"No," I replied. "Perhaps we should have a gathering for Stremmel. A little 'congrats on the first six months' thing. We want him to feel welcome, right?"
"Better yet," Alex started, wagging her finger at Nick, "an end of winter event. He'll love that because we all know how much he hates anything below seventy degrees and sunny."
"If you're asking whether my wife wants to throw a vernal equinox party, I think we all know her answer will be yes," Nick replied. "If she was in town often enough to host new moon and assorted planetary alignment parties, she'd do that too."
Alex stared at him for a beat. "I don't know how to respond to that."
He waved her off. "You don't have to."
"We should work on bringing Stremmel into the fold," I said, turning the conversation back around. "I'll see if he wants to join us for lunch."
Alex nodded, her lips pursed as she hummed to herself. "Yeah, I'm good with that. Especially now that he's stopped flirting with me. Mostly."
Another barely contained groan. "I've told him that's completely unacceptable. I'll speak to him again."
Nick shot a glance at his watch and then his phone. "I gotta go pull a meningioma. We can cover the rest of this over lunch. With or without Stremmel." He clapped me on the back, smiling. "Good job on beating up your girl from the trail and then convincing her to give you a shot. That is some kind of miracle."
"If anyone knows how to work them, it's Hartshorn," Alex said as she backed down the hallway. "He's going to need them."
Of that I was certain.
8
Stella
I was never late.
I didn't make out with strange men over scones either. By most measures, this day was already unusual, but it wasn't as though my boss would appreciate that explanation.
When the elevator doors opened on the fifteenth floor, I knew I'd find Flinn and Tatum waiting for me in the foyer. He was chewing his thumbnail and she was pacing, and both were clutching their phones as if they were waiting for Moses to tweet out his new rules.
"Thank god, you're alive!" Flinn yelled, pushing away from the wall as I stepped into the foyer. He waved his hands at me, wanting details. "You send me a license plate photo and tell me to call the police if I don't hear from you before noon, and—what is this? What happened to your face?"
Marching through the glass-walled offices and pod-shaped cubicles with Flinn and Tatum, my dynamic administrative support duo, hot on my heels, I said, "Tripped on the walking path. No biggie."
"Should I run down to Whole Foods and get some aloe?" Tatum asked. "Or call one of the team docs and get a B12 shot sent up?"
"I don't need a B12 shot," I replied. "Some aloe wouldn't hurt but it's not a top priority."
"Yes. Aloe. Lovely. But the license plate picture?" Flinn said. "Shall we revisit that? Can we take a moment to regroup here? Your knees are bruised too."
Dammit. Should have worn trousers. But dresses were easy. It was a single item of clothing, no prints or textures to coordinate, no layers to balance.
"Like I said," I smiled over my shoulder, "I took a tumble. I'm good."
"Rebecca is waiting for you in the conference room," Tatum whispered. She was a serial quiet-talker, and though I'd spent the past two years coaching the timid out of my account coordinator, we were no closer when it came to audible speech. She had no trouble hollering at Flinn so I knew she had it in her. "There's a client—"
"—and you look like you've been working out with the Fight Club," Flinn interrupted.
Where Tatum was quiet, Flinn was bold and more than a little abrupt. He'd been assisting me for almost four years now, and while he was desperate to manage clients of his own, his edges were still too rough to turn him loose. That was the Catch-22 of attaining a certain level of success: you could be an asshole, but not until you were indispensable and irreplaceable. He had work to do on all fronts.
"—the client is waiting too. With Rebecca. And his agent. In the conference room," Tatum continued.
"The client is also Lucian McKendrick," Flinn said. "If my sources can be trusted, ol' Lulu's publicist dropped him last night after he got up on the bar at Grand Ten, stripped down to his nakeds, danced around, and had to be dragged out of there by Boston's finest. Homeboy spent a few hours in lockup. Another drunk and disorderly but everyone expects he'll get off with a fine. Does he realize it's not a froyo punch card? There's no prize for racking up ten arrests." He sighed and shook his head. "They should've called me. I would've helped keep that issue under control."
