"Let's keep it real, old timer. This locker room doesn't give a shit about me or winning."
"It's your job to get them to care. About you. About the team. About winning. I can help you with defense, but it's up to you to get your offensive men on board."
I slam my locker shut in frustration. I'm not angry with Kimball, but it's just a frustrating situation.
"I feel just as fucked up as you, Gunslinger. I've been busting my ass in this league for thirteen years and am only holding out maybe one more season, because I want a championship. I want a Superbowl ring before I retire, Stevenson, and you're going to give it to me. You just have to step the fuck up."
Now I'm ready to curse Kimball out, but not because he's saying shit that I haven't already gone over in my head a thousand times, but because this is not the day or time I need to hear it. At this point he's kicking a man when he's down.
"We'll talk about it more later, chief," I answer dismissively.
Kimball shakes his head and then walks away towards the showers. He's been in the league for over thirteen seasons, and he's definitely to be respected, but I think that if he had said one more damn word, I was going to have to pummel him.
I take my family out for dinner at my mother's favorite steakhouse. She always gets a piece of prime rib and a crab cake and my dad and I always get the lamb chops. My father and I are alike in many ways, but in others, we're as wide apart as two people can be.
"You guys sucked, Uncle Saint!"
Little shit.
Not only are my parents here but so are my aunt, uncle and my brother's son Jake. My brother Michael and his family live in Pennsylvania, even though he plays for Seattle. They both decided that they'd rather raise their children on this side of the country near my parents. So his wife, Kennedy, occasionally flies to wherever he's playing to see him, especially because they are trying for kid number two. Their son Jake typically stays back with my parents when she's gone, because he has school.
My nephew is a good kid, but he's twelve, and twelve-year-old boys are pubescent, annoying and smelly. That's just a fact. And today is no different.
"How'd your dad do today?" I change the subject already knowing the outcome of my brother's game.
"They won," he replies proudly.
"They always win," I say.
"Yeah they do," he replies chuckling. "And you guys don't."
"Mike and those boys are going to the championship for sure," my father interjects. "There's no stopping them. They've got their division sewed up already."
My parents love me and they love my brother. There is no doubt about that. I know that parents repeatedly say that they don't have favorites when it comes to their children, but for some reason I think my father has a soft spot for Michael. He's much harder on me and always has been.
"Michael did have an awesome game today, but the season just started. I feel it in my gut that Saint is going to make things happen for his team this year too. It's such a toss up right now. No one team dominates in his conference," my mother says with a degree of confidence that I don't necessarily share.
My mother is just as much a football fanatic as the men in my family. She has always supported and encouraged mine and Michael's dreams to become professional football players. Yet unlike my dad and uncle, she always made sure that the two of us had as much of a healthy balance as she could create for us.
Making sure we went to all school dances, making sure we joined at least one other extracurricular club when we were in school (I did ski club), and making sure she carved out time for us to concentrate on our studies and some public service activities. Athletics has always been the number one priority for my father, but a well-rounded life is very important to my mother. If only they made more women like my mom.
"That's so true," my aunt adds while my uncle stands there quietly. His lack of a response speaks volumes. He's either disappointed in me or for me. I'm not really sure which, but it bugs me just the same.
"Stop filling the kid's head with fantasies. They still haven't surrounded him with good enough players yet. It's not going to happen this year. What he needs to be thinking about is what he's going to do with his free agency status next year. He needs to get out of New York."
"New York sucks!" Jake interjects.
"Jakie!" My mother scolds as if Jake is still five years old and doesn't know any better. What he really needs is a good smack upside his head.
"Ma, stop babying the brat."
Jake gives me the evil eye. I bend over and whisper something to him.
"You want to go snowboarding right?"
His eyes pop up and he rapidly nods yes.
"Then stop talking crap about my team. Got it?"
He nods again.
"Saint, what's all this your mother tells me about you meeting with a business management firm?"
I tell my mother everything, so there was no need to tell my father that I've met or worse actually signed on the dotted line with a business management firm. I knew she'd save me the trouble by telling him herself.
"Yeah, I took a meeting."
"You got a problem with the way I'm managing your money? Stevensons have never let outsiders handle our money."
"I'm a franchise quarterback with no endorsements, Dad."
"You've got Lucky Sports."
"Okay so let me rephrase that. Lucrative endorsements."
"Well that's an agent's job."
Funny how that works. His brother, my uncle is my agent.
"Exactly." I deadpan and look straight at my uncle.
"It's hard to get you the elite endorsements right now, Saint. I've explained that to you a million times," my uncle says defensively.
"I'm sorry son, but your uncle is right. You've got to win some more games before you get the kind of big deals you're looking for."
"If there's a chance that this management team can get me a good endorsement without a winning record being a requirement, then I want to try. It's worth signing to them for a simple twelve month commitment. If they don't get me anything good within that time then they probably won't be able to at all, and I'll leave."
"So are you telling me that you've signed already?" My father raises his voice.
