by Wendy Wax
“I have dinners every night, and the time difference is always a pain. So, I’ll just text you in the mornings to organize a convenient time to speak, okay?”
My mini fantasy, and the hope it fueled, evaporates.
“Yes. Of course.” I smooth my face into a pleasant, unperturbed mask even as I wonder if he’s expecting some sort of thank-you for fitting me in to his day. “Whatever works best for you.”
The sarcasm flies right over his head as he walks through the door, eager to go forth and conquer. While I remain behind. Like a faithful hound you leave off at the kennel on your way out of town.
* * *
• • •
After Nate leaves, I drink a couple glasses of wine to smooth out the angry edges, then watch HGTV reruns until it’s late enough to get in bed without feeling completely pathetic. There I sit up watching The Tonight Show Starring Jimmy Fallon, then Late Night with Seth Meyers, mostly so that the house doesn’t feel so big and quiet and because I’m angry in a way that’s new and unfamiliar and that keeps me from falling into a real sleep.
Tired and grumpy, I down a first cup of coffee in the silent kitchen the next morning, then carry a second into the bathroom, where I shower in an effort to wake all the way up. Wiping steam off the mirror, I stare at my reflection and wish someone would hurry up and invent a way to apply makeup with your eyes closed. I actually google this, but so far no one appears to have attempted it. I am left to dry my hair and trowel on the makeup with my eyes wide open.
I putter around the house until it’s finally time to dress for my early lunch at Rumi’s Kitchen with Meena, but no matter how many times I check, the only message from Nate is a brief text announcing his safe arrival. There’s nothing from the kids, either, though I don’t necessarily expect daily communication. I have discovered that sometimes no news is the very best news of all. But this does not apply to husbands.
I’m the first to arrive at Rumi’s, which is named after a thirteenth-century Persian poet, and I’m shown to a table for two in the center of the rapidly filling restaurant. I’m sitting down when Meena, who has a tendency for tardiness, texts that she’s almost there.
Meena and Stan and Nate and I used to hang out together. We moved into the neighborhood around the same time and had children who were about the same age. Stan and Nate played golf together. Meena and I carpooled, made a fair doubles team in tennis, and often drove to book club together. The kids were in and out of our houses. Not long after we became empty nesters, Stan and Meena downsized to a two-thousand-square-foot condo in a Buckhead high-rise. We stayed put.
It turns out it’s hard to hide from each other and each other’s annoying habits in that kind of square footage. (Which is undoubtedly why even the least-expensive homes in the Atlanta suburbs are so massive.)
They separated just over a year ago. Stan and Nate still play golf. Meena and I still get together, and see each other at book club, but she’s become a little less available now that Stan is out of the picture. They’re not the subject of gossip they were when news of their split surfaced, but it’s generally assumed that although Stan was always a bit of a jerk and a cheater, Meena, now single in her fifties, must be miserable.
This is the first time we’ll be together since their divorce became final two and a half months ago. I’m braced for anger and/or unhappiness and prepared to offer sympathy. A bottle of pinot noir sits open and breathing on the table, and I’ve instructed the hostess that the bill is to come to me. But when Meena arrives, there is nothing pitiful about her.
“Wow! You . . . you look great!”
“Thanks.” Her smile takes up most of her face. “I feel great.”
I study her. She’s lost weight and her face is . . . it’s not just the smile.
Meena laughs. “You’re trying to figure out if I’ve had something done.”
“Maybe.”
Another laugh. “I may have had a little tightening around the eyes. A filler or two.”
She does not mention a boob job or tummy tuck, but the transformation is stunning. So is the smile on her face. “I wanted to look good for my online dating profile. I hired this adorable young girl to shoot photos for me.” She pulls out her phone, and within seconds I’m looking at absolutely gorgeous shots of Meena, both posed and candid.
“You have an online profile, and you’re . . . are you really dating?”
