by Kennedy Ryan
“Banner and Zo Vidale,” August says. “You hadn’t heard?”
“Dammit, Gus. Heard what?”
“They’re dating.”
Pinch.
8
Banner
“Quinn, can I get your autograph?”
My client smiles wide and white in response to the request. That smile sells cereal, lipstick, and sports bras like nobody’s business.
I make sure of that.
Turns out Quinn Barrow, the “has-been” Mitch was so quick to dismiss all those years ago, had a lot more to do and give. She wouldn’t see me the first five times I visited her in the hospital. After her second suicide attempt, I got through and everything changed. Not overnight. There were times during her rehab and the painful process of learning to live with a prosthetic that Quinn wanted to give up, and so did I. The whole country was pulling for her, though, a fact I shamelessly leveraged when it was time to negotiate her first endorsement deal.
“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that,” Quinn murmurs as the kid walks off with an autographed nachos tray. “Being recognized and randomly approached. It’s surreal that people know me, much less want me to sign stuff.”
“You’re America’s Titanium Sweetheart.” I chuckle at the grimace on Quinn’s face. “Hey. It tested well. It stuck. We’re using it.”
There’s a point when an athlete, any public figure really, has to distinguish between their public selves and their private selves. Between the product and the person. Quinn still struggles with that sometimes. She balked at contract clauses requiring her to wear the titanium prosthetic so many times in public each month.
“Sometimes it just feels slimy.” Quinn takes a sip of her beer. “Like this thing I thought had ruined my life, that almost ended my life, now I make my living from it?”
“No, you make a living from your hard work and ingenuity.” I give her a firm look. “No different than models who trade on their beauty or athletes who get paid to play ball. You had to learn to walk again, Quinn. To drive, to live. You’d already honed that body all your life as a runner. Now you help other people hone theirs. Just because you’ve monetized the experience, doesn’t mean you’ve cheapened it.”
“You always know what to say to every client, huh?” Quinn dips her hand into the carton of buttered popcorn.
“It’s my job. Speaking of, we need to meet with the Netflix people to discuss that collaboration with Chef Paddy.”
Several networks have approached us before about television specials, reality shows and the like. This Biggest Loser-esque concept encompassing nutrition, fitness, and meditation is the first to truly pique Quinn’s interest.
“Oh, yeah.” A smile lights Quinn’s delicate features. She recently cropped her auburn hair to a cap of loose curls. Her green eyes sparkle with excitement as we wait for the Waves versus Titans game to begin.
“Want some popcorn?” Quinn proffers her carton to me. She’s the most disciplined woman I know, and every line and curve of her body is honed to perfection, but she’s never one to deny herself the occasional indulgence.
“Nope.” I extract a string cheese packet from my purse and sip from my bottled water. “I don’t have enough points left for buttered popcorn. And damn you for tempting me.”
“How are you liking Weight Watchers?” Quinn asks, licking fingers shiny with butter.
“I think it’s my favorite program so far. It feels measurable to me.”
“You look great, Banner.” Quinn’s smile gentles. “I’m proud of you.”
I got serious the last few years about my outside reflecting the confident, powerful woman I was on the inside. Quinn has been instrumental in my weight loss journey and helping me get to the bottom of the emotional and hormonal barriers keeping me from being fit. “Eating your feelings” was a way of life for me, and I didn’t realize in times of high stress, I ate too much and anything I wanted. All four years of college were high stress, and so were the first few years at Bagley. Now I manage it better.
“And are you taking your meds?” Quinn probes, slipping into trainer and motivator mode as easily as she slipped into the tight jeans that turned more than one head tonight.
“Every day, Mom,” I say with an eye roll.
I also discovered I had Polycystic Ovary Syndrome, or PCOS, a hormonal condition that can affect metabolism, fertility, and other reproductive dynamics. Taking the right medication, carefully monitoring what I eat, and working out regularly have made a tremendous difference.
“Loving this look, by the way,” Quinn says, eyeing my air-conditioned boyfriend jeans, fitted T-shirt, blazer, and stilettos.
