by K. Bromberg
“All set . . .” But my words fall on deaf ears as I take in the woman, Scarlett, who is lying across my bed, wearing high heels, a barely-there lacey bra and panty set that effectively means she’s nude.
And she’s completely passed out.
“No. No. No,” I mutter as I move toward her, dick hardening at the sight of her incredible body, and begin shaking her shoulder to wake her up.
To continue what we started.
But she doesn’t budge. Doesn’t even stir. And I’m left standing with a rock-hard cock, a blissfully gorgeous woman in my bed, and no relief in sight.
Was she that drunk? How did I not realize that?
And more importantly, what the fuck am I supposed to do now?
Clearly I was hoping to have a fun time with her, or I wouldn’t have invited her up to my room. But now? Now, she needs to go if sex isn’t on the menu.
“Come on, Scarlett. Time to get up. To go home.”
One-night stands don’t get to sleep in my bed. We have sex. One of us leaves. I shower and rid myself of everything but the memory of her.
End of story.
Then again, most women don’t get to sleep in my bed, one-night stand or not, so that’s neither here nor there.
But this . . . her . . . how do I handle this? It’s not like I can pick her up and set her gently in the hallway where she can wake up on her own time.
I’m not that much of a dick.
Is this Karma for boho chic chick? For leaving in the middle of the night and then ignoring her texts and calls?
“Fuck,” I groan when I’d rather be groaning for other reasons. I cross my arms over my chest and study the woman in my bed. To say she’s gorgeous is an understatement. She has long, brown hair—which I can assume isn’t natural since the carpet definitely doesn’t match the drapes—pouty, sensual lips, and a body that screams that she puts time in at the gym. She’s toned and tanned and hell if I wouldn’t have enjoyed my hands being all over her for the next hour or two.
But now I’m here and she’s there. “You’re being a creep,” I mutter to myself. How weird it is to be staring at a passed-out woman while thinking how much I’d have liked to fuck her.
Lucky for her, I’m who she set her sights on tonight and not some other guy who might take advantage of the situation.
I like my women willing, feisty—not comatose.
“C’mon, Scarlett,” I say, trying to shake and wake her again to no avail. I walk from one side of the hotel room to the other, weighing my options. Do I go back to the bar to see if her friends are still there and have them come get her? Do I let her sleep it off? Do I . . . fuck.
Something that was supposed to be uncomplicated has now turned more than.
With a quick walk back to the bathroom, I roll the unused condom off my now limp cock and throw it in the trash. Next, I find my pants, pull them on, before approaching the bed and removing Scarlett’s heels one by one, then moving her into a more comfortable position on the bed. Then I cover her with the comforter and stand there trying to figure out what to do next.
Get some work done while she sleeps it off? Fall asleep on the couch and deal with her in the morning? Go in the bathroom and jerk off and pretend?
The couch it is.
I’m not only unsatisfied, but now I’m suddenly exhausted. A long flight interrupted by a delay. A plate that’s more than full with an NFL quarterback who I’m trying to help get caught up to speed on his new team’s plays. A hothead MLB pitcher who got himself in trouble when he threw a punch at his catcher and oops, it just so happened to be caught on camera. Sure, it’s my everyday wrangling of personalities, but currently, the load is heavier than normal.
Add to that list coming to Vegas where I do not want to be right now. And Carson Vega is the last person I want to meet tomorrow.
But I’m a man of my word.
Especially when my mentor and the man who got me started in this competitive, ruthless, all-encompassing business of sports management is calling to cash in a long overdue IOU. An IOU that I really don’t have the time or desire to fulfill, but he is the one person who helped me gain my footing so I could be sitting where I am today.
Then again, that’s not saying much considering my current circumstances—sitting here with a woman in my bed instead of being on top of her.
And yet, I still owe him. More than I could ever repay, really.
The question is, is corralling his current client a fair trade for my debts?
I’ve seen the online posts, and frankly I don’t have time to deal with a prima donna, wild child. And that’s exactly what Stevie Lancaster appears to be by all accounts on social media as of late. She may be the best female tennis player in the past five years, but I don’t have time for her shit nor her drama.
But I’ll humor Carson. I’ll listen to his spiel, then tell him I don’t have the space on my client roster nor the time and patience to motivate Stevie to behave and get back on track.
Scarlett laughs. She’s still asleep and it’s a sleep-drugged slur, but she laughs in a way that has me regretting how this night ended.
With a sigh, I grab one of the extra pillows off the bed and am just about ready to make myself comfortable on the couch when something from our conversation earlier ghosts through my mind. This isn’t a game and I’m not a con artist.
“Shit,” I mutter as I push back up and look at my wallet on the desk beside my laptop and tablet. What if she is one and this is all a game? It was convenient timing for her to pass out. For all I know, her friends are sitting down the hallway waiting for me to fall asleep to come in and rob me blind. After all, what else makes men go blind to what’s going on around them than the idea of sex?
Paranoia getting the best of me, I grab everything I have of value in my room—including my key card—and place it in the hotel-provided safe in the closet.
