I have very little idea how Rose feels about me as a person. She’s the type of woman who treated her own husband with the same restrained formality that she would treat the maître d’ of a high end restaurant. I’ve only been interim director of the foundation for six months, and I live in perpetual fear that one day she’ll decide I’m not measuring up to her standards and I’ll lose the job that I’ve worked for years to get.
So my relief upon arriving late at work and not finding a message from her demanding that I call her is palpable. Rose could call me on my cell phone any time, of course, but usually she prefers to ring me on my office line, and it’s hard not to think it’s because she likes to keep tabs on when I am and am not in the office.
My assistant, Cara, is on the phone when I get in — her cell phone, mind you. Cara’s been working for me for about two months, and even though her résumé looked pretty solid when I hired her, I’m not sure she’s going to work out.
At that moment, her desk phone rings, and she continues chatting as though nothing’s happening. I pantomime her hanging up and she flicks her eyes at me and holds up a hand. Exasperated, I pick up the phone and take the call myself, which ends up being for me, anyway. When I’m done with the conversation, Cara is still on her cell, and by this time I’ve realized she’s talking to her boyfriend, Dylan. Crossing my arms, I lean against her desk and stare at her until she gets the hint.
“I gotta go, Dylan,” she says. “I’ll call you later.”
“At the risk of sounding obvious,” I tell her when she’s hung up, “I don’t pay you to talk to your boyfriend all day. I pay you, among other things, to answer the phone.”
Cara shrugs her shoulders and just avoids rolling her eyes at me. “The call will go to voicemail if I don’t pick up,” she explains patiently, as if I’m a child.
“If I wanted the calls to go straight to voicemail, then why did I hire you, Cara?” I mutter crossly, with the sinking feeling that I’m fighting a losing battle.
“It that one of those questions where you ask it but you don’t really want an answer?” she asks.
Oh. My God. “Honestly, Cara, I’m not sure if I want to hear your answer or not,” I reply, shaking my head. “Just please, answer the damn phone, will you?”
Her eyes widen. “God, okay,” she says. “You don’t have to swear at me.”
Sighing, I open the door to my office and close it behind me. I’m really going to have to figure out what to do with Cara, I tell myself, but right now, I don’t want to think about it. Instead, I bury myself in foundation business, going over the quarterly report that I’m preparing for the board of directors’ meeting next week. At lunchtime, I have Cara call out for sandwich delivery and eat at my desk. The phone rings several times after lunch, and each time Cara picks it up before the third ring, so I count that as progress.
It’s mid-afternoon, and I’m just finishing up with the report when Cara buzzes me.
“It’s Rose Fowler here to see you,” she says.
Here? A little spike of apprehension shoots through me. Rose, for all her micromanaging, doesn’t usually bother to actually come into the office unless something’s wrong. I steel myself for a chewing out, wondering what I’ve done.
Seconds later, the door opens and Rose comes breezing through like a benevolent hurricane. As always, she is dressed impeccably, in an ice-blue classic skirt suit that matches her eyes and is perfectly tailored to her carefully-maintained figure. Her silvery hair is cut in a chic but severe-looking bob, with not a strand out of place.
“Marinda, how lovely to see you,” she drones as I rise. “Don’t bother getting up. I was just in the neighborhood, having lunch at Amuse with my future daughter-in-law Erica.”
I suppress a wave of sympathy for Erica as I try to imagine what it would be like to have Rose as a mother-in-law.
“It’s always a pleasure, Rose,” I say, easing back into my chair as she perches across from me. “Are you here just to check in… I mean, visit?”
“Well, for one, I wanted to show you the pair of earrings I’m donating for the charity auction next month.” She opens her Hermès purse and pulls out a small box, pushing it across the desk. I pick it up and open it. Inside is a gorgeous pair of emerald and diamond drop earrings that probably cost more than my annual salary. I swallow and push the box back toward her with a smile. “Very impressive. I’m sure they’ll bring a wonderful price for the foundation.”
