The Catching Kind

by Caitie Quinn

  Then, he pivoted to face Dex, giving me his back, and placed his hands on the table in front of him.

  "Absolutely not.” His voice had dropped, low and sure. Not coming off as angry or upset. Just, strong and filled with authority. “We're looking to clean up my rep, not ruin it."

  Without a word, he swung to the door and marched out, leaving me alone with the two blushing agents.

  I stared at the door as it slammed shut behind him and grinned, finally feeling at ease now that the tension had walked out the room with the pro-baseball player. “So, that went well.”

  "I guess we're done here." Catherine pulled on the cuffs of her jacket, a sure sign she was packing it in.

  I grabbed my bag, ready to escape to my yoga class. We made it as far as the lobby before Dex caught up.

  "Hold on a second." He snapped his briefcase shut and joined us at the door. "We had a deal. He'll agree to it because he doesn't have a choice. Just—"

  He glanced my way, taking me in from the tips of my Pumas to my loosened fishtail braid. Shaking his head, he gave Catherine a look that I wouldn’t have wanted pointed my direction. I was glad she just quirked an eyebrow at him and didn't try to convince him I knew what lip gloss was.

  "Just clean her up, alright? I'll call you with the details."

  Before I could ask what details, Dex was out the door and pressing the down button like he could conjure the elevator with the power of his finger.

  "Do I want to know what this was all about?" Sadly, I already knew the answer to that question: No. I doubted very highly I did.

  She led me down the hall and, instead of going to her desk, she dropped into one of the overstuffed chairs in front of her bookshelves and waited for me to join her.

  "You know about the APC—the Agent Poker Collective, right?"

  Of course. It was myth or legend depending on who you talked to. Agents from every industry worked their butts off for an invite. Lots of liquor. Lots of poker. Lots of cross-the-table deals made.

  I'd always leaned toward myth myself. Maybe it had been true back in the thirties...or even the eighties. But now? This wasn't only a different generation, it was a different century.

  "I've heard of it."

  "Well, I've been going for a few years. That's how I got Bria that movie deal to work with a certain celebrity last year. The bets that are thrown around in that place can get a little..."

  "Insane?" I filled in, thinking that matched my morning so far.

  Catherine shook her head and laughed. "I take it you know who Connor Ryan is?"

  A year ago I probably would have thought the name sounded vaguely familiar, but lately, it had been all over the news. And the tabloids. Connor Ryan was the latest playboy athlete to hit town. He'd joined the Nighthawks, made some amazing, sportsy moves, and become the Next Big Thing.

  But, sports were really not my gig. I didn't even write jock heroes. Not only did I not watch them, I didn't get the appeal. Of course, Connor Ryan was a celebu-jock, so even I was aware. It was all hard to miss.

  “He’s the model magnet, right?” As demonstrated earlier.

  "Honey, he's more than that. The Nighthawks brought him in near the end of last season to replace Johnson when he blew out his elbow. Connor was our top defense with his speed and accuracy. But it’s his batting average that’s off the charts. He’s the reason we almost made the playoffs.”

  But, if she was being honest, she would have led with what he was known for: Leaving his girlfriend behind in Texas to start over here with supermodels, heiresses, political mogul’s daughters, and one cover-worthy night with a reality "star." Oh, and that sportscaster who lost her job for sleeping with him...or if you listened to Connor Ryan, stalking him.

  Through it all, he refused to comment on his personal life. If asked a question about any of his off-field shenanigans, he turned the answer to baseball. It was almost magical the way he did it.

  I remembered seeing an interview that went something like this:

  "Con, tell us about the tall, hot, blonde seen stumbling out of your hotel room after the game with New York."

  "Bobby, the only stumbling I've seen lately was a certain third baseman who missed that grounder and let us bring home two more runs."