And then of course, I feel like an idiot. But if Karma is a real thing, I best err on the side of caution.
I glance one last time at the woman sleeping in my bed before sinking onto the couch and falling asleep with my cell phone tucked into the waistband of my pants.
FINN
12 years ago
“CAN YOU BLAME HIM FOR benching your ass?”
I don’t lift my head from where it hangs, staring at the helmet in my hands between my knees. “Not now, Dad.”
“Not now?” he snorts. “If not now, then when exactly? After Coach has kicked you off the team for your piss-poor effort on the field? After you’ve lost your scholarship and you have to pay for your own damn education? You’re not exactly the most dependable son, so the last thing you need is to have your future depend on your own friggin’ shoulders.”
Shame washes over me in a way I’ve grown accustomed to when it comes to him and his outbursts. It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve asked him not to come to the games, he still shows up. Still makes his way onto the field somehow after the game to broadcast his in-depth thoughts of how shitty I played.
“This is the ticket to your future, Finn. The NFL. A guaranteed paycheck to cash in for life.”
I take a deep breath and consider my reality. My knees ache constantly, and the rotator cuff surgery I need has already decided my NFL future. There won’t be one. But that’s all I’ve ever been pushed to be. All I’ve ever been allowed to be.
“You know who that man is over there talking to Mason?” My father drones on despite the fact that I haven’t spoken a word in response to him yet. “That’s Carson Vega. One of the best sports agents in the business.” He steps closer and leans down to whisper in my ear and it takes everything I have not to push him away. “He was here watching your team play today and now he’s talking to your backup, Mason, instead of talking to you. You want to know why, son? Because you couldn’t throw for shit today, so Coach pulled you. He benched you when what could be the most important man in your life was standing there taking notes on the game.”
“Not now, Dad
.”
“Sports is the only thing you’ve ever loved. Now you’ve just thrown your career down the fucking drain by not performing at your peak when the best in the business has his eyes on you. Step up to the fucking plate, Finn.”
I glance up for the first time since my dad walked over, to focus on someone other than him, and startle when I realize Carson Vega himself is only feet from us—within hearing distance. And of course, I want to crawl in a hole and die from embarrassment when his eyes meet mine. He offers a polite smile and nod before glancing to my side where my father remains bent over like a parent scolding a small child.
“I’ve got to get in the locker room. Coach’s talk and all that,” I mutter and rise from the bench without looking at my dad when I damn well know Coach is across the field still chatting with the media.
But it’s a good excuse to get away from him.
A good out.
Anything to buy me time so that I can drown myself in alcohol later with the guys and forget today ever happened.
The shower is hot, the guys are rowdy over the win we secured once I left the game, and I drag my feet leaving the locker room. The last thing I want to do is go to dinner with my dad and listen to him break down every play, highlight every error, and tell me what I should have done.
Pushing the door to the locker room open, I keep my head down and don’t care that my mood is shitty.
“Sanderson.”
I startle at my name and then stop walking when I see Carson Vega five feet from me. He’s leaning casually against a short concrete wall, arms crossed over his chest, one ankle crossed over the other. His dress shirt is crisp even after being in the hot sun during the game, his sleeves are rolled up at the cuff, and from what I gather, a very expensive watch is on his wrist. His dark hair is styled but not stiff, and as he’s taken his sunglasses off, they’re hooked in the top of his shirt.
“Sir?” I say, my heart pounding. I’m stuck in that moment between excitement over him actually talking to me and mortification over whether or not he heard what my dad said to me earlier.
“Carson Vega,” he says in a smooth voice framed by a genuine smile as he reaches out to shake my hand.
“Finn. Uh, Finn Sanderson.”
“I know who you are,” he says and that has my heart lurching into my throat. “You’ve had a tough go of it lately. Your shoulder’s damaged but you’re waiting for the off-season to have surgery so no one knows how bad it is. Am I right?”
How did he know when I’ve told no one? Not even my dad. Especially not my dad.
My expression must have given my thoughts away because compassion fills his eyes. “You hitch your arm slightly before you go to throw,” he says by way of explanation. “You’re trying to hide it so you don’t upset Coach, and your doctor has said you won’t cause any more damage by playing so you’re doing just that.”
“How—”
“It’s my job to watch and observe and know. And I’ve seen it more times than I care to count.” He shrugs and glances down the corridor where someone yells something before looking back at me. “You’ll get the surgery, you’ll rehab, and you may or may not be back. Sometimes it works and you come back better than new, other times it’s a shitshow and you realize your dream is gone. Not being harsh, but that’s just how it goes.”
I swallow over the lump of emotion that for some reason is lodged in my throat. Maybe it’s relief that someone other than me knows about what I’ve been trying to hide. Maybe it’s feeling like I’m not so fucking alone with this secret anymore. Or maybe it’s because he’s not ripping into me, telling me what a fuck-up I am.
“I’ve been asking around about you while you were in there.” He lifts his chin to the locker room doors I just came out of. “You’ve got decent grades, have a strong work ethic or so Coach Tejada says, and more than anything, you’ve made yourself the go-between for your teammates with the coaching staff. I like that.” He chuckles. “I like that a lot.”
