Wolf: A Sports Romance: The Nighthawk Series #2

by Lisa Lang Blakeney

  “Not to mention that you get to make your own hours. When you’re getting a blow out at the hairdresser’s in the middle of the freakin’ day, I’m carrying a heavy mail bag and running from vicious Pomeranians.”

  “I might pay to see that one day. You running from a dog as big as the size of your head,” Carla jokes.

  “First of all, I never go to the hairdressers during work hours. I barely go at all.”

  “That’s obvious.” Nana adds her unwanted two cents about my lack of style.

  I ignore her and continue. “And it isn’t that I’m a big kahuna or tell his employees what to do,” I say. “But it’s more like I’m the gate keeper. I maintain his complicated schedule. Between football and his business ventures, things can get complicated, so he prefers for people to go through me to get to him. My daily grind is making sure that I don’t muck up his day. I have to triple check dates, times, orders.”

  “Sounds like the perfect job to me, especially because you’re good as hell at it. I know you didn’t grow up saying you’d make a kick-ass executive assistant one day, but here you are, doing the damn thing.”

  “And doing it well!”

  “Yep, if you don’t want that job then I’ll take it. It beats working at the post office.”

  “There’s no perfect job, Monica.”

  “That’s exactly what I’m saying. We’re basically in agreement. Why are you searching for something that doesn’t exist when you’ve got a sweet gig already?”

  “There’s nothing wrong with my job, per se, other than the fact that my boss has the inability to think about anyone other than himself, but that’s not really the point. I could live with that if I really wanted to. What I’m actually saying is that it’s the only real job I’ve ever had. The only thing I’ve done since college. I want to try something else. Explore my options and maybe find my passion.”

  “Passion?”

  “Puh-lease … passion is overrated.”

  “And are you going to just hop from dead-end job to dead-end job trying to find yourself? What do you mean exactly by exploring your options and finding your passion?”

  Carla is the oldest and sometimes flip-flops between acting like my sister and acting like my mother. She’s questioned every big decision I’ve ever made, and I am always seeking her approval.

  “Yeah, sis, we don’t get it. You work for a gorgeous man. A football player. A self-made billionaire. What better options are there?” Monica agrees.

  “I want to do something else. Something different,” I say emphatically. Frustrated that they aren’t telling me what a great decision I’ve made. “Something unlike what I’m doing.”

  “Unlike working for a god?”

  “Working for a narcissist,” I correct Monica.

  “You mean working for those washboard abs and those tree trunk legs.”

  “And that butt!”

  “Ugh, you guys are hopeless and gross.”

  “Oh, and don’t forget about that killer smile of his.”

  “And that laugh. What about his laugh.”

  “Oh, right. His teeth are the perfect shade of arctic white. I bet he gets them professionally bleached, doesn’t he, Ursula?”

  “As if I’d tell either of you,” I say finally getting a word in edgewise.

  “Why not? Inquiring minds want to know.”

  “Would you two stop it,” I chastise. “You are the main people in my life who always complain that I never have any time for anything.”

  “We said that?” they ask in unison.

  “Yes, you.” I point directly at them. “Monica, you always say I’m a disgrace to millennials everywhere, because I can’t hang out for a drink on a random Thursday night with you.”

  “She’s right. You never give anyone any notice, and you do always want to do something on a Thursday,” Carla chimes in. “It’s weird.”

  “And Carla, you’ve been passive aggressively threatening me with that baby inside of your tummy since it’s conception. What was the last thing you said? Something about how you hope the baby will be able to recognize my face since I never come over your house.”

  “Ooh that’s true. You do say that, Carla.”

  “Babies need repetition to recognize faces,” Carla declares. “That’s just the facts.”

  Nana has been sitting quietly sipping on her can of diet green tea ginger ale, but at this point decides to jump into the conversation.

  “The real issue here is that if you leave that job, somebody else is going to snatch up that man.”

  “Sure will.”

  “Wait … what?”

  Carla and I look at Monica and Nana like they’ve lost their minds.

  “Snatch him up? How about if I leave my job, then maybe someone will finally snatch me up and make an honest woman out of me. I could never date anyone working for that tyrant. No one would put up with my erratic late-night schedule. Always being at his beck and call. I’m twenty-four years old, and I’ve never had a real relationship.”

  “You haven’t met the right person because you already work for him.”

  “Nana, you are so off base. There is nothing between Coop and me. He’s like the big brother that I never wanted. There is nothing between us. Zero. Zilch. Nada.”

  Nana lifts her eyes up slowly from behind her can of soda. “Touchy. Touchy.”

  Monica giggles. “Can I just say that I think that tyrant is too strong of a word to use to describe that wonderful man you work for.”

  “You don’t know him.”

  “Well now that you’ve brought it up, you’re right we don’t. You won’t let us get to know him. You’ve been keeping us away from him for three years with all of your excuses. It’s embarrassing when our friends ask us what Cooper Barnes is like, and we’re forced to tell them that we’ve never met the man. Are we your ugly stepsisters or something?! Are you embarrassed by us, Cinderella?” Monica asks with her hands firmly planted on her hips.

