Page 38 of Pursued by the Player

He took in a breath and let it out again before he spoke. “Look, if you want to get anywhere in this business, then you have to start thinking like a businesswoman. These days, it’s not about the clothing itself, but the marketing, the brand associated with it.” He waved his hand in the air. “We could pass off paper bags as dresses and have women scrambling for them if we had a big name backing it.”

“But these aren’t dresses. Their every day—“

“I know, I know. That’s not my point. My point is. . .” He straightened away from the desk. “You have a lot of potential, Melody, but spots on my team go to people who are willing to play the game, and play hard.” He pointed at the screen. “That clothing line is incredible, but it is nothing without a marketing spin.”

“Marketing. . .” Mel didn’t like where this conversation was going.

“People need a purpose, a reason to buy a product. Being pretty doesn’t cut it anymore.”

“How about functionality?”

He scowled. “People buy things to be seen in them. They buy for labels and how it makes them feel. Give this clothing a label, give it a purpose.” He brushed his fingers against her arm. “If you do, then I promise you that not only will this clothing line sell, but it will make you a star.”

Mel watched him leave as she turned his words over in her head. Make her a star . . . She had no use for fame or popularity, but she had to admit that he had a point. Clothing needed a purpose, and perhaps that purpose could be to make amends.

She grabbed her cell and pulled up Jett’s number. Rubbing her fingers over the keys, she thought about sending a lengthy email explaining her plan but then dismissed it. If he knew what she was up to, then he might not come. Better to make things vague, and then let him be surprised. It would be even better if she made it more personal.

Tightening her grip on her phone, she called downstairs and asked for a front row seat ticket at her fashion show. Then she pulled out some stationary, and began to write. . .

Jett stareddown at the words on the pink stationary in his hand. I know how you must feel about me, but please come to the show. There will be a surprise.

Melody had signed her name in the same curvy script of the request. It was written by a feminine hand and reminded Jett of Mel’s sultry curves. Fuck, he had loved that body, every soft inch of it.

The last few days had been torture. Mel was never far from his thoughts. He saw her everywhere, heard her everywhere. Even her goddamn scent haunted him like a ghost. She was the only person who knew his past and didn’t think less of him. She had seen through the playboy façade to the man underneath. He had thought that she was different, that she liked him and not what he could give her.

But he was wrong. She was just like everyone else. Friends, teammates, reporters, even his agent wanted a piece of his income. Everyone stood around him with their hands out, waiting for him to pay for their companionship. Mel had been just like the rest, using his name and likeness to pimp her new clothing line.

Clothes. It was a new low. With his luck, this new line was pink and feminine. Now his name was associated with a bunch of frilly nonsense. It was going to take months to disentangle himself from her claws and redefine his brand. His publicist had already chewed him out for approving something that had nothing to do with his image.

But he didn’t approve it, did he? And that was what made Mel lower than all of the other vultures circling him. They were all up front with him, either with contracts or deals sealed with handshakes. Jett knew what he was getting into with them. Mel had blind-sided him, and he was still reeling.

That was why he would never go to her dumb fashion show, and why he wouldn’t even dignify her letter with a response. Let her rot, let them all rot. He was better off by himself.

“Hey Jett, you’re wanted on the field,” Diaz called from the doorway.

Crumpling the note, Jett shoved both it and the ticket into his duffle bag and tossed the mess into his locker.

“Hey! Easy now.”

Jett looked up at Diaz rounding the row of lockers with his hands raised. “Tell them I’m coming.”

“Remind me not to get on your bad side,” Diaz joked.

“Fuck you.” Jett rubbed a hand over his face. “Sorry. I guess I haven’t been myself lately.”

“Tell me about it. You’re late for practice. Your pitching has gone to shit. . .” He shook his head. “Look, man, I wasn’t going to say anything . . . but there have been rumors.”

“Rumors?”

“You’re losing your touch.”

“I’m fine.”

Diaz leaned against the row of lockers and crossed his arms. “I don’t know what hold that girl has over you, but you need to shake it. Coach is talking about benching you for tomorrow’s double header.”

“No.” Jett slammed his locker door shut. “He can’t do that.”

Diaz shrugged. “Quite frankly, I don’t blame him. If you pitch tomorrow night like you’ve been pitching all week, we’ll never make the playoffs.”

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