“They ought to,” she says dryly. “They were a present from my late husband. An apology present.” Her mouth sets, but she doesn’t say more.
“I’m not sure we can keep these safe in the offices,” I falter, looking around the room. We don’t really have anyplace secure enough.”
“Of course not,” she scoffs. “I’ll keep them with me until the night of the auction.” She looks almost offended at the idea that her precious earrings would have to spend even one night in such a mundane setting.
Rose peppers me with questions about the arrangements for the charity auction, and I answer them all, even though I’m supposed to do exactly this at next week’s board meeting. In a way, it’s a relief, to have something concrete to talk about. For a woman whose entire life revolves around socializing, I find Rose incredibly hard to chitchat with. Finally, when I’ve answered everything to her satisfaction, she changes the subject, and I find out the real reason she’s stopped by to see me.
“Marinda. I have a project for you. A rather unusual one.”
One thing I’ve learned about Rose is that you don’t question anything she wants you to do — that is, if you want to keep your job. “Of course,” I say immediately. “What is it?”
“I’ve got a new PR and fundraising idea for us,” she beams. “It’s to help out a friend, but I think it will also end up being very advantageous to the foundation.”
“Great.” I make sure my voice is properly enthusiastic. “What’s the idea?”
“It’s a high-profile spokesperson. A football player, for the Springville Rockets. He needs a bit of an image makeover, frankly.” Her mouth morphs into a slightly disdainful frown. “I want to make him the public face of the Give A Wish Foundation. And I want you to make sure he doesn’t screw this up.”
4
Jake
Things get a little out of hand after the hot brunette leaves the bar.
Around the time I’ve lost track of how many tequila shots I’ve done, Chad Evanson, our running back, stands up and announces in a loud voice that Centro is lame as shit and we need to move the party to his houseboat. Zach and Natasha beg off, and I almost do, too, but I’m a little out of sorts after my encounter with the brunette and don’t really feel like heading home yet. So, the five of us pile into a waiting limousine with a trail of football groupies and head to the marina where Chad keeps his boat.
Next thing I know, Chad’s calling some of the other guys on the team, who show up with even more women in tow, and pretty soon there’s a full-blown party in force on his boat at one a.m. on a Wednesday night. There’s people diving off the boat in their underwear, guys basically screwing women in full view of any passers-by, and Chad and a couple of the other guys are coked out of their minds.
Shit’s going south fast, and I’m drunk enough to think it’s mostly funny, even though somewhere deep in the back of my brain alarm bells are starting to sound. I’ve been in trouble plenty with the team’s owner and manager, and this is exactly the kind of shit I should be trying to avoid, especially in the off season, where any negative press I get won’t be offset by the stories of me kicking ass on the field. But like a dipshit, I ignore the alarm bells and keep partying.
Until a group of guys comes down the dock with flashlights and starts yelling at us to shut the party down.
Pretty soon, I’m down there yelling right back at them, telling them to go to hell, that it’s a free country, shit like that. A tiny part of my lizard brain knows I’m drunk, too drunk to be making good decisions, but
I don’t care, it feels good to brawl for some reason and I’m not about to back down against these assholes, I don’t give a fuck. Then one of the little shits takes a swing at me with his flashlight and I go off. I grab it from him and throw it in the water, then throw a punch him that barely connects because my balance is off, but it’s enough. The guy goes down, and out of the corner of my eye, I see the flash of a cell phone as someone starts filming.
Somehow I make it home, and crawl into bed, where I sleep like the dead until I’m awakened the next morning by my phone blowing up with texts and phone calls. Groaning, I haul myself up into a sitting position, trying to ignore the pounding in my head. I flip through the texts without reading them, then glance at the voicemails. Six of them are from the team manager. Six.