  I'd been oddly impressed—and not more than a little jealous—of his interviewing skills. I was pretty sure Catherine was embracing this opportunity because every time someone asked to interview me, I all but created a natural disaster. I’ve spilt drinks on me…on other people. I’ve gotten so nervous I’d forgotten my character’s name and book titles. She wasn’t kidding about every picture of me looking like I was about to throw up.

  Any time I was the center of attention all motor skills went right out the window.

  So, yes. I found his skills in front of a camera were awe-worthy.

  "Okay. I know who he is.” I admitted, because it seemed silly not to. “He's enough of a celebrity that even I’ve heard of him.”

  "Great.” She stubbed out cigarette number two. “Because he's the man who’s going to put you on the map."

  Annnndddd…Overstatement.

  But, we might as well get this over with before the butterflies in my stomach morphed into huge pterodactyls.

  "Alright.” I pulled out the little notebook I brought everywhere, ready to get down to the details. And then recover from whatever she’d gotten me sucked into. “Don't hold me in suspense. What did you sign me up for?"

  "Hailey, really. You need to look at these opportunities as adventures that are allowing you to never, ever, ever have to work in a bank again. Isn't that what you told me when I signed you? Two books a year, no more banks."

  It was true. But her bringing it up didn't help the nervousness she was feeding.

  "Right.” I sighed, hating that she was right. “I'm sure I can do an event or something with him. I mean, people won't even notice me standing there with him being all flashy, high-maintenance guy."

  She smirked. When Catherine smirked, even the most powerful senior editors got nervous.

  "Oh, people are going to notice you. Trust me. Noticing you is the entire point."

  Her words slipped into my gut, turning over my nerves one at a time as I wondered just what exactly she'd done.

  "Catherine, spit it out. What was the bet?"

  "If you do this right, it will be hours of exposure and you probably won't have to give a single interview. Maybe ever. Not that every magazine and local news station won't be asking for one." She paused, all dramatic-like. "And all you have to do is date the hottest guy in town."

  THREE

  "What?” I gasped, leaping up and sucking in air. Maybe I was having a panic attack. Or a heart attack. Or some type of attack where you can't breathe and you consider throwing heavy objects at someone.

  "Hailey, a fresher image isn't going to hurt." She eyed my yoga pants skeptically. A sad attempt at calming me down.

  I wasn't going to fall for it. I had a feeling this was more than just an image update or charity event we were talking about. One night out even I could live through. Probably.

  “Catherine, please stop side-stepping into this and just…spill it.”

  Another sip. Another sigh. Dead silence. And then, "Fine. But, sit down for goodness sake.”

  I eased into the chair, eyeing the door to make sure I still had a clear path for a quick escape.

  “I made a bet at the APC. One I thought I couldn't lose.” Catherine glanced around her office as if the answers might be there for her. “A straight flush. I shouldn't have lost."

  "But?"

  She leaned back away from her desk, away from me and for the first time since I’d known her, I watched Catherine unable to meet someone’s gaze.

  "I lost.” She rolled her eyes as if this was obvious. Which, it was, but still not a plot twist I wanted to admit was coming.

  "Yeah, I'm getting that.” I paused, taking a moment, trying to piece it all together. “But since there's no longer such
a thing as indentured servitude, I'm wondering how you think you're handing me off to another agent. Especially a sports agent. He didn't look like he'd read a book this year, let alone knew where to sell one."

  Catherine snickered and filled her glass again. "Dex is, luckily, smarter than he looks. He's the best in his field."

  Which shouldn't have been a surprise considering how many deals I was betting he'd gotten Connor Ryan.

  "What exactly does he think he's going to get from me?" Because the dating thing had to be a red herring.

  Catherine glanced away as if she was afraid to admit how ridiculous this was. "Your reputation."

  "What is this, 1811?” I laughed at my own joke, because the day I was having, someone had to. “What does my reputation have to do with anything?"