“Thanks.”
“I bet Zo will like it, too,” Quinn says innocently with naughty eyes.
I reach to push my hair behind my ear, only to find it all scooped up in a topknot. Damn habit. One thing I’ve never grown out of.
“We’ll see,” I offer with a stiff smile. “I’m still getting used to being . . . public.”
“Well, you’ve been private for six months,” Quinn reminds me. “It’s a miracle you managed to keep it under wraps as long as you did.”
“Not a miracle.” I bite into my string cheese. “I was very careful. I still don’t know how to feel about it.”
“The fact that people know, or the fact that you’re dating Zo?”
“All of it.” I fiddle with the oversize gold hoop earrings Zo gave me for my thirtieth birthday. “What if this goes wrong? I could lose my biggest client and my best friend in one fell swoop. That’s why it took me so long to cave and go out with him. Now that it’s leaking, I just hope things stay as good as they’ve been.”
“You guys are great together,” Quinn reassures.
“We’ll see this summer, won’t we?” I take a deep breath. “He’s staying with me once the season is over. With the Titans being in Vancouver, we so rarely get real time together.”
Zo has a few business interests here in LA, but I know this will be a test drive for us seeing how it feels to be in the same place longer than a night or two every few weeks. I’ve been trying to ignore the unease that creeps in every time I think of us living together. Our friendship has always been so right. The thought of things going wrong with Zo because we’re dating scares me a little.
“You guys will be fine. Just focus on what’s real. All this,” Quinn says, waving her hand at the crowded arena packed with television cameras and fans, “goes away when the game is over. You have a real relationship with a real man. Not the image you help create.”
Image.
I actually hate how much I have to think about it, especially now that I live in LA. It was one thing living in New York, but the image consciousness goes up another level out here. I’m a double-digit chick in a single-digit town. I’ve accepted that. I’ve shopped with Quinn in exclusive boutiques where the salesperson immediately offered to show me their shoes or jewelry, assuming that was all that would fit. I’m over it. I’ve stopped trying to keep up and have just determined I’ll be the best Banner I can be. That doesn’t mean I’m immune to other people talking about my image.
Hey, Hollywood, a highly successful blog, seems to have taken a special interest in my relationship with Zo. The commentary has been some of the most vicious.
“You know Hannah from Hey, Hollywood called me Sponge Banner Square Pants last week?”
Quinn spits a little of her beer out.
“Oh my God, what?” Her eyes widen first with humor, then shock, then morph to narrow angry slits.
“Yeah, and I quote. ‘Is it just me? Or does Zo Vidale’s agent/girlfriend have a squarer than normal ass? Let’s call her Sponge Banner Square Pants.’ End quote.”
“That little bitch,” Quinn says hotly. “Criticizing every detail of other people’s appearance. Meanwhile we’ve never seen what that little twat looks like. And you can betcha bottom dollar it’s nothing like the avatar she hides behind.”
“Whatever.” I shrug, prete
nding the barb doesn’t still burn where it landed.
“Not whatever.” Quinn grabs my hand and forces me to look her in the eyes the same way I’ve done over the years. “You’re beautiful, Banner. And your body is beautiful. You’ve worked hard. You’re disciplined and healthy, and heredity and squats have given you a great ass that is not abnormally square.”
“Hey, what more can a girl ask for than a ‘within normal range’ square ass?” I quip sarcastically.
“Maybe Hannah’s just pissed because she doesn’t have a fine, rich boyfriend.” Quinn’s eyes crinkle at the corners and a saucy smile spills over her mouth. “Ohhh, but boyfriend or not, you gotta appreciate premium manflesh. Incoming. Check out fine and rich, if that Tom Ford suit is anything to go by, at two o’clock.”
“Where?” I turn my head slightly to the right.
“Don’t look,” she says hastily. “He’ll know we’re interested.”
“We aren’t interested. You are, so I’m looking. Also that wasn’t two o’clock. That was ten o’clock. Did you fail driver’s ed or what?”
“Driver’s ed?” Consternation crinkles Quinn’s smooth expression.