Fuck. I can’t deal with this yet. I need to get some food in me and think. I get out of bed wander to the bathroom to take a leak, then pull on a pair of pajama bottoms and head to the kitchen. There’s not much in the fridge, but I scramble some eggs and put some bread in the toaster, wishing I had about a gallon of orange juice to drink.
I eat slumped over the center island, trying to calculate how long I can go before I return the manager’s calls. But before I’ve even finished my breakfast, there’s a loud pounding at the front door. I swear and keep eating, hoping whoever the hell it is will take the hint and go the fuck away. No such luck, though. The pounding stops for a few seconds, then starts up again even louder.
I walk over and peer through the keyhole. Sure enough, there’s Jesse, the team manager’s assistant.
I swear again and open the door. Jesse is stone-faced. Behind him, parked all down the street, are a bunch of TV trucks.
“Get dressed, Ryland,” Jesse says dryly. “You got an appointment.”
“God damn it, Jake! What the fuck is wrong with you?” Bull Molinari, manager of the Rockets, explodes. He throws down the morning paper in front of me. A picture of me taking a swing at the asshole from last night is on the front page, above the seam. “Rockets QB in Boat Party Accused of Assault,” reads the title.
Perfect. Just fucking perfect.
“I suppose it doesn’t matter to you that I wasn’t the only one at that party?” I ask.
“No, it fucking does not!” roars Bull, coming closer and sticking a stubby finger in my face. “You know why it doesn’t? Because you were the only fucker dumb enough to get your photo taken beating up a fan!”
“How do you know the guy’s a fan?” I protest.
“Everyone in this city’s a fan, you numbnuts!” he yells. “Christ on a crutch, you are a goddamn PR nightmare, do you know that?”
Bull’s standing so close to me that I can see sweat beginning to form in between the hairs of his sparsely-covered cranium. “Come on, man,” I say. “It’ll blow over. I’ll just lay low for a week or two, and…”
“No it goddamn will not!” shouts Bull, looking redder in the face all the time. “Ever since we signed you, it’s one fucking Jake Ryland story after another in the local papers. This round of your bullshit comes at the worst possible time, do you know that? Do you not have any idea what a scandal involving the Rockets’ quarterback could do to turn public opinion away from funding a new stadium?”
Aha. That’s why Bull is looking like he’s gonna stroke out any second. The stadium project.
For a little over a year now, the owner of the Rockets, Knute Amundson, has been floating the idea that the team needs a new pro football stadium in order to be competitive. And he has a point. Our current stadium, affectionately known as The Rocket Ship, was built in the seventies. Its weird architecture does strangely resemble a rocket, too, but I don’t know if that’s a coincidence. The Rocket Ship has had a bunch of problems lately, including some leaks in the roof and persistent plumbing problems. It also doesn’t have the kind of high-class suites that the corporate bigwigs want, to impress their friends and colleagues. By the standards of other stadiums in the league, it’s definitely nearing the end of its lifespan.
The problem is, old Knute wants the city and the state to chip in about sixty percent of the funding for a new stadium, an idea that a lot of taxpayers are pretty pissed off about. And when the taxpayers are pissed off, it’s kind of hard to get the city council, the state legislature, and the governor on board. I’m guessing Bull and Coach Porter are clenching pretty hard thinking what happened last night will piss Knute off, so Bull drew the short stick to ride my ass and get me back in line.
“Hey man, I’m sorry, okay?” I say, spreading my hands wide. “Shit got out of hand, and unfortunately, I got caught out. But on the bright side, it’s a damn good thing they didn’t get shots of some of the other shit that was going on last night. This is nothing compared to…”
“Look, you asshole,” Bull seethes. “You are one step away from being off the team.”
I laugh. “Oh, come on. Knute wouldn’t bump me. I’m the best quarterback in the league.”
“You don’t get it, do you?” He shakes his head. “Coach Porter was on the phone with Amundson this morning, trying to talk him down. You are the fucking quarterback of this team. If you can’t lead by example, you’re not worthy of your position. You’ve got one more chance, fucker. You blow it, I can swear to you, your career as a Rocket is over.”