“I am.” She pours us both a glass of wine and lifts hers to mine. “And it’s so much more fun than I ever imagined.” She laughs this light, happy laugh. “I wanted to be prepared in case I’m ever naked in front of someone who didn’t know me before I had children.”
I cover my gasp as the waiter approaches to take our orders, then down my entire glass of pinot and start on a second as Meena chatters on about swiping right and swiping left. “It’s this incredible validation to see how many men find you interesting when your husband has barely looked at you in years.” She scrolls and taps her phone. “This is Frank. We’ve been out a few times. He’s a very successful software sales rep. His office isn’t too far from my condo.” She angles the screen toward me, and I see a smiling, clean-shaven man with even features, a squared chin with a comma of a cleft in it, and bright blue eyes. His dark hair is threaded with gray. He looks to be in his mid-sixties.
“He’s cute. And he has a really nice smile.” I feel an actual rush of what may be jealousy as we finish off the bottle. “Did things get settled all right financially?”
“Better than all right.” She leans forward. “I was completely freaked out when Stan first told me he wanted a divorce, but I had the greatest attorney. I absolutely loved her, and honestly, it was inspiring to see a woman kick butt like that.”
We finish our meals and contemplate the dessert menu. Meena’s the one who orders the dessert and a glass of champagne for each of us. When the bill comes, it’s delivered to her.
“Oh, no. I invited you for lunch. It’s definitely my treat.”
“No, it’s mine. A lot of my friends beat a hasty retreat when Stan and I broke up.” She toasts me with what remains of her glass of champagne. “Your friendship means the world to me.”
When we walk out to the valet to retrieve our cars, she’s still smiling. She seems confident, taller somehow, as if a weight has been lifted from her shoulders. We hug and promise to see each other at book club in January. She flashes me a wink and a last smile as her car arrives. I realize the weight she’s lost is named Stan.
Two
Jazmine
Favorite book: Becoming—because isn’t that what it’s all about?
I was ten years old when Oprah started her book club. My mother watched her show every day no matter what. Me, I just loved that Oprah! often had an exclamation point attached to her name and that she didn’t have to sing or be sexy to become a one-namer. Just smart and determined.
Determination is something I know something about. It’s why I’m walking through the double doors of the intentionally impressive offices of StarSports Advisors in Atlanta as its first and only female sports agent and not as the next Serena Williams I once hoped to be.
My eyes are on my phone as I nod to the receptionist at the front desk and head for my own glass-walled corner office. I slow as I approach my assistant’s desk and almost stumble when I see the stranger sitting at it.
“Good morning!” The voice is as bright and perky as the blonde who jumps up to hold out a small, slim hand. “I’m Erin. Erin Richmond. Louise had a family emergency, and Larry, er, Mr. Carpenter, asked me to fill in while she’s gone.”
My assistant, Louise Lloyd, is a formidable woman in her early sixties with a no-nonsense manner that no one, including the most arrogant athletes our firm represents, has ever attempted any nonsense with.
This tiny blonde with her bright-blue eyes and pale skin is the antithesis of Louise, who took me under her wing wh
en I joined the firm three years ago. On a good day, Louise would no doubt fuss over the girl at her desk just like she fusses over me. On a bad one, she’d eat her for lunch.
“I was told to let you know that Louise will call you when she can. She’s on her way to Memphis because her mother fell and fractured her hip.”
I know how close Louise is to her mother, and I understand why she’s on her way to her side. What I don’t know is where this girl came from or why she ended up behind Louise’s desk.
“Would you like me to send flowers to the hospital? Or food to the house? Or . . . something? Her mother’s address is right here. And I have the name of the hospital.”
“I’ll give her a call, but flowers to the hospital would be good.” I study the girl more closely—she can’t be more than very early twenties. She looks like a bit of fluff. But she also looks familiar.
“How do you know Larry Carpenter?” Larry founded the firm twenty years ago, when he signed a good part of the Atlanta Braves pitching rotation. He’s built the agency into a powerhouse, with sixty-five clients and three hundred million in contracts spread throughout the NFL, the NBA, and MLB.