  Monica and Carla are indeed my older stepsisters, but they’re far from ugly, and they could never embarrass me. In fact, these two are awesome women, my best friends, and probably the best thing to ever happen to me since the accident.

  Chapter Six

  Memories of the accident come to me in flashes at random times and in cold sweats. It was a rainy late night in March, and I was only six years old. I remember it was March, because the city was still cleaning up after the big St. Patrick’s Day parade, and there was green confetti everywhere. I thought it was so pretty.

  According to the stories I’ve heard over the years, my mother was driving a little too fast and the driver of the car that hit us may have had a few too many beers. Although I have frequent nightmares about that night, I don’t remember details. I don’t remember enough.

  All I know for sure is what I was told. That someone hit us and then we rolled over about three times, causing a five-car collision behind us, and ending upside down on the side of FDR drive. I’m not sure exactly how, but I made it out alive albeit bruised and battered. My mother didn’t make it out at all.

  My stepmother (Evelyn) was a friend of the family who respectfully supported us through that difficult time, and then about two years after the accident, married my father, and the five of us have been a happy family ever since.

  Sure, there were some bumps along the road, but there isn’t one day that I’m not grateful that God put them in my life right when I so desperately needed family. Even Nana is good to me. She’s Monica and Carla’s biological grandmother but treats me exactly the same, if not even a little better at times.

  Carla and Monica took their roles as my big sisters seriously. As a tradition, every year they would give me a bag of Swedish Fish candy on my first day of school with a handwritten note—even senior year—they would always fight my battles (they gave a wedgie to this one boy who was bullying me), always frighten my boyfriends (that’s why I’ve never had a half-decent one) and they could always make me laugh. No biologic
al sister could have treated me any better. I adore them.

  “You really should be thanking me. I’ve saved you a huge amount of disappointment. This fantasy you’ve created around who you think Coop is would have been completely obliterated.”

  “I don’t care what you say, Urs’. That man didn’t win this year’s influencer athlete award for nothing. You heard what all of those people said about him. He’s a phenomenal player, he does so much for the community, and he’s well respected. There’s no way that he can be as bad as you say. You might want to take a moment and think about all of that before making the final decision to quit the best job you’ll ever have.”

  I’m disappointed that they aren’t excited for me, but I don’t bother challenging my sister’s warped opinion of my boss anymore. It’s my fault. I make him look good. I’ve made what I do look easy. I have calculated and executed Coop’s every want and wish for the last three years.

  I know how to squash drama, how to massage the media’s coverage of him, how to ignore his egotistical comments and how to make him the perfect protein smoothie. I’m sure to most people it looks like I have a dream job but being an assistant to one of the most self-loving, highly opinionated players in the league is not for the faint of heart. You need thick skin. Elephant skin. Rhinoceros skin.

  “Think about it this way. I’ve saved enough money that I can literally take off a year and help you with the baby while I figure out what my next move is.”

  Carla’s eyes enlarge. Now, that’s an idea that she can get excited about.

  “And on the weekends when Dexter is home with Carla and the baby, I can hang with you, Monica. We can order tequila shots all night and get twisted out of our minds if you want. Why? Because I won’t have to worry about being sober twenty-four hours a day just in case he calls me for something. Don’t you get it? I’m free now.”

  I twirl around like a ballerina.

  An awkward ballerina holding a bowling ball.

  “Ursula Owens, I don’t want to hear anything about you getting twisted.”

  I cringe a bit at Nana’s reprimanding tone. I don’t like to disappoint her either, but she should face the truth at some point. Adults drink alcohol. Including me. It’s crazy how they all still see me as the baby.

  “Sorry, Nana, but I haven’t done any of the things that women in their twenties do because of this job. It’s a rite of passage for me to get drunk and party once in a while, and I didn’t do it while I was in college. Not really. I was too worried about keeping my scholarship to party.”

  I was an acting major in the fine arts department, and because I had a major role in every theatre production at my high school and because my stepmom dutifully pays her tithes, our church awarded their annual “full ride” scholarship to me. The only thing I had to make sure to do was to keep my GPA up.

  The look on my family’s face when I was awarded it was not only filled with pride but loaded with pressure. Neither of my sisters have degrees. Monica went to a community college for a year and then quit to work at the post office, and Carla married Dexter young and does medical billing from home. I was expected to go to school, do well, and most of all graduate with a degree. There was no room for failure.

  “She’s right,” Monica concedes. “This job has been her whole life.”

  “But look at what she has to show for it,” Nana says. “She’s traveled all over the country and even overseas. She has money in the bank. A nice apartment. That’s way more than I even dreamed of having at her age.”

  “But …” I use my fingers to make a point of listing the drawbacks of my job. “No friends. No pets. No boyfriend. No auditions.”

  “No debt. No moochers. No whiny husbands. No dog hair in your bed,” Carla counters. “But let’s not play the game of whose grass is greener on the other side. Dexter and I are fighting to make ends meet and we are both working. In my opinion, this just doesn’t seem like the right time to make such a risky move.”

  “I’ve got quite a bit saved,” I say with a bit of a cocky tone.

