by K. Bromberg
I’m not a celebrity or a star athlete, and I’m definitely not a marketing guru. Getting fans to engage with the sport like they do, say American football, has been an ongoing task since the league started, and I’m not exactly sure how I’m qualified to be the one to do just that.
“I have my reasons,” I say with a definitiveness I don’t feel.
“Huh.” His eyes hold mine and that mocking smile comes back. “They must want you bad considering Cannon told me they were holding the position open for you should you change your mind.”
They are? That’s news to me.
“What can I say? When you’re good, you’re good.” I shrug arrogantly.
“You’re holding out on me, Kincade. What exact skill set do you have that I can’t give him, huh? It must be something for him to hold open a position for you and only you.”
I roll my eyes at the innuendo and its implications because in typical Finn Sanderson fashion, he wants what he can’t have and hates everything about it. So much so that he’ll diminish me so he can feel better about himself and his shortcomings.
“Ask him yourself if you’re so curious.”
“Something new and different seems so exciting, though.”
“I’ve got enough excitement,” I say even though his words tug at me. “And am more than busy with my own workload.”
“Right, I forgot.” He winks at me. “You and your hustle. Dare I ask who you’re hustling after right now?”
“Wouldn’t you like to know.” This time I let my laugh float freely and notice heads turn our way without them hiding it. “Why? Are you in need of some clients? Has your charm run out and now you need to steal from my playbook?”
“Steal?” He laughs. “I do believe that’s from the Kincade playbook. The name Hunter Maddox ring a bell?”
“Considering he’s engaged to my sister, I don’t think you can blame the man for wanting to be represented by our agency . . . since he’s soon to be family and all.”
“So is that the KSM master plan? Have the four of you reel men in with love then sign them to the agency? Steal them away from another agent?”
Prick.
I take a step closer to him and lower my voice. “First, if their agent was doing his job properly, they wouldn’t go looking. Second, KSM is a sports agency, not a prostitution ring. Third, the fact that you even said any of this tells me you’re worried about us. Good. You should be. Clients aren’t just paychecks, Finn. And from what I hear these days, that’s all you think they are. No wonder you’re losing athletes left and right,” I say a little louder than necessary.
“You’re projecting again.” He gives a shake of his head but I can tell I wormed my way under his skin. “KSM is the one scrambling. I’m the one sitting back and enjoying life.”
“Keep thinking that.” I glance over his shoulder into the crowd and lie. “You’re the one who played dirty first, stealing our clients by dangling imaginary carrots in front of them that magically disappeared the minute they signed with you.”
“Whatever works, right?”
Smug bastard.
“We’ve made it our mission to get our clients back and then some. Hunter was the first of many to make the switch to KSM from Sanderson Sports.”
“Are you telling me I should be scared of four women and their aging father?”
It’s my turn to chuckle loud and mocking. “Underestimate us. I dare you. While there’s room for both of our agencies in this world, I’d love nothing more than to have your clients see you for who you really are.”
“What? Incredible?”
“Hubris has been the downfall of every empire, Finn. I’m going to enjoy watching yours crumble. Now if you’ll excuse me, I see someone I need to speak to.”
“I was expecting more from you than running and tucking your tail between your legs, but”—he shrugs as I walk past him—“isn’t that par for the course when it comes to you?”
“Excuse me?” What in the hell is he talking about?
“You always were jealous, you know.”
“Of what?” I ask.
“That I picked Chase over you.” His smile is lightning quick, and even though I want to throttle him for being such an ass, the comment is just so typically Finn Sanderson that I can’t help but shake my head and sigh. “But then again, it seems you miss a lot of things. It’s been real, Kincade.”
And there’s something in the dismissive way he says it and the unyielding stare that again, makes me feel like I’m not understanding an underlying meaning.
Shrugging it off, I tell myself that’s his plan, and make my way to the ladies’ room, needing a break from Finn and everything that comes with him—insecurity, anger, frustration, dislike.
The good thing about a sports management conference? There’s rarely a line in the women’s bathroom since we’re a minority in the field.
I check my makeup and hair in the mirror just to waste time. Five days is five too many to listen to arrogant, male sports agents brag with puffed chests to other overinflated chests about things that don’t really matter.
Did I acquire new knowledge from the conference? Nothing more than I usually do, but it did reaffirm my resolve never to date another sports agent—their egos are worse than a professional athlete’s.
It’s when I put the cap back on my lipstick that I realize I left my binder on the table when I was doing my banter-y thing with Finn.
Shit. Shit. Shit.
The binder isn’t the big deal. It’s the scrap of paper on the inside with names of five of Las Vegas’ most prominent professional athletes and the times I’m meeting with them over the coming days that’s the big deal.
And big deal as in I’m going to try and court them away from their current representation and over to KSM.
Unethical? Possibly.
Something that is done every damn day in this business? Definitely.
But the last thing I need is another agent discovering my binder, opening it to see whose it is, and then finding my name written in big, black sharpie on the inside pocket, right below where that scrap of paper is stuffed.