“My, um, fiancé, Josh Stevens, is a client of his, and I interned here over the summer.”
“Ahhh.” Mystery solved. Stevens has a 101 mph fastball and a wipeout slider. The Braves took him in the first round two years ago and have just called him up from Triple-A.
“So, you have experience in sports management?”
“Just the internship. But I do have a degree in sports management from UGA, and I’ve been shadowing Marc Sutton’s assistant for the last three months.” She takes a breath. “And I know sports, especially baseball. My three brothers played through college. And I’ve known Josh since we were kids.” It’s clear she’s nervous, but she holds my gaze. “And I’m super organized. Kind of borderline OCD according to my brothers.” Her chin lifts. “When I heard they were looking for someone to work for you, I went to Larry and asked for the opportunity.”
I don’t point out that it’s me and not Erin who should have been given the choice, but I wouldn’t leave any young female in Marc’s office—or at his mercy—under any circumstances. The man is the very sort of troglodyte who made the #MeToo movement necessary and who has not learned a single thing from it.
“Okay, then.” I look down at my phone and pull up the day’s schedule. “I’m going to be out most of the day. Do you have any questions?”
Her fingers fly over the keyboard in front of her, her eyes on Louise’s monitor. “It shows Ron Collier for lunch at Le Bilboquet at one. Then you have a call with John Prentiss in Detroit at two forty-five. Which you can take while you’re in the car on your way to drinks with Tyrone Browning at the InterContinental.” Erin looks up. “There’s a note from Louise reminding you not to let him have more than two drinks or you’ll never get out of there.”
“Too true.” I learned that one the hard way when I was first wooing the three-hundred-pound defensive lineman who’d had one too many lemon drop martinis. When he face-planted in a plate of ravioli, I had to figure out how to extract him without attracting undue attention.
“And your father called a few minutes ago to say that he’d pick up your daughter from school—her name’s Maya, right?”
At my nod she continues reading from the screen. “He said he can drop her off at tennis, but he won’t be able to stay and bring her home.” The girl—it’s hard to think of her as a “young woman,” whatever PC demands—drops her eyes to the schedule. “But I see your appointments take you north on Peachtree so that you won’t have far to go to get to the Chastain Park Tennis Center.”
“Yes.” I skim back over the timing of the day’s appointments. “I should have plenty of time to return calls and get over to the courts for pickup.”
“At six thirty. On the dot this time.” Erin winces. “Sorry. That’s a direct quote from your father.”
“I thought I recognized the tone.” I sigh because when you’re giving face time to an athlete you’re eager to sign or trying to keep happy, it’s hard to jump up and leave if they aren’t ready to go. “All right.”
“Please don’t worry about leaving me here. I promise I’m capable of keeping things going until Louise gets back. People have underestimated me my whole life—just because I’m short and blond. I think it’s unfair to make decisions about people just because of how they look.”
I flush as the point hits home. How many times have I been discounted just because I’m female and black? “Noted. Can you get me Matt Fein at the Hawks office? The numbers are already programmed in to . . .”
She’s already scrolling through the on-screen directory before I finish. “I’m on it. Should I buzz you when I have him on the line?”
I nod and walk to my office. When I drop into my desk chair the GM is already on hold.
The morning flies by without any noticeable missteps from my temporary assistant. By the time I head out to my lunch appointment, I’m no longer totally shocked not to see Louise behind the desk outside my office. Still, I slow for one last coaching session. “Just text or forward anything that feels serious or that you’re not sure what to do with. I’ll check in when I can. If you need help here in the office, your best bet’s probably Cameron. He’s Jake Winslow’s assistant.” I point toward the third desk to Erin’s right. Then I make myself leave.