"With your mouth," Tatum quipped.
"To start, yes," Flinn said with a shameless grin.
"McKendrick is the top relief pitcher in the league," Tatum said. "His current contract is worth a little more than eleven million dollars per year plus bonuses and endorsements, and he's currently out on a personal conduct suspension. That suspension came with a fine to the tune of two hundred and fifty thousand—"
"I know. I got it," I replied. It came out snappier than I'd intended, and when we reached my office, I turned and held up my hands for silence. Their eyes darted to my scraped palms and they shared another open-mouthed what the fuck glance. "Everything is fine. Thank you for worrying about me and getting me up to speed on McKendrick. That's why I love you both and please believe I'll give you an update on me and the client after my meeting."
Flinn motioned toward my raincoat and tote bag, and when I'd surrendered both, Tatum supplied me with my tablet and phone. Neither of them were perfect, but they made this job fun and easy, and I wouldn't trade them for anything.
With a deep breath and smile fixed on my face, I stepped into the conference room. My boss, the managing director of the Boston Sports Management Group, shot a pointed glance at the wall clock before acknowledging me.
"Thrilled you could join us," Rebecca called as I settled into a seat across from McKendrick and his agent. Many agents were based in Florida or California but Travis Veda was a local boy and he liked it that way. "Thank you for squeezing this convening into your schedule at the last moment."
There were many amazing things about Rebecca Breverman. To start, she wasn't exactly human. As far as I could tell, she didn't sleep, didn't eat, and didn't age. But right now, the most amazing thing was that she said all of those passive-aggressive words without even a hint of shade. She was furious that I was eleven minutes late for an impromptu meeting, but she sounded genuinely gracious and that required talent.
She also rocked a vaguely English-but-also-maybe-Australian accent that was almost definitely fake and that required a version of talent. I'd once heard it referred to as a New Hampshire accent by someone who obviously hadn't visited New Hampshire.
"I'm thrilled to be here," I said, swiping open my tablet and nodding at McKendrick and Veda. "Please, continue. I'll catch up."
"Hey, nice lady," McKendrick drawled, scooting his chair closer to the table as he eyed my cleavage. "What's your story, honeycakes?"
"Shut up, Lucian," Veda cried, slapping his hand on the shiny tabletop. Where his client was bright-eyed and bouncing in his seat with the overflowing energy of a child in a man's body, Veda's suit was wrinkled and his face matched. He looked like he hadn't slept in weeks. "Just shut up. If you fuck this up, you're on your own. I'll walk, bro, and I won't look back."
Rebecca clasped her hands and glanced back and forth between Veda and McKendrick. It didn't show but she was boiling with rage over the disorderly nature of this gathering. This wasn't a typical pitch session. She wasn't showing off the wonderful things we'd do to solidify his brand or how we'd triage pesky issues.
But this was typical for me. Much like Lucian, I was a closer. I stepped up to the plate only when it was time to bring the heat and shut it all down. Hot messes and train wrecks and zombies pouring out of the closet were my specialties.
The only difference was Lucian wasn't closing anything right now. Not when he wasn't allowed on the field.
"Thank you for that segue, M
r. Veda. Mr. McKendrick, I understand that you're in a spot of trouble with the league. Is that correct?"
He offered little more than a flippant shoulder lift. This was nothing new, not for McKendrick, not for any athlete who came through these doors. Many—definitely not all, but enough—were well acquainted with being exceptional and with that exceptionalism came entitlement.
"Hmm. Yes. That's what I thought," Rebecca said, tapping her fingertip to her lips. It was her way of communicating she'd had enough of this shit. "You've made the rounds, I see. Six publicists in the past two years. That's a new record. And it's all water under the bridge now, isn't it? The team won't trade you. They'll get you back soon enough, god willing, and they're looking for you to close for them all the way to another World Series win. Isn't that right?"
McKendrick turned to stare at Veda. "See?" he said, pointing at Rebecca. "That's what I've been telling you."
Veda shook his head. "Like I've been telling you, the owners called me this morning. If you can't clean up your act and keep it clean through the end of your suspension, they're dropping you. They don't care if you can win them twenty more pennants. They're sick and tired of all the bad press."