  "I'll be honest, he suggested Jenna Drake first. But then he heard about her lovely lawyer-boyfriend. You were next and had what he was looking for. The stats, a certain level of success, a new book coming out in a few weeks, and your very strong following of young women between the ages of fourteen and twenty-six. Which would be exactly the group Mr. Ryan's new, ah, adventure has managed to alienate. It also happens to be the group his latest sponsor is trying to reach. You see the problem?"

  I had no idea what Connor Ryan had done to tick off girls fourteen to twenty-six, but I didn't see how anyone might think I'd be able to help. I was just…me. They wanted Taylor Swift.

  Where was Tay when you needed her?

  Of course, I should have known Catherine would have an answer.

  "He needs to be seen with someone nice. Someone smart. Someone who shows he's turning over a new leaf, treating women well, and that he's a good guy."

  "He's a rude, egocentric womanizer."

  Catherine smiled at me, an odd little smile as if she knew something I didn’t. "Maybe you'll have fun being pampered in public by a rude, egocentric womanizer."

  "No way. I'm not going out with him.” It was pretty much my worst nightmare. Being forced to live in public scrutiny, pictures, people, attention. I just wanted to sit in my apartment and write or hang out with my girls. "He wants arm candy who probably doesn’t talk in public."

  "Honey, I'm pretty sure he doesn't care if they talk in private either."

  Of course she'd think this was funny.

  "But, here's the problem.” I crossed my arms, digging my metaphorical heels in. “I won't do it."

  I know a lot of girls dream about the popular jock in her school waking up and realizing she's secretly gorgeous and awesome. But I'd never been attracted to that type. I'd grown up with that type—or grown up with that type sending alimony to my mom—and really didn't need a repeat of the last generation.

  My dad had been a division one college football quarterback. Mom had been his hometown sweetie. Or, so she’d thought. But, with the fame, popularity, and potential big career came the ego to match.

  Dad may not have made it to the pros, but he managed to keep the ego and drop the sweetie.

  Catherine studied me, a long look that even after knowing her five years I couldn't read.

  "Oh, you'll do it." She leaned forward, bracing her hands on the roughed leather of the chair's arm. "You'll do it because if my career goes, yours goes too. It's not a threat. Dex put us both in a bad place. It’s a ridiculously high stakes world. And so, if you want to keep publishing with a house who prints more than two-thousand copies at a time, you'll do it."

  She wasn't kidding. I could even see she was sorry. But she'd do whatever it took to get both of us on the other side of this ridiculousness.

  "There's self-publishing,” I challenged. “I have enough of a following to make the jump. A lot of my readers would follow me."

  "That's true. You do. And, I wouldn't blame you. Your work is universal enough to do well."

  It was as close to a blessing as I was going to get in this situation. Not that I felt I needed it at this moment.

  "But," she continued. "One book to hit it big is all you need. We've always said a breakout would raise your boat high enough that it would stay there. And this...this mess I walked us both into, it could be the tide that does it. Free publicity, your face out there to go with your name, young women dreaming of living your life not just your characters’ lives. This could be the thing that bumps you over the edge. Look at all the celebrity YA books over the last decade."

  And isn't that what we all wanted? The magic bullet?

  If there was one thing I'd learned from Catherine, it was never sign a contract without three sets of eyes.

  "What's the fine print?"

  "You date for four weeks and act like a real couple. A settled couple. The kind of couple where everyone who sees you goes, Oh, they're so sweet. He cleans up his rep and saves his contract with his sponsor, and you get a month of free publicity." She crossed her arms, finishing off the deal. "You'll go on public dates. Hands will be held. Autographs will be signed. From the sounds of it, you'll be getting a makeover."

  I rolled my eyes. Yes, I knew she could see me do it.

  "Hailey, a makeover wouldn't kill you."

  "I'm not paying for a makeover. Or the clothes to play this part. If he's unhappy with my wardrobe, you're all going to have to find a way to magically make me have clothes everyone’s happy with."

  Which wasn't a bad deal. I needed some new things for the conference I'd be speaking at next month.