Without trying to look like a worried woman on a mission, I hurriedly head back into the crowded room.
When I spot my binder right where I left it on the table, I slow my stride and acknowledge a few colleagues with smiles as I pass them on my way to get it.
With my binder now in hand and too many days under my belt swimming in these testosterone-laden conferences, I decide it’s the perfect moment to make my stealthy exit. The quiet of my hotel room, the room service menu, and the need to kick off these heels sound like the perfect way to spend the rest of my evening.
Sure, I love the hustle and networking of these conferences, but I’m exhausted.
As if the universe is against me and doesn’t think gorging myself on room service is a good idea, I get stuck behind a group of ten or so conference attendees crowding the path to the exit. They’re watching something on one of their phones and so my “Excuse me’s” fall on deaf ears.
Just when I’m about to find my way around the men, I’m stopped in my tracks.
“She didn’t know shit about Chicago. Not a goddamn thing. Do you think Papa Kincade realizes she’s the weak link of their organization and isn’t letting her go?” That voice and then that chuckle following the words, belong to the prick himself, Finn. “Seems to me like he’s coddling her and her precious ego. Being pretty only gets you so far.”
I’m frozen in shock, indecision, hurt—you name it—as laughter rings out around him. Do I stay where I am, hidden by the crowd before me, or let my presence be known?
And what in the hell is going on in Chicago?
“Rumor is all the Kincades coddle her. Ever notice how when they’re going after an athlete who might be tough to recruit and sign, they send one of the other three sisters?” another male voice says followed by a whistle.
“They can send Lennox my way any day to negotiate,” a th
ird man says. “Like we can negotiate how she should leave those heels of hers on when she takes everything else off.”
“I’ve heard there’s plenty of that. Hell, maybe I should pretend to be an athlete, because that’s the lengths she’ll go to convince someone to sign with her,” the whistler says.
My stomach churns and I can all but see the elbow nudging in that boys will be boys manner. I’m dumbfounded by the comment but know exactly where it comes from. It’s a misrepresentation of the truth, but how stupid was I to think the perception would be any different?
“You talking about Bradly?” guy number two asks.
“Of course, I am,” the whistler says. “Last thing I need to be reminded of is how I lost one of my top clients because I don’t have a pussy.”
My jaw falls lax and I swear I blink rapidly as if either of the two actions will make me unhear what I just heard.
Is that what the rumor is? That I’m sleeping with clients to entice them away from their current agent?
Anger inflames and emboldens my disbelief. I knew there were rumors—hell, I’m a female agent dealing with male athletes, so I expect rumors—but not this.
Call me naïve, but holy shit.
I’m jostled from behind and brought back from my shock to listen again.
“So is that what happened with Chicago? The organizers realized they were getting all boobs and no brains and rescinded the offer?” the second man asks.
“Don’t be an asshole,” another man says, but the chuckle he emits after it sounds more like encouragement than anything.
“Or was she too stupid to realize this might be a good thing for her?” the second man continues.
“Who knows,” Finn answers. “She was on the list and then the next thing I know she was off it. Best guess? The Kincades fear she’ll embarrass the family name and agency.”
“Once a beauty queen, always a beauty queen,” another guy says.
Another ring of laughter sounds off as if the prick is demonstrating a pageant wave. I’m gripping the binder so hard I’m not sure how it hasn’t broken.
“Who’s stupider? Chicago for asking her to speak, the MLS for thinking she can bring value to their league, or her for not taking the job when it might give her some credibility?”
“Credibility?” another voice says. “As in how short her skirt and how big her bra size, spank bank, type of credibility?”
I don’t have time to process the words or the insults or anything other than the fact that I’m hurt beyond belief. Sure, it’s Finn and he’s a prick but we have a strained history given he dated my sister, Chase, for some time. And being that we are on the same playing field in competing for clients, we’re allowed to hate each other. But I don’t have history with these other guys—fellow colleagues—and now he’s poisoned their opinions of me.
Or maybe they already had those opinions.
Maybe everyone in here does.
And just as that thought hits me, the crowd parts, and Finn and his merry gang of pricks come into view on the other side of them.
My hands may be trembling and tears may be burning in my throat, but I lift my chin, square my shoulders, and stalk right over to them.
I have one rule I’ve learned in my years negotiating with athletes: when it comes to men, never let them know they’ve gotten to you. The minute they do, you’re immediately at a disadvantage.
And there’s nothing I hate more than that.
“Gentlemen,” I say in the sweetest voice I can muster. At least one of them has the courtesy to choke on the sip of beer he just took when he sees me. “I couldn’t help but overhear your scintillating conversation concerning my merits—or lack thereof. I get Finn is insecure over how my agency is slowly kicking his ass in the high-profile client department and feels the need to denigrate me because of it, but the rest of you”—I take my time and meet the pairs of eyes who are ballsy enough to find mine—“should be ashamed of yourselves for talking shit about a woman the way you just did. But then again, I guess us bimbo beauty queens should be used to it.” I nudge the man to my left like I’m one of the guys, and he stiffens in discomfort. “Am I right?”