"Ooh, Grandpop is going to kick your ass," Jake says without even looking up from the video game that he's playing on his phone.
Somebody please get me the fuck out of here. I need a distraction, so that I don't act on the strong desire I have to dump an entire steak dinner on top of my nephew's head. That's why I pay the check, say my good-byes, and call my adorable new business manager.
Chapter Eleven
SAINT
"Hello?"
Her voice is so sexy.
"What are you wearing?
"Again with that?"
"Please tell me it's one of those skirts that makes you look part librarian, part stripper, part Lois Lane, part video vixen."
"You have a serious mental problem."
"That's what the team psychologist told me when I was licking her–"
"Shut up right this minute."
I can't help but laugh out loud. I love getting under her skin. She is immune to my usual Stevenson charm, and I find it utterly intriguing and refreshing.
"And stop laughing like that. What do you want? The adults are working."
"Just checking in on my favorite financial manager."
"I'm your only financial manager."
"Did you watch the game?"
"Yep."
"Good girl. So did you learn anything?"
"I finally understand where the red zone is, and thanks to you, I know what interceptions and fumbles look like."
She's such a smartass.
"You should probably be a little nicer to your ticket out of loserville."
"I don't know where such a land exists."
"Is that right? Well, I did my homework too, Miss White. Your client roster consists of reality show wannabes, and let's face it, I'm prime
time. So yeah, I'm the one that's going to make you a star at Carson Financial and get you out of a cubicle and into a corner office."
She sighs heavily. No doubt tired of hearing the unfiltered truth.
"If you don't have any pressing business to discuss, I need to get back to my life, ball boy."
Why is she always trying to get rid of me?
"Do you talk to all of your clients this way?"
"Just the frustrating one."
“This call is about business. I think I'm going to buy a new car when I get back into town. Want to help me pick it out?"
That was so random. I don't need or want another car, but I'm not ready to hang up with her. I enjoy talking to her. Playing with her. Plus I'm waiting to see just how long it's going to take her to remember who I am. Is she going to force me to start dropping obvious hints?
"You already have a car."
"I want a nicer one."
"For what?"
"Because it's nicer."
"Are you ten years old?" she scoffs. "As your new business manager I would strongly advise against that sort of impulsive purchase. Cars depreciate right off the lot. It's not a sound investment. Leonardo DiCaprio drives a Prius. Just one."
"Does every purchase have to make complete fiscal and ecological sense when I'm a millionaire? And what the hell do I care about what some soft, baby-faced actor drives."
This woman is so serious. Way too serious and way too rigid for her own good. I'm going to have to save her from herself.
"Eww, who calls themselves that?"
"Calls themselves what?"
"A millionaire."
"Is it obnoxious to say when it's the truth?"
"Totally obnoxious. Especially from someone like you. I'd expect this sort of behavior from someone who doesn't know any better, but didn't you grow up with money?"
"We did okay."
"Oh, please. Let me ask you something, Mr. Stevenson–"
She says my name like it physically makes her ill. This conversation is definitely not headed in the right direction.
"Why did you hire Carson Financial? Why me? The complete truth. If that's even possible for you."
I'm not a hundred percent sure what I'm doing myself. I just know that there was something endearing about her when I met her three years ago. She was alone, drunk and gorgeous. Not to mention that she had zero clue who I was which was something I hadn't experienced in a while. Even back then a lot of people knew my face. So when she didn't, I liked it. I felt normal.
Then I see her again years later. Filled out in all the right places. Sexy as all hell. Funny even though she doesn't know it. And still no clue who I was. And I couldn't help myself. There's something about her that I'm totally drawn to. She's not like the cleat chasers that I'm used to fucking or the models that I use as arm candy. Filling a void in her life with my success is not her end game. She has her own life. Her own goals and dreams. And she could care less that I could help her get there faster. She wants to forge her own path. Who wouldn't be attracted to that all wrapped up in a mouth watering, curvy, package?
I can't say that I know exactly what I'm doing with this woman. This is totally out of character for me. Ever since Adrianna, all I've had are a variety of expendable women in and out of my life. Nothing serious. Nothing even past seven days. But Sabrina isn't that. And until I'm sure what's happening here, I decide to stretch the truth a bit and tell her what I think she needs to hear in order to continue working for me.
"I won't be a football player forever, and I don't want to be one of those broke players begging for work from the league in fifteen years. You asked me what I want from you. Well what I need is some additional income coming in. I need endorsements."
"I could live forever on the interest alone of twenty-two million dollars."
"Well I'm sure that you and I live very different lifestyles. Mine requires a certain amount of funding since I like to go out and live a little. I don't just work, work, work like some people I know."
"Some of us have to work harder than others to make a living," her voice rises. "Some of us will always have to work harder than others to get ahead in life. In my opinion, what you really need is someone to help you make smarter decisions about the money you already have coming in."
"Pretty sure that's the same thing that I just said."
"Not the same thing."
"Did you ever tell me what you were wearing?"