“Thank you,” I say awkwardly, uncertain what one has to do with the other or where this conversation is going.
“Anyway, the reason I waited for you is I wanted to tell you this: your old man is wrong.” My heart sinks at his words because, of course, I was hoping he was waiting to tell me he was interested in me. For the future. In representing me for the NFL. “I couldn’t help but overhear what he said, and I don’t know your dynamic, don’t care to really, but in all honesty, what he said was bullshit. Just because you might not continue your career into the NFL doesn’t mean your life in sports is over.”
I open my mouth to make an excuse for my father but for what feels like the first time in my life, the words don’t come out. Carson’s words resonate that deeply with me. Instead, I shut my mouth and simply nod at this hulking presence in front of me.
Carson fishes in his shirt pocket and holds out what appears to be a business card. I take it without looking at it.
“You graduate with your degree, and if you’re still interested in that career in sports, you come see me. I always need a good intern. Besides,” he says, pushing himself off the wall and smiling, “you never know where that might lead.”
And without another word, he begins to walk down the corridor.
“Mr. Vega,” I call after him. He stops and turns to look at me as I hold the business card up. “Thank you.”
He nods and then heads the other way. I watch him until he turns past the next building as I flip the card over and over in my hand.
Carson Vega just offered me an internship.
A lifeline.
A way to be a part of sports when I graduate.
Holy shit.
Maybe my life won’t be as fucked up as I thought—or rather as my dad thought—after all.
FINN
MY NECK IS KILLING ME.
That’s my first and only thought when I slowly begin to wake up.
That and then the sudden jolt as something starts vibrating against my cock.
Phone.
It’s my phone.
Why is my phone in my pants?
And before the thought even finishes in my mind, my brain fires, and last night comes back to me. Scarlett. Almost sex. Her passing out. Con woman.
Jumping off the couch, I cringe at the bright light streaming in the room from the curtains I didn’t close. I hiss out a curse when my shin connects with the coffee table but the pain is quickly forgotten when I see my empty bed in front of me. The bathroom door is open, and the inside is empty. No Scarlett. She must have woken up and left.
That’s when I see the four one-hundred-dollar bills fanned across the nightstand. I do a double take as I walk toward it as if I don’t really believe what I see.
She left me cash? As if I were an escort who she was paying for his services?
I’m not sure if I should be offended or flattered.
Or even how I should feel about it.
And that same thought rings through my mind three hours later as I walk down the long hallway on the top floor toward the penthouse suite that Carson has directed me to. It’s been almost a year since I’ve seen him so my eagerness to catch up is a double-edged sword against what I already assume he’s going to ask me.
What I’m going to politely decline.
At least I’ll be able to do this all without Stevie knowing since a quick look at her website says she’s slated to appear in an exhibition match tomorrow in Florida.
The door has the lock latch folded so that it’s ajar and can be pushed open. I knock anyway, and when it’s pulled open, I’m met with the prodigious Carson Vega. Just like that first time I met him, I’m taken with his presence.
Except now, his once dark hair is snow white, and a pair of trendy frames sit atop his nose. His midsection has definitely gotten a little rounder since the last time I saw him, but I know from experience that he’ll tell me it’s been earned from a life well lived.
“Finn fucking Sanderson. Aren’t you a sight for these s
ore eyes of mine.” The man who became more like a father to me than my own during my tenure with him—before he pushed me to go out on my own—pulls me in for a quick man-pat hug, before motioning for me to enter the room. “Son of a bitch, you look good. But then again, you always look good.”
“Says the man whose tan looks like he’s been sitting on a beach in paradise instead of working.”
“Perhaps.” He gives a coy shrug and runs his hand over his belly. “This has grown too, but can’t complain, son. Our hard work isn’t all for naught unless you stop and enjoy it every now and again. So tell me, have you been enjoying it?”
I walk over to the panoramic window and take in the strip. What seems to be so glamorous at night looks anything but in the daytime. The blinking lights fall flat, and the hotels are one concrete wall after another no matter how much you dress them up.
I turn to face Carson and his expectant eyes. “I will at some point. When I reach your level of success.” I shrug, knowing I have but will always place him on a pedestal regardless. “Until then, I work.”
His sigh is expected as we’ve had this conversation more than once. “What you need is someone to experience things with. Someone to twist your arm every once in a while, and get you out from behind your phone and laptop.”
I nod out of respect and then smile. “Is this a matchmaking ad? Since when did you go to work for them?”
“Matchmaking is the last thing I’ll ever do.” He sighs. “This is more like life advice from someone who learned the hard way.”
“Noted.”
“So you say time and again and yet you never seem to actually do it.” His sigh fills the space. “Look, I know you think relationships are bullshit and yada yada, but when you find someone who understands you, it makes a world of difference.”
“Dually noted,” I mutter.
“You’re not getting any younger.”
“And now I definitely know you’ve hung up your agent shoes and now work in matchmaking.” I shake my head, wondering when early thirties became old to him. “So is that why I’m here? To pick up all your clients that you’re leaving behind as you head into this new career?”