Hard to Love

by K. Bromberg

  “See? Case in point. I haven’t seen you for a year and you want to jump right into business instead of catching up.”

  “You’re deferring, Carson.”

  “Damn right, I am,” he says and crosses his arms over his chest before smiling. “Wasn’t your motto always business first, pleasure later?”

  His laugh is deep and rich. “I taught you well, Finn. I taught you well.”

  “So? Let’s do business first and then we’ll catch up after if you’re free.” And maybe I’ll be able to smooth over any hurt feelings when I tell him I can’t babysit Stevie Lancaster.

  “That we can do.” But his pause after he speaks has me narrowing my eyes as he takes a few steps over to where he perches himself on the arm of the sofa and stares at me. “I don’t know how else to say it other than I need your help.”

  Shit. That pause should have warned me he was going to come out swinging.

  And he just did. When Carson Vega speaks, he means what he says, so his unabashed honesty and the serious look in his eyes, already have guilt swimming through me.

  My chuckle isn’t exactly full of humor. “Help with Stevie Lancaster, I presume?”

  He nods, a sudden somberness to his expression now. “You ever met her?”

  “Not that I recall, but you know how our life is.” Lots of handshakes, lots of faces before you for only seconds at a time before you move on. “But no, I don’t think I have.”

  “You’d know if you had,” he says with a shake of his head. “The woman is a tornado, an earthquake, and a hurricane all mixed into one. And that was my description before her dad passed away. Now? Jesus. She—”

  “Her dad?” I ask. The whole sports world knows her father passed away, but I’m looking for more information than I can get from the canned stories I’d see on SportsCenter before a tournament final.

  “Liam Lancaster. Great guy. Single dad. Her mom left when she was young and so he basically devoted his life to his little girl,” he says while I partition off the part of me who understands being abandoned all too well. I don’t want to sympathize with a woman I don’t have time to deal with. “He was a tennis instructor at some country club and one thing led to another and he turned his talents into molding her into one of the best there’s ever been.”

  “Okay . . .” So what does that have to do with me?

  “He was her coach, her agent, her keeper in all aspects. He didn’t trust anyone with the most important thing in his life except himself.”

  “That kind of devotion can be a dangerous thing.”

  Carson nods. “Exactly. He contacted me years ago. We’d met by happenstance a few times over the years, but this particular time he asked for an official meeting with me. I wasn’t sure what to expect really but then I was flabbergasted by his request. He asked if I would agree to watch out, manage, whatever you want to call it, Stevie if something were to ever happen to him.” He looks down at his hands and shakes his head ever so subtly. “It was before she was of age, but the documents he had drawn up and that I signed, communicated that I would be her agent and representation if something were to happen to him or he became incapacitated.”

  “But she’s of age now. She’s more than able and capable to fire and hire who she wants as a manager or as representation.”

  He holds his finger up for me to be patient. “The next time I heard from him was earlier this year. He called me to let me know he was dying from pancreatic cancer. I was shocked and saddened because he was so young, but he made me promise that I wouldn’t say a word of it to anyone—especially Stevie. He thought it was best she didn’t know. That she loved him as he was instead of looking at him as sick and with a finite amount of time. I told him it was the wrong decision, but he was steadfast in it. Fast forward to his earlier-than-expected passing and not only was Stevie blindsided but she’s livid with me because I knew her father was dying and didn’t tell her.”

  “Christ.” I sigh the word out, feeling for Stevie on a human level but more than confused as to why Carson is giving me this long buildup before he gets to the point. He’s not a long-winded man unless the last year has changed something. “I feel for her, Car, for the situation, but you know as well as I do that our responsibility as an agent is to suggest and guide and negotiate. If she’s that pissed off at you that she’s acting out, then let her go as a client and be done with her.”

  “She’s not acting out because of me, son. She’s acting out because even though Liam Lancaster was a demanding, unforgiving coach and manager, he was also her father and she doesn’t know how to process his death.”

