restaurant a couple weeks ago. You don't know me."

  "You remind me of someone I once met." He grins.

  "So that's the criteria you're using to make major business decisions?"

  "There's just something about you I trust. Is that better?"

  "Wasn't your family managing your money before? You don't trust them?"

  "You're starting to hurt my feelings, Miss White. If you don't want to manage my twenty-two million just say the word."

  "I don't want to manage your twenty-two million," I say defiantly.

  "Gah!"

  Saint slams his hand down on the table in what seems like part frustration and part amusement.

  "I like you, Miss White, so I'm going to give you one more chance to answer correctly."

  "What else do I need to say for you to understand? I'm not interested."

  "What is this prejudice you have against me or is it with professional athletes in general? What jock broke your heart in college or was it high school?"

  He's hitting a little too close to home, the arrogant baller.

  "I had no interest in jocks then or now," I lie just a little. "I prefer musicians. I specifically selected this company to work at because we represent really great musicians, and call me crazy, but I want to like the people I work for."

  "Ouch, that hurts," he chuckles. "You're cold blooded, Miss White, but I guess that's only going to work in my favor when you make the big endorsement deals for me."

  "What endorsement deals? I'm only managing the books. Paying your bills."

  "No, that's what you do for those reality show singers you represent. For me, you're going to go get some endorsement dollars. I'm big time, Miss White."

  "That's not what I do."

  "That's not what you're comfortable with. Two very different things."

  "Don't you have a sports agent, Mr. Stevenson?"

  "My uncle is my agent."

  "But you still want me to do double the work? Manage the books and find you endorsement dollars. That's your uncle's job. I'm assuming he hasn't done much on your behalf."

  "You should probably read over your contract, Miss White. Making me more money is definitely part of your job."

  I can see that my comment about his uncle seemed to rub Saint the wrong way. I kind of like that I have wiped the smirk off of his face, even though this is one of the most unprofessional exchanges I've had with a client ever in my life.

  "But as you well know, a sports agent typically handles your major deals."

  "My uncle has my best interest at heart, and he'll negotiate my league contract next year, but it's difficult to get endorsement dollars when your team isn't playing well."

  His heavy posture tells me all that I need to know. I've hit a sore spot, and I can't believe I'm thinking this, but I'm actually feeling a little bad for the millionaire.

  "I'm sorry about that, but I don't know if I can do any more for you than your uncle. Maybe your team will have a better season this year and things will turn around."

  "Have you watched us lately?"

  "To be honest, Mr. Stevenson, I don't watch football. So I don't know much about The Nighthawks."

  "Well that's going to have to change."

  "A lot of things would have to change for this to work."

  "So you're reconsidering?"

  "If I'm going to become your business manager, then we'd have to keep things perfectly professional between us. That means I need total honesty from you, and there will be no flirting."

  He suddenly fingers the hem of my skirt.

  "Is that what we're doing? Flirting?" he teases in a voice that's heavy and thick.

  I clear my throat.

  "And no discussing Jason unless it's in reference to something purely professional," I demand.

  "Professional," his deep voice echoes back.

  Damn he's distracting.

  That voice.

  That body.

  That face.

  And that smell. A subtle mixture of natural elements: water, earth and musk. Smells expensive and also very di
stinct. It's a scent that lets every woman know for miles around that a man is in the vicinity. A real man that chops wood, scares away burglars, and nails you hard in the shower.

  Oh dear God. I'm losing it.

  "Yes."

  "Like you and the short dude are strictly professional."

  What is his obsession with Jason?

  "Exactly like that," I respond exasperated.

  "You seem to have a lot of conditions in regards to me paying you and your company to take care of all of my money."

  "Let's not forget that I didn't ask for the job."

  "Ungrateful little–"

  "And it may seem like a lot of conditions to someone like you, but in the real world it's not."

  He scoots his chair even closer to the table and closer to me. The castors on the bottom of his chair squeaking as if they're not used to someone as heavy as him putting them to work.

  "Someone like me? Oh, so I don't live in the real world?"

  "I worded that poorly," I thinly apologize. "I meant in the average person's world."

  "You've got me there, Miss White, because I'm definitely far from fucking average."

  I barely hold back a snicker in reaction to that arrogant comment.

  "I have a condition of my own," he announces.

  I look up and firmly hold his eyes with my own in anticipation of whatever this is.

  "And what could that possibly be?"

  "If you're going to manage my money, and make me more money, then I want you to learn all about what I do for a living."

  "I think I know enough about football to manage your financial affairs."

  "Do you? Because you didn't know who I was, darlin', and that's a sure sign that you don't know shit about the game.

  "I am football."

  Chapter Nine

  SABRINA

  I've mopped my kitchen floor (if you can really call it mopping) with one of those hands-free wringing mops for the third time today. Every time I come back inside my tiny kitchen to check on the hot wings, which are warming in the oven, I see a new scuff mark that the legs of my counter stools have made across the floor, and so I mop yet again.

  Obviously it's my nerves getting the best of me. Jason is coming over to watch the game and to begin giving me my lessons on the basics of football. The fact that he will be my tutor and inside my house makes learning about it much more bearable.