"The fuck they did," McKendrick grumbled, but it was a losing battle. The wrinkle in his forehead and downcast eyes told me that he knew where the chips were falling.
In recent years, the league had been quietly shifting its position on the so-called bad boys of baseball. Rather than watching the antics with amusement and welcoming the publicity, they were now taking aggressive steps to penalize unbecoming conduct and looking to make an example of a few players.
They probably didn't bet on that example being the relief pitcher who sewed up series after series, but the dark cloud of negative press was hanging heavy around McKendrick. They couldn't let him off the hook for multiple drunk-and-disorderly arrests, a DUI, and an unpleasant collection of public indecency charges while hammering the next guy for smoking a little weed.
"That's where Ms. Allesandro comes in," Rebecca said. "She has a gift for turning around the worst public images in professional sports and breathing new life into flailing brands. She'll be managing all of your appearances, social media, and other public statements. She'll be the angel on your shoulder, reminding you to keep your knickers on and your todger out of sight. She'll get you back on the field at the end of your suspension, Mr. McKendrick."
McKendrick swiveled toward Veda. "What's a todger?"
"Your dick, you dickhead," Veda snapped.
McKendrick scowled at the table. "I don't need a fuckin' babysitter," he grumbled.
"Yes, you do," Veda replied. "I'm hiring two full-time personal assistants to keep you out of the bars and away from the press, and you're doing everything that Stella instructs unless you want to go back to alfalfa farming in Blythe."
"They better be hot," McKendrick said. "Girls Gone Wild hot."
"They're going to be former defensive tackles who will have no problem laying you out," Travis said under his breath.
"Outstanding," Rebecca said, ignoring their comments. "Very productive. We'll ring you for a chat on progress next week, Mr. Veda. I trust you'll keep your shoes shined and your nose clean, Mr. McKendrick. You'll need both for all the charitable appearances you'll be doing."
McKendrick followed his agent out of the conference room, grousing, "What does that even mean?"
"Talk less," Veda replied.
The glass door thunked shut behind them, and Rebecca tapped her pen against the table to draw my attention.
"I'm sorry I was late," I said, pointing to the abrasion on my chin. "I had an accident this morning, and—"
"Keep McKendrick on the roster and out of trouble, and you'll find yourself with a promotion to partner and a thirty-three percent bonus. There's a corner office with your name on it if you get this right."
I curbed the desire to bust out a huge fuck yeah! grin followed by an it's about damn time side eye, instead nodding as if the suggestion mildly intrigued me. "What makes McKendrick such a priority?"
Rebecca tucked her glossy black hair over her ear. I was pretty sure it was a wig but I had no hard evidence on the matter. I always watched to see if I could catch it wobbling on her head. "The team is betting on him to get them through the post-season and bring home another World Series appearance. They have no one to replace him. They've picked up a few from the farm teams, but without McKendrick, they need a miracle." She hit me with her frosty-yet-fiery smile, the one I was certain she'd picked up from Cruella de Vil. "Be the miracle."
…or be gone. In the same way Rebecca didn't have to tell me that she was annoyed at my tardiness to an unscheduled meeting, she didn't have to tell me there was no room for error. Rebecca didn't believe in second chances. You either got the job done or got the hell out.
The only reason I'd survived eleven years at Boston Sports Management Group was because I was a closer. I nailed it every time, brought home the win, shut it all down. But I'd been on a plateau for the past year. I was getting the job done with the problem cases but I was overdue for a big score. If I wanted to level up, McKendrick was the way to do it.
After discussing strategy and logistics with her, I returned to my narrow office overlooking Copley Square. Flinn and Tatum shared a cubicle suite near my door, and they were hunched over their laptops when I appeared.
"Can we keep him?" Flinn asked. "We've never had a baseball player who can't keep his pants on in public before. Please tell me we can keep him."
I snorted as Tatum handed me a takeout menu. "We're keeping him," I said, pointing to my regular—a BLT with avocado in a spinach wrap—before handing the menu back. "Let's just pray he's willing to play nice."