“Ten and two?” I demonstrate the hand positions on an imaginary steering wheel.
“Good grief.” Quinn laughs and gives an exasperated shake of her head. “Just look. But guard your ovaries. He’s got a kid. He was fine in the first place. Add his adorable little girl and no ovaries are safe.”
I glance over my shoulder and everything inside of me jerks. There was a time I deliberately avoided news of Jared Foster. Over the years, I haven’t had to avoid news. There just wasn’t much of it. Not personally anyway. I know he started his own agency a couple of years ago, Elevation, formerly based in San Diego—now headquartered mere blocks from the LA office of Bagley & Associates I’m managing.
The same way he was the golden boy of Kerrington College, he has become the golden boy of sports management. Not even thirty-five years old and owns one of the fastest growing agencies in the business. Cal hates him. I suspect Cal was so determined to set up shop on the West Coast because Jared was out here. And I suspect Jared set up an office in LA because Cal did. I don’t want to be caught in the middle of their turf war, but if it happens, I won’t back down. I’ve cultivated the killer as much as the heart and know which to deploy in any given situation. Jared Foster would definitely qualify as a “situation.”
I don’t think of him or that night . . . if I can help it. Humiliation. Hurt. Confusion. Anger. That’s all I remember.
Oh. And the best sex of my life. Jared Foster remains the best thing that ever happened to my vagina, despite how horrendously left that night went. So yeah, I didn’t want to hear any personal details about him. I couldn’t have missed that he had gotten married, but I guess I did miss that he has a daughter.
I swallow around some strange hot lump in my throat as I watch her dark head touching the silky fair strands I threaded my fingers through for one night. He’s carrying her like she’s the most precious thing in the world. They’re laughing and her skinny arms loop around his neck. A petite dark-haired woman walks up behind them carrying hot dogs and beer. Her face is a replica of the little angel in Jared’s arms.
She would be petite. She would be perfect. At least she’s not a Cindy.
I turn away, hopefully before he noticed me gaping at him and his family.
“Hot, right?” Quinn asks, hush-voiced. “And the kid takes him to lava level.”
“Hmmm,” I offer noncommittally around a bite of string cheese and a sip of water.
“Oh God,” Quinn sotto-squeals. “He’s coming over here.”
I choke on my cheese, and a light sweat sprouts across the surface of my entire body. I will not let him reduce me to this again. To this naïve, nervous . . . girl who starts breathing heavily every time he’s within a two-yard radius. If I was facing him across a negotiating table, it would be an even playing field. I can hold my own with the best of them. But this isn’t a board room. It’s a basketball game. My current lover just ran onto the court. My one-night lover is headed this way. And even knowing I’m long over Jared, my stupid heart does that thing it does sometimes when I think about him.
Jerk.
9
Jared
“Where are we sitting?” Iris asks from slightly behind me.
“I want nachos,” Sarai whines, frowning at the hot dogs her mother carries.
“Sarai, you said hot dogs,” Iris returns firmly. “And I got hot dogs. I’m not going all the way back to get nachos now.”
“But, Mommy, I—”
“I’ll get the nachos,” I cut in. “Once we get settled and find our seats, I’ll go back.”
“Thank you, Uncle Jared,” Sarai says sweetly, blinking those mile-long lashes at me.
They start so young.
How does August live with this? Not gonna lie. It’s a lot of estrogen right now. After a hard day, I’d much rather be in my LA apartment with the city sprawled beneath my balcony and a glass of that overpriced whiskey Bent sent me for Christmas. Instead, I’m at a basketball game refereeing the two beautiful girls in August’s life. Don’t get me wrong, on my short list of people I can tolerate for more than a day, Iris and Sarai are near the top.
But damn.
We’re approaching the section of seats, where I recognize several Waves team friends and family, when I see her. Beside our three empty seats is Banner Morales and Quinn Barrow, one of her clients. As always, Banner’s beautiful. It really bothers me that she is always gorgeous. It would be much more convenient if she didn’t glow. If those silky hairs weren’t escaping that knot on top of her head and skimming her cheeks and the nape of her neck. If those wide same-size lips weren’t curved in a genuine smile. Her features aren’t delicate. They’re bold, each one daring you to look away.