  "Fine. I'll have Meg open you an expense account. One-thousand dollars should do it."

  Geez, I could buy six of everything in my size at Target for that much money.

  "You," Catherine pointed her pen at me like it was a weapon, as if she knew what I was thinking. "You will shop at socially acceptable stores for a Page Sixer. Actually, you will go with the personal shopper I hire for you to whatever stores she brings you to."

  "Fine." It was her money.

  I closed my eyes, picturing the woman he'd flirted with in the elevator. Then the look he'd given Dex when Catherine had introduced us. I knew the type. Maybe I’d be more excited about this if I hadn’t watched my mom deal with my mostly-missing jock of a father for two decades.

  I had a rough time equating them with anything less than untrustworthy.

  "This isn't going to work. No one is going to buy this."

  Catherine took my hand and squeezed it. "It is going to work. And it's going to be good for you to get out there too. Everyone knows how sweet you are under all that sarcasm. He's turning thirty-two. That's like sixty in ballplayer years. He's settling down. With a nice, smart girl. Someone who makes him laugh and doesn't drain his time and energy. And he's exactly what your book sales need. I almost wish I'd thought of this myself."

  It could work. That was the problem.

  "I have a few demands of my own."

  "Of course."

  "One, this is not to cost me a penny. Two, he is to understand what my deadlines are and how they are to be treated."

  "Okay. Those are reasonable."

  "And finally, he's not to humiliate me. If he does, I will take this whole train down. Him. Dex. You. The mythical Agent Game. Everyone. I'm not becoming a laughing stock because you can't count cards."

  "Sweetheart, if he humiliates you, I'll take him down myself."

  FOUR

  What I learned about Connor Ryan while being shopped for and styled could fill an old-school encyclopedia.

  Beyond all the tabloid and Nighthawks’ stuff I already knew, there was one final piece I’d missed because I’d been on deadline at the end of the baseball season.

  It wasn’t his typical shenanigans this time. Connor Ryan was caught in an elevator with a very hot Harbor Island Beer girl wrapped around him who just happened to be his new captain, Ackerman’s, girlfriend.

  He and Ackerman came to blows in the dugout at the end of their last game of the season, which managed to piss off people in sports, advertising, and fans of his personal life in one swoop. Fines normal people would use for a down payment on their ho
use were involved.

  Leverage. It’s a nice thing.

  ~*~

  Or not.

  I’d dressed exactly like Personal Shopper Becca had instructed. A professional, but slightly short skirt to show off what she called toned legs with a loosely fitted pink top to “frame me.” She claimed I looked pretty, professional, and feminine.

  I sashayed—or at least, my version of a sashay—my way into the posh offices downtown a mere four minutes late. Which was a personal record for me this week. Especially considering I had on makeup and something other than a messy bun going on. I felt more confident. More in control of the situation. But, no sooner had the mirrored elevator doors closed behind me than I realized just how out of my league I was.

  The office was gorgeous and screamed successful money-making rich people. These guys had image down to a science. If I was here to assist in their PR, we were all in trouble. I started toward the high mahogany and glass receptionist desk and waited while the woman with a throaty voice finished redirecting a call.

  "Can I help you?" Her tone had shifted, making, Can I help you? sound distinctly more like Are you lost, because you sure don't belong here?

  "Yes. I'm Hailey Tate. I have an appointment."

  "With who?" This seemed more of a challenge than a question.

  But, I was up for the challenge. Or, at least, I really did have an appointment and so I really did have an answer.

  Thank goodness.

  "Dex Falco."

  She ran her finger down the third column over in her schedule until she reached the eleven a.m. time slot and tapped it with a perfectly manicured nail. I glanced at my own nails, one of which I’d already managed to chip, and hid them in my pockets.

  "I'm sorry. Mr. Falco already has an appointment. I'm sure if you want to call his assistant later in the day she might be able to..."