Flinn and Tatum high-fived at this news.
"I'll see what I can do about scheduling visits to the children's hospital and assisted living facilities," Tatum said. "Those grannies just love pinching some MLB ass."
"I'll see what I can do about getting the photos and video from last night removed," Flinn said. "After I study them for a minute or two."
"For authenticity, right?" Tatum asked.
"I'm a fan of the human form. Man, woman, everything in between and none of the above. I admire all of them," he replied.
"But you're really fond of the male form," Tatum countered.
"The chromosomes don't matter to me," he said. "I'm attracted to people, not parts."
"You're telling me you're attracted to Lucian McKendrick as a person?" she argued. "His kind heart and giving soul, the one that urinates all over the subway while smiling for photos?"
"Listen, I never said I was perfect," he replied, laughing. "He's nice to look at but that doesn't mean I want to drink piña coladas and get caught in the rain with him."
Tatum shook her head. "But how is that—"
Ducking out of another sermon from Flinn on pansexuality, I headed into my office. I settled into my desk and scrolled through sports highlights and social media for the next two hours while returning the calls that had piled up while I was meeting with McKendrick and sharing a scone with Cal.
Cal.
That boy knew how to start a heart. Even a heart hidden under a thick, protective layer after one bruising too many. And those self-inflicted bruises, those hurt the worst.
"In four years, this is the first time that I'm seeing you daydreaming," Flinn said as he pulled a chair up to my desk. "There was that one time when you were glazed over, but you had the flu."
"Good memory." I turned my attention back to approving or deleting my clients' tweets.
"About the license plate you texted me," he prompted. "Whose car was that? Is someone bothering you? I can call up that private investigator we used when our favorite running back had all that baby mama drama. Or the bodyguard we used when the power forward's half-brother lost his damn mind."
"You have a stalker?" Tatum squeaked from the doorway, her tablet in hand. "Is that why you were late getting here?"
"
I bumped into a guy on the trail this morning," I said, omitting the part about the Mesozoic Era creature—which was not a beaver—and my boob-crushing fall. "We grabbed coffee and got to talking."
"This is the guy with the license plate?" Flinn asked. "The one you texted me?"
"What happened with the license plate?" Tatum asked. "You didn't text me about a license plate."
"There's always a story about some otherwise normal person who turns out to be running a human smuggling ring and you can never be too careful." I shrugged. "That's why I sent you his license plate. Sorry, Tate. Didn't mean to exclude you."
Flinn ran his fingertip over his eyebrow as he stared at me. "Coffee. How'd that go?"
Tatum settled into a chair beside him, nodding for me to continue.
I scanned a few more tweets before responding. I wasn't sure how to describe this morning and I wasn't convinced that I wanted to share it just yet. It was flirty and fun, and seriously overwhelming. I had buckets and buckets of big thoughts today but I didn't have room for any of them right now. These kinds of big thoughts required a big basement or a big storage unit, a place to keep all of this big stuff from creating a big logjam in my head.
"It was good," I said. "We're getting dinner. Later tonight, after the West Coast conference calls."
Tatum frowned. "Isn't Harry on your calendar tonight?"
And this, my friends, was what you got for sharing your personal calendars with your assistants. They didn't make the mistake of double booking me for calls or events but they also knew about the Stephens, Leifs, and Harrys of my life.
"I canceled with Harry," I said.
Tatum tapped her tablet, shaking her head as she asked, "When? I'm still seeing it here. Did you cancel on him after making plans with this guy or before?"
"Not that it matters," I started, "but I texted him last night. I thought I adjusted my calendar but I must've only done it in my head."
I didn't have a good reason for canceling on Harry. I hadn't had a good reason in the past two weeks but I'd canceled on him both times. He was attentive and attractive and carried a decent conversation but I couldn't get myself excited about seeing him for drinks, dinner, and dick. No good reasons, no good explanations. Just not feeling it right now. And that was fine. I didn't need a reason. As much as I was down for a good time, I was allowed to politely decline a good time too.
Before Girl Page 4