Fuck my life.
And hearing that she’s dating Zo Vidale doesn’t help. Not that I still have feelings for her. I don’t. Not the soft gooey ones I nurtured in college. But the hard ones? The ones poking behind my zipper? They might still be around, especially when Banner is roaming out in public looking like this.
“Oh gosh,” Iris says, her voice tinged with excitement. “Are those our seats right beside Banner?”
“Yup. Looks like.”
“Oh, this is perfect.” Iris beams up at me. “You know how much I—”
“Love her,” I interrupt with a grimace. “Yeah. You mentioned. Look, if you can check your inner fangirl, that’d be great. Banner may be your Wonder Woman caped crusader in this business, but she’s also the managing partner for a rival agency that just set up shop a few blocks from Elevation.”
“Okay.” Iris nods and gives me a rueful smile. “But I do really like her.”
“Most people do.” I roll my eyes. “Just remember you work for me, and she and I vie for the same clients.”
“Have you ever blocked her shot?” Iris asks softly, probably because we’re closer to our seats now. And Banner.
A cocky grin takes over my mouth. I’m known for the block shot. Like in basketball, when one opponent deflects a field goal attempt as the ball is on its way to the hole, I love nothing more than to let another agent think he has a client on lock. Meanwhile, I knock on back doors and meet in back rooms to convince the client I’m the better option. I block their shit just when they think they’re about to score.
“No, I’ve never blocked Banner’s shot,” I reply, but level a frank warning look at Iris. “But I wouldn’t hesitate. Results trump feelings.”
“Jeesh. Glad I’m not an agent,” Iris says. “I’ll stick to marketing. Less blood.”
That’s what she thinks. If I was in marketing, there would be blood.
Banner is studying her phone when we reach the seats, but her client Quinn isn’t. She’s smiling up at me like I’m an ice cream cone in the Mojave Desert.
I get that a lot and use it with no shame.
“Hi,” I say
, meeting Quinn’s eyes with a smile of my own. “I think these are our seats.”
Banner’s head pops up, and her eyes narrow before she pulls her professional mask in place.
“Banner Morales, wow,” I drawl, setting Sarai down at the seat between Iris and me. “Long time no see.”
Her expression says not long enough, and her polite smile barely disguises it.
“Jared, great to see you again.” She looks over at Iris and Sarai. “Introduce me to your family.”
Pause.
Does she think I’ve . . . procreated?
“This is Iris West,” I say pointedly. “My sister-in-law and my niece, Sarai. Iris, this is Banner Morales.”
“Nice to meet you.” Banner shakes Iris’ hand and offers a wide natural smile for Sarai. “Hi, Sarai. Aren’t you the prettiest thing?”
Sarai burrows her head into the pant leg of my suit and peek-a-boo smiles at Banner, who tweaks her nose and chuckles.
“I bet you’re not shy at all,” Banner continues, her whole focus on my niece. Sarai giggles and shakes her head. “She’s beautiful, Iris.”
“Thank you,” my sister-in-law replies, sliding me a cautious glance before going on. “I’m really looking forward to hearing you speak at the convention next week.”
“In Denver?” Banner asks, her expression surprised. “You’re an agent?”
“No, sports marketing,” Iris says.
“Well, I look forward to seeing you there.” Banner glances at me. “I’m just putting it all together now. Sister-in-law, so you’re married to August?”
“Yes.” Iris beams, and only the most hardened cynic would doubt she’s with my famous brother for any reason but love.
“Now I recognize you,” Banner says. “You haven’t been married long, right? Congratulations.”
“Thank you.”
“Oh.” Banner sends her friend an apologetic look. “Sorry! This is my friend Quinn Barrow.”
“I love your app. I was lucky enough to get in the beta group,” Iris says, accepting Quinn’s outstretched hand. “This morning it told me to put my wide ride in gear.”