Jesus, why is everyone losing their shit over this one incident? I’ve done way worse than this — way worse — and no one’s ever threatened to axe me before.
“Okay, okay. I’m sorry,” I say. “Won’t happen again.” Better to just play along, show them I’m sorry, and just be a little more careful next time.
Bull stares me in the eye for a long moment with nostrils flaring slightly, reminding me of why he has his nickname. Then with a snort of disgust, he turns to his desk and picks up a sheet of paper, which he thrusts at me. “Here.”
“What’s this?” I say, looking down at it.
“It’s your new PR campaign,” he mutters. “As of tomorrow, you’re gonna be spending the rest of your off season volunteering your time and your photogenic mug for the Give A Wish Foundation.”
5
Marinda
“A football player?” I wrinkle my nose.
“Yes,” Rose replies. “You see, the owner of the Springville Rockets, Knute Amundson, is a good friend of mine. And his wife, too, of course,” she sniffs. “He contacted me this morning after a bit of a dustup last night at the Bryant Lake Marina. It seems that a few members of the team were having a party on a houseboat owned by one of them. The quarterback, Jake Ryland, apparently tried to hit someone who was filming their carousing. There are pictures in this morning’s paper, if you’re interested.”
I frown. “That sounds like a PR nightmare. Are you sure you want someone like that associated with the foundation?”
“Knute beseeched me to help rehabilitate this Jake person’s image. It seems he feels there’s a new stadium deal riding on it.” She waves her hand, looking bored. “Or something like that. At any rate, he feels that bringing the quarterback on as a sort of public face for Give A Wish could be mutually beneficial. Having him visit our sick children in hospital will be an excellent photo op for him. He gets a softer, more family-oriented version of his image, Knute gets his charm offensive for the stadium, and we get a local celebrity with the ability to draw attention to our foundation — not to mention money from new donors.”
“Okay,” I’m pretty dubious that this is a good idea, but I know better than to try to talk her out of it. “So, where do I come in?”
“You shall be his handler,” Rose says decisively. “Apparently, the team’s publicist feels that Jake is more than a full-time job on his own. Especially in the off season, when he has more time on his hands to get in trouble. As the director of Give A Wish, you’ll be in charge of keeping him busy and remaking his image as a philanthropist who is passionate about our cause. You’ll find opportunities for him to appear on our behalf, you’ll schedule photo opportunities while he visits the chi
ldren, and most importantly, you’ll make sure that he doesn’t besmirch our image — or the image of the Rockets.”
I don’t say anything for a moment. Of course I can’t say no to this. No one ever says no to Rose Fowler. But as I try to imagine adding all these extra responsibilities on top of a job that’s already more than full-time, I have to push down a rising wave of panic. I have no idea how I’ll ever do it all. And as interim director, I hate the idea of telling Rose that I’ll need to hire more staff to take on part of my duties while I’m babysitting the quarterback. I know everything I do that fails to measure up to Rose’s expectations will give her an excuse to convince the board I’m not up to the job and remove me from the position.
So, as I wonder what the hell I’m about to get myself into, I accept.
“Excellent,” she says briskly, though I know she knows it was never a question. “Someone from the team will be contacting you and arranging for the two of you to meet very soon. Now,” she continues, rising from her seat. “I’m off to the hairdresser’s. Keep me posted, will you? I’ll expect a full report of the schedule you have planned for Mr. Ryland at next week’s board meeting.”
I accompany her to the door, and as I watch her stride purposefully down the hall and out of the foundation offices, my heart sinks. There goes my social life for the next few months, I think gloomily.
Trudging back to my desk, I sit down with a heavy sigh, then pull my laptop toward me and navigate to the website of the city newspaper. I type in “Jake Ryland” to see who I’m soon going to be spending all my time with.
PLAYERS: The Complete Series (Springville Rockets (Sports Romance Books 1-3) Page 3