"Oh my God, you promised."
"Wait–what did I promise again?"
"That you would behave and act like an adult if I allowed you to basically strong arm me into working for you."
"I am on my best behavior, Miss White. Especially when I've been at war on the field all day with a bunch of men who want nothing else but to kill me. Especially when what I really want to do is fly to New York and lay my head in between somewhere soft, warm, wet and very much female."
No quick retort to that comment.
Good.
I'm hoping she's visualizing the scene I just set for her. Me laying my head right at the juncture where the inside of her thigh and hip meet. My mouth salivating at what's awaiting me there.
When it's soft and beautiful, and I already know that Sabrina's is, there's nothing more satisfying then eating a woman to climax. I have to stroke myself a couple times just imagining it. I find myself doing that a lot lately since I've hired Sabrina.
"You're exhausting," was her only comeback.
I grin to myself.
I'm making progress.
She's definitely warming up to me.
Chapter Twelve
SABRINA
A few changes have occurred in the office over the last few days. One of them being that without my input or consent, my cubicle was moved to a space closer to Jason and Samuel's offices. My guess is that Peter did it in an effort to give us more of a team feel since the three of us are essentially the new sports division of Carson Financial.
But I don't like it.
First of all, to the naked eye it looks like Jason and Samuel run the new sports division, and I'm just their executive assistant. That's because they are in two cushy offices, and I'm still sitting at a cubicle. To be fair they were already in those offices, but if we're a sports division team, with clients split evenly, shouldn't I have my own office too?
Secondly, the corner cubicle they've placed me in is by the far window of our floor. A very sunny window which causes an enormous amount of glare on my computer screen and makes my neck hot. The women who have small tropical plants on their desks like it over here, but not me.
Thirdly, I don't really need to have Jason a stone's throw away from my desk. He can see and hear damn near everything without any sort of fair warning. Like my embarrassing phone conversations with my mother. Seeing what I eat for lunch everyday. Or how about the moments when I simply need to adjust the panties out of the crack of my butt without an audience (which happens far more than you would think). I've got a wide ass.
Finally, I can't keep an eye on my nemesis a.k.a. Abby this far away from where she sits, and that's someone who needs to be watched at all times. If I'm not careful she'll sink her hooks into Spin, and I'll be stuck forever with an arrogant albeit wildly handsome football player. Speaking of the devil, I've got about twenty minutes to haul myself across town and meet his hotness at the car dealership.
Saint gives me a complete once over, and then checks his Apple watch as I arrive to the dealership on foot and out of breath. I took the train over and then speed-walked here as fast as I could.
"Five more minutes and you would have been late, Miss White."
There's something about the way Saint looks at me. The way he says my name. The way he licks the corner of his mouth when he watches me walk towards him or away from him. The way he watches my lips move when I talk. Especially when he frustrates me. Almost as if he likes it.
Almost as if it's foreplay.
Good thing I don't carry around any nonse
nsical ideas of having his babies like most of the groupies I've ever met do. I'm sure sports groupies are just like every other groupie I've ever met. Their sole mission in life is to meet, have sex, and procreate with whatever celebrity idiot they can find. And they find plenty. It amazes me just how irresponsible a lot of these wealthy men are.
"If you're going to force me to call you Saint, then I think I can tolerate you calling me by my first name."
"Nah, I think I'm going to stick with Miss White. It fits you. Respectful, prim, proper, and it fulfills all of my naughty teacher fantasies."
"I'm not your teacher, psycho. We're the same age."
"Can't your uptight ass take a compliment?"
"Funny how that didn't even sound remotely like a compliment."
"Oh, but it certainly is, and I'm being completely professional like you requested."
"I guess in a way you are behaving. I'm sure you're used to saying whatever to your disrespectful, slutty, anything goes type of women."
"That's harsh of you to say, Miss White. I don't slut shame," he chuckles.
"I bet you don't." I respond as a text comes through my phone.
And this is yet another thing that's changed over the last few days. Jason keeping tabs on me at work via text, and I'm not exactly sure of what to make of it. I know he's my mentor, but he's not my boss, and he's been insinuating himself into my business lately as if he is.
Jason: Hey, where are you?
Me: With a client.
Jason: What client?
Me: Saint Stevenson
Jason: Was there a meeting booked on the schedule with him?
In our office we use a shared online calendar that keeps everyone aware of what client meetings we have. We do this to keep things transparent, and so that management can see that we're checking in periodically on our clients.
Me: No, we just have a last minute appointment with a car dealer. Not really worth putting on the calendar.
Jason: Oh ok. The kid wants a new toy, huh? Lol.
While I know their first meeting wasn't the best, there's something about Jason's condescending comment that rubs me the wrong way. I guess I'm a little overprotective of my clients regardless of who they are. I feel like I can talk about Saint in a disparaging way all day if I want, but I'd rather nobody else did. I'm funny like that.
Saint: A Football Romance (The Nighthawk Series Book 1) Page 8