One long lunch and a conference call later, I’m being shown to a prime table at the Bourbon Bar inside the InterContinental. Tyrone is already halfway through a very pink drink decorated with a striped straw and turquoise paper umbrella, and garnished with fat red cherries. The glass disappears completely in his ham-size hand as he lifts and drains it. The drink might be on the girly side, but Tyrone’s eyes are hard and angry.
I slide into the chair across from him and raise a hand to summon the waiter. When he arrives, Tyrone orders another drink that I hope is only his second. I order a Pellegrino and appetizers to help soak up the alcohol he’s consuming.
“What’s going on?” I ask, although I’m pretty sure I don’t really want to know.
“I thought you told me that endorsement deal with Verizon was as good as signed.”
“It is. I just spoke to them last week.”
“Well, somebody’s lyin’. And I don’t think it’s Sports Illustrated.”
“What?” It’s all I can do not to shout the word as he holds up a shiny, new copy of the magazine that won’t be on shelves for another ten days. A wide receiver named Luther Hemmings takes up most of the cover. His arm is slung around his agent’s shoulders. Both men are grinning.
“Luther got the damn deal.” Tyrone and Luther played together in college and hit the NFL draft at the same time. Their relationship teeters between love and hate, with a side of jealousy thrown in. “Five million dollars for five years.” He gestures wildly, sending the pink liquid sloshing and the turquoise umbrella flying. “That’s twenty-five million dollars. I told Lucy we were set. I told my friends it was a done deal. You made me look like a fool or a liar, and I’m not sure which one I hate worse.”
I had begged him not to say anything until the contracts were signed. But that wasn’t really the point.
I look at the agent on the cover. Rich Hanson is one of the most successful sports agents in the business and a prick of the first order. “I’ll give Dan at Verizon a call and see what’s going on.”
“You can read what’s goin’ on right here, girl.” He tosses the magazine at me. “And it ain’t me.”
“Let’s just have a bite and talk this through.”
“Ain’t nothin’ to talk about. I signed with you cuz of the way you went after things for Mo Morgan when he didn’t get signed. I knew you got yourself a law degree. And I heard good things.” He drains the last of the pink concoction and slams the glass down on the table. “But I don’t have no time f
or people who don’t deliver.”
His accent gets increasingly and belligerently Southern. He has conveniently forgotten the position I helped him hold on to after an altercation with a teammate. The false paternity suit I saved him from and which he told me saved his marriage.
The waiter arrives with the appetizers and places them on the table. For the first time since I’ve met him, Tyrone ignores the food completely. He scrapes back his chair and gets to his feet, intentionally towering over me and the table.
I stand to face him. I’m five-eleven barefoot. Today’s kitten heels take me to six-two, and I still have to look up to meet his eyes. “I’ll find out what happened. And I’ll make it right.”
He snorts.
“Have I ever broken a promise to you?”
He loses some of the glare. “No. Least not that I know of. But this whole thing sucks.”
“It does. But I am going to find out how this happened. And then I’m going to get you an endorsement deal that will put this one to shame.”
A small, grim smile appears on his lips. “You do that. Or I’m gonna be exercising that escape clause from our contract faster than you can say, ‘Where’d he go?’”
I continue to stand as everyone in the place watches him storm out. Then, although I’m not a particularly heavy drinker, I order a Tito’s on the rocks and sip it while I read the article in the magazine Tyrone left behind.
These deals don’t happen overnight. Which means while I was negotiating in good faith, Rich Hanson somehow snuck in and claimed the prize for his wide receiver. This is not the first time Hanson has appropriated something that was meant for one of my clients. What I don’t know and clearly need to find out is whether I’m his only target or just one of many.
I’ve completely lost my appetite, but I sip the drink, hoping it will calm me down. When I feel able to speak without the heat of anger, I start making calls, beginning with the fringe of people who might be involved in Rich Hanson’s schemes and working my way toward the epicenter of the deception. I know from experience that it pays to be thorough. I didn’t make it to where I am now because I’m more talented than others but because I consistently outwork the competition.