  “You’re not a psychologist. You can’t fix someone who doesn’t want to be fixed. So I’ll say it again, why not fire her as a client and be done with her?”

  “I promised her dad I’d take care of her just like I once did the same for you.”

  And there it is: the guilt trip, the unspoken IOU. The man who mentored me in my career—in my life—is asking for a favor.

  But when he meets my eyes, all thoughts have stopped dead in their tracks. I’ve known Carson for a decade and have seen that look on his face only a handful of times. Most memorable was when he was looking at me the first time we met.

  A look that says for some reason the person has touched him and this salty, old bastard will move heaven and hell to help them.

  And I know before this conversation carries on any further that I’m going to say yes. Damn it to hell.

  But where would I be without that look? Who the hell knows, but it definitely wouldn’t be here—one of the top sports management agents in the game.

  I force a swallow over the fact I haven’t accepted yet and nod in a silent acknowledgment of all he’s done for me.

  “You say she’s livid with you, Carson, then why hasn’t she fired you?”

  “Because she’s never really had to make those kinds of decisions for herself. Her job was to play and his job was everything else. I’m here because, thank God, she trusts her dad’s judgment even now that he’s gone.”

  I rise from the seat and shove my hands in my pockets as I take in the strip again. People mill about here and there while the pool on the rooftop of one of the hotels within eyesight is teeming with bikini-clad women.

  I wonder if Scarlett is down there, coming onto the next man she sets her sights on. It’s easier to think about her and the what-could-have-beens than to admit to myself I’m being roped into this.

  Shaking the thought from my head, I turn back to Carson. Better to just get it all out on the table. “What are your main concerns?”

  “She’s one of the most gifted tennis players I’ve ever seen, Finn, but she’s drowning.”

  “Drowning?” I ask even though I’ve seen the pictures. The drinking. The acting out. The sudden about-face. “Or sowing her wild oats because she’s been restricted for so long?”

  “Perhaps a bit of both. What’s important is that while she’s refusing to accept her father’s death, she’s also taking wide liberties with her ‘grieving’ to the point that she’s possibly ruining her career.”

  “But why you? Why do you care so much what happens to her when you pass taking in new clients daily?” I ask but then cringe the moment the words are out. I already know why, and I’m so preoccupied with Scarlett and feeling like my arm is being twisted that I didn’t stop to think before I spoke.

  His wince shows me I’m right.

  “Because something about her reminds me of my Sadie.” His voice is soft, his eyes solemn, as he recalls his daughter who passed away in her teenage years. “And as a father, I understand Liam Lancaster and his reasoning behind all he did.”

  I nod and ask again. “Carson, why am I here?”

  “Because you’re good at controlling the out-of-control,” Carson states. “And Stevie is out of control.”

  “So, what? You’re going to hand her over to me for representation? Sure, I can ink some new endorsement deals for her when and if she decides to chill out.�
�� And earn a pretty penny in commission off the out-of-control princess while I’m at it. “Not a problem.”

  “I need a little more than that.”

  “A little more than that? What exactly does that mean?”

  “Stevie’s burned some bridges in the past few months. She’s skipped appearances, ditched some charity tournaments, even no-showed filming a Nike commercial. Twice.”

  “And?” I cross my arms over my chest.

  “She’s pissed off a lot of people. People she shouldn’t have pissed off, including the head of the US Tennis Association.”

  “Go on,” I say.

  “After her exhibition on Friday, I’ve set up a few goodwill events to attend over the coming weeks. In the old days we’d call it a bus tour, but you kids these days all take those private jets so . . .” He waves a hand away as if it’s something he doesn’t quite understand. “She comes from a generation I don’t understand.”

  “I don’t think your version of self-absorbed is different to hers, Car.”

  Carson’s laugh says he pretty much agrees but is too much of a gentleman to put it into words. Instead, he acts like I never said the words at all. “I’m not sure what exactly to call it other than a goodwill tour.”