“That’s not what we were—”
“Yes, it was.” I smile and wave a hand at them as if it’s no big deal. “I’m sure your wives and daughters are thrilled to have such forward-thinking husbands and fathers.” I smile again to let my sarcasm sink in. “And for the record, Finn. The balcony in New York? Your fumbling hands?” I look to one of the men and wink. “It’s more than clear why my sister threw him to the curb.”
I reach out, take Finn’s glass of whiskey from his hand, and take a sip without asking. I give a shake of my head as the liquid burns on the way down. These jerks do not deserve any more time from me. They’re morons. And their opinions will never go beyond the maturity of a thirteen-year-old.
“For the record, I don’t need to use sex to lure clients. One man’s incompetency is another person’s gain.”
“But after you sign them as a client? That’s when you sleep with them?” Jason asks, his smug smile widening. “I mean since we’re setting the record straight and all.”
“Look at you trying to be Finn’s wingman.” I shake my head and tsk. “How cute. Don’t ever expect him to return the favor, though. He loves himself too much to be a wingman.” I look around the circle. “Well then, you gentlemen enjoy the rest of your night. I’m going to head up to my room and practice my pageant wave and counting to ten.” I nod and then stride out of the room with my head held high, silently fist-pumping in a cheer for myself.
God, yes, it feels good to tell them to politely fuck off, but it doesn’t take away the sting of their words and the questions they evoke within me.
More than the crass shit these assholes have said is the unsettling feeling that this is how everyone else in this industry sees me. Is that what they think of me? As the window dressing for Kincade Sports Management? The pretty sister with more boobs and less brains who’s called in to woo the simple-minded male athletes over but not the tough, demanding ones?
God only knows what they probably say about the tough-minded ones I have won over. Or rather . . . how I won them over.
Gross.
My sisters are all gorgeous in their own right, but just because I participated in beauty pageants as a means for scholarship money for college—and the one last connection I had with my mother after she died—doesn’t mean I’m not a graduate of one of the best sports management programs in the country.
But the minute the elevator doors close and the adrenaline of the moment is gone, other thoughts start tumbling out of control in my mind.
Little things here and there from the past few months. Texts from my sisters where they’ll take a potential new client because I’m too busy, despite my insistence that I’m not. The sudden shift in schedules our father sometimes makes that doesn’t sit right with me.
Chicago.
What the hell is going on in Chicago?
They’re wrong.
Those guys have to be wrong.
But with each step I take, tears threaten, and my feet feel heavier.
My heart even more so.
Benign decisions about who takes on what client or engagement at the office with my sisters and father in regards to clients or negotiations, begin to cloud my thoughts.
The discussion over the MLS offer replays, and right behind it is my father’s adamant instruction that there was more than meets the eye to the offer and that I shouldn’t take it.
What was the real story behind it?
Before I even have my heels kicked off and the door of my hotel room shut behind me, I’m calling my little sister.
“Aren’t you supposed to be in some boring dinner surrounded by equally boring men where the one who is actually hot is so obsessed with himself that he’s no longer good-looking?” Chase asks instead of answering with a hello. But when fury eats at the emotion and confusion I suddenly feel, I st
ruggle to get any words out. “Lenn? You okay?” Her voice is softer this time, more loaded with concern as she uses our family nickname for me.
“What’s going on in Chicago?” I demand.
“Chicago?” she stutters, and it only makes me more curious, because Chase doesn’t stutter. She’s always surefooted and knows what to say.
“Yes. Chicago. There were some guys here talking about it and how I was invited there for something, but turned it down.”
“It’s not a big deal. It was nothing.”
“Chase.” Her name is a warning.
“It’s a small conference happening next month. They asked one of us to speak at it about being a female sports agent in a male-dominated industry and—”
“They asked for one of us or they asked for me specifically?”
Her silence speaks volumes, and the tears that burned earlier now well in my eyes.
“It’s not what you think,” she says. “It’s nothing to worry that pretty, little head of yours over.”
I grit my teeth at the words and at a phrase I wouldn’t have thought twice about coming from my sister yesterday but hear complete condescension today.
Was Finn right? Am I being pushed aside because my dad and sisters don’t think I can hack it? Am I just Sports Agent Barbie to be brought out and played with when no one’s really being serious?
“We talked, and Dad made a snap decision to send Brexton to it. He thought she was better suited to speak on—”
“On what? Being a female in this industry who understands what sexism feels like?” I shake my head in disbelief even though she can’t see it. “Any one of us could have stepped up and spoken with content and then some to spare.”
“And Dad sent Brex.”
“So basically, none of you have confidence that I can represent KSM and what we do properly?”
“That’s not what I said.”
“You don’t have to say it for me to know you mean it. So what else, are you on the Lennox isn’t qualified bandwagon now? Or is it the she’s unethical and sleeps with clients one?”
“What?”
“Oh, I know,” I say, now on an emotional roll. “It’s the only thing that Lennox is good for is to stand there and look pretty group.”