  “Ooh, someone’s bragging.” Carla takes a light swat at my butt.

  “Well it sounds like you’ve made your decision,” Monica interjects. “When are you going to tell him? How are you going to tell him? I imagine it won’t go very well, because remember that I’ve overheard some of your phone conversations, and you two don’t seem to have a normal boss and employee relationship. You guys, I don’t know, play around a lot? And he seems extremely … dependent on you.”

  “I’m going to tell him this week. I just have to tighten up a few things I’m a part of with his foundation before I go.”

  “Oh yeah, he’s opening that school for boys in September right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why would you leave before he opens the school. That seems kind of a big deal.”

  “There’s never going to be a good time to leave,” I say defensively. “He always has something important coming up. I want to do it now because it just seems like the right time to do it.”

  “You mean before you lose your nerve.”

  “No, that’s not what I mean at all.” I sigh in exasperation.

  “Are you a hundred percent sure about this?” Carla asks with concern.

  “Trust me, when I tell him, he’ll be fine. He’s always saying that everyone is expendable and replaceable.” I mimic Coop’s deep voice. “He’s not going to care as much as you all seem to think he will.”

  “Speaking of the awards … that afterparty was killer. Thanks for the invite, baby sis.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Carla sticks out her tongue at us. “Boo, I should have been the plus one.”

  “You can’t drink. You can’t dance. What would have been the point of you going,” Monica says dismissively. “You would have been like a wet blanket.”

  “You should be on bed rest anyway,” I add. “You shouldn’t be out partying and to be honest—not bowling either.”

  “You’re just mad because you’re losing.”

  “I’m thinking of the health of my future niece or nephew.”

  “Well I couldn’t sit in the house another damn minute. Nana said it would be good for me and the baby to get out and move our bodies. Didn’t you, Nana?”

  Carla has already had two difficult pregnancies that resulted in late miscarriages. We’re all being extra cautious about this pregnancy. Some of us are being more cautious than others. In fact, my brother-in-law, Dexter, would probably kill us all if he knew we were out bowling instead of in the house watching CSI reruns like Carla told him we were.

  “Last time I checked, Nana wasn’t a doctor,” I say.

  “You’ve never even had sex! What do you know.”

  Nana sips on her ginger ale and then speaks. “I’ve given birth three times, and I know what I know. The baby needs movement. A little bowling won’t put Carla into early labor. The baby will decide when he or she wants to arrive.”

  “I’m not saying she shouldn’t get out of the house, but she probably shouldn’t be exerting herself.”

  “No need to argue about it now. She’s here, she’s playing, and we’re not taking her home. I don’t consider bowling an aerobic sport.”

  “Thank you, Doctor Monica.” I’m staying out of it at this point.

  “And now that we’ve unsuccessfully talked you out of making the biggest mistake of your life, Ursula, can we finish whipping your butt?” Monica asks, adding a little levity back into the afternoon.

  “Let’s do it,” I say rubbing my hands together like a praying mantis. “I’m feeling lucky. I’m going to quit my job, I’m about to roll a strike, and my life is going to be awesome from here on out. I don’t care what ya’ll say.”

  “Okay, Ursula!”

  “You’ve got this.”

  “Roll that strike, sweetie,” Nana cheers.

  And then …

  Gutterball.

  Chapter Seven

  “Can I get you anything el
se, Mr. Barnes? How about a little more pie?”

  The question just posed to me wouldn’t be so annoying if it hadn’t been laced with sexual innuendo. I suppose it makes complete sense though, because the woman asking is flashing the biggest areolas I’ve ever seen in my life. Pert nipples that are begging to be tweaked or tugged as they overtly jut through a transparent white tank top. Their state no doubt manipulated by the frigid conditions of the room and torrid thoughts of me.

  I can’t help but stare at them for a moment before finally looking away. I love the shape and form of a woman, of all women, but I want no parts of this one. She’s trouble. Paternity Court type of trouble.

  “Nah, I’m good.”

  I’m sitting on a stool, on a freezing set, in front of bright lights and a green screen, getting ready to shoot my third laundry detergent commercial for Bolt detergent—my latest endorsement deal. One of the executives for the company, Brad, was my college roommate, and I owed him one, so I agreed to the deal. When we were freshmen I yacked in his mom’s brand-new Toyota on our way home from a frat party, and he’s never let me forget it. I’ve been “owing him one” ever since.

  I’ve just finished filling myself up on a variety of crap from the craft service table. A table where miss perky nipples was serving up dessert. I’m supposed to be cutting out all refined sugars and white flours from my diet. It’s the strict nutrition regimen I stick to when I’m getting ready for the season, but the mini pecan pies on the table were calling me. Pecan pie always reminds me of home.

  “You certainly are good, Mr. Barnes.” She pretends to brush crumbs off of her chest to draw even more attention to her breasts. “Good in every way.”

  Oh for fuck’s sake. Where is Owens? It’s my assistant’s job to keep these kind of desperate women from approaching me. It’s not like her to be late or a no-show. I text her a couple of angry emojis. Words aren’t necessary. She’s been like my right-hand man and little sister combined for the last three years. She knows me best. She’ll get the point.