  He’s playing down her antics. Fucking great.

  “So her PR person will escort her to each event, make sure she shows up to do the song and dance, and all will be good,” I say trying to negate whatever he’s going to throw at me next.

  “Except she’ll walk all over a PR person. She’ll charm them. Manipulate them. Give them the slip, and while the PR rep is busy lying that Stevie had to cancel last minute because she isn’t feeling well, pictures will pop up all over social media showing otherwise. It’s happened. She’s done it. I need someone I can depend on. Someone who I trust implicitly to hold her hand until she comes to her senses and decides her career isn’t worth ruining.”

  “I’m not a babysitter, Carson. I’m an agent with a full client list and—”

  “And a reputation for handling difficult ones at that.”

  “Handling, yes. Handholding, no.”

  “I’ve told Carson I don’t need a babysitter, a handholder, someone to keep me in check, or someone to tuck me into bed at night. In fact, I don’t need anyone,” a feminine, annoyed voice says as she stalks into the suite. By the time I turn to see who it is, her back is to me, and she’s already heading toward the refrigerator and grabbing a water. A mane of blond hair hangs down her back and sways in tempo with her hips. “So don’t waste your time, boys.”

  There is a small crack as she breaks the seal on the water before she turns around to face us, a smirk on her lips.

  “Either of you boys want a drink?” She looks from me to Carson and then back to me. “No? Didn’t think so.”

  The same smirk I saw last night.

  The same lips I saw last night.

  Motherfucker.

  FINN

  I KNEW SHE REMINDED ME of someone when we met in the bar, but I couldn’t place her, couldn’t figure out who it was.

  The brown wig she obviously wore didn’t help matters either.

  But there she is in full living color—Stevie fucking Lancaster. The same woman who lay in my bed last night with nothing but silk and lace and a soft snore.

  And today? Today her cheeks are still flushed, but this time it looks like it’s from the sun. She has a white, flowy cover-up over her bathing suit that’s tied around her neck. It’s obvious she’s already been for a swim because it’s wet where her tits rub against the thin fabric.

  Sure, she’s covered in all the right places, but the sight of those wet spots only serves to stir my imagination—or rather the exact knowledge of the smell of her skin and the feel of those lace-clad nipples against my tongue.

  Then there are those lips of hers. The ones that are shocked into the shape of an O as she stares at me with eyes wide in surprise. She glances over to Carson like a kid caught in a candy store before she looks at me again.

  But for me, the shock has faded to a confused anger. She left money—paid me—as if I was her whore. Fucking hell, and now Carson thinks it’s best if I’m the one who holds her hand?

  “Sounds to me like you leave a lot of things unfinished and just maybe you do need the handholding,” I say with a quirk of my eyebrow, the innuendo not subtle in the least.

  “I finish things just fine if they’re worth my while. Maybe you should worry yourself with your own clients instead of butting your nose into my business.” She doesn’t break from my stare, the challenge a gleam in her eye.

  Carson clears his throat. “Seems to me you two are off to a fabulous start. Finn Sanderson, this is Stevie Lancaster. Stevie, this is Finn.”

  “Finn, huh?” she says as she looks me up and down as if she’s never seen me naked before. “He’s who you brought in here to handcuff me?”

  Images ghost through my mind of her and handcuffs, which don’t really belong in the moment.

  “I brought Finn on board because he’s well versed in getting athletes back on track after they take a break for one reason or other,” Carson says in a tone I’ve never heard from him. It’s not annoyed but rather . . . more exhausted than anything.

  And maybe it’s me being the selfish prick I normally am but how did I not notice how tired Carson looks? How was I so wrapped up in anger at being summoned here that I didn’t look close enough to see the bags under his eyes and the fatigue etched in the lines of his face?

  “Back on track?” She snorts.

  “Yes,” Carson continues. “We were just sorting through the specifics, but he’s going to be your right-hand man over the coming weeks. I’ve set up a series of events leading up to the US Open that you’ll attend in addition to training.”

  “Jesus, Carson,” she groans and all but stomps her foot like a petulant child. “I’m going to be training for the Open. The last thing I need is to be traipsing around shaking hands and kissing babies.”

  “Please. Continue,” I speak for the first time. “Because you sound so very grateful for the opportunities you’ve been afforded. The ones you seem to be intentionally throwing away as of late.”

  “You don’t know shit about me or my opportunities,” she spits out as she turns all her fire and brimstone on me. “And I’ve worked my ass off to have them so, take your judgment and shove it up your ass, kindly.” Her smile drips with the same sarcasm her words do.

  “No judgment here. But your father hired Carson because he clearly trusted him to do what was best for you. He’s doing just that setting up this goodwill tour. So you’ll go to every event. You’ll train every day and get ready for the Open. And you’ll do it all with me by your side every step of the way.”

  I want to choke over the words, but at the same time, I find a small pleasure in the disdain registering in her expression. She was clearly listening outside the door before she entered the room and expected me to balk at Carson’s request.

  I was too.

  But now? Now I might have just taken an ounce of pleasure in watching her stiffen at my words. That’s not saying I have a clue how I’ll manage my current workload and babysitting her . . . but I’ll deal with it somehow if the reward is putting her in her place somewhat.

  We all jump when the ringer in Carson’s phone breaks the silence-filled tension in the room. “Carry on. I have to take this,” he murmurs as he holds his finger up and moves to the other side of the room.

  Stevie huffs. “As I’ve said over and over and over again, I don’t need a babysitter. I’m a grown woman who is just blowing off some steam as us grown-ups are allowed to do.”

  I pick up my phone and enter #StevieLancaster in the search bar on Instagram. My screen fills with picture after picture of her antics and debauchery over the past few weeks. Drunken selfies. Her trying out a stripper pole somewhere. Middle fingers held up to the photographer. Dancing in a nightclub clearly enjoying herself with the men on either side of her. “C
learly you do,” I murmur as I hold up my phone to show her the endless supply of evidence. “Because this? This doesn’t look like you’re playing tennis to me.”

  “Like you follow tennis.”

  My chuckle is low and unflinching. “I don’t have to follow tennis to know you look like a Kardashian mixed with Lindsay Lohan at her lowest in these pictures.”

  Her eyes narrow as she glares at me. “I spent time with the Kardashians last month. For the record, we had a blast.” Condescension drips from her words.

  “Seems like a good enough reason to miss the opening of the Indio Springs tournament.”

  “I had a pulled groin muscle.”

  I flick through more pictures and find one dated before the Indio Springs tournament. Stevie is on a dance floor somewhere with drinks in both hands and her head thrown back. “Clearly your pulled groin was from twerking too hard.”

  “You’re an asshole.”

  “No one disputes that, but then again, an asshole might have treated the nearly naked woman who passed out in his bed last night entirely different, Scarlett.”

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” Her smile is smug.

  “Are you in the habit of leaving cash for the men you sleep with? Because if that’s the case, we have a lot more shit to deal with than just your partying.” I challenge, eyes locked on hers without a flicker of emotion on my face.

  I don’t know why I get a rise out of pushing her buttons but I do. She paid me like I was her whore and now in an unexpected twist of fate, I’ll be the one getting paid to hold her feet to the fire.

  And it’ll be a lot more than four hundred dollars, I can assure you.

  She glances over her shoulder to where Carson is still on his phone before staring at me, teeth gritted and anger firing in those green eyes of hers. “No, but perhaps I was paying for the hotel room I ended up occupying since its owner didn’t exactly get to sleep in the bed himself.”

  Her words surprise me when I don’t want them to. A sliver of decency in the overbearing wild-child façade.