Page 67 of All Signs Point to Malibu

If you’re not an expert at something, admit it and be humble enough to learn.

Music plays over the sounds of laughter and good-natured banter in Warren’s man cave. I’m sitting at his poker table with six athletes, as promised. I’m losing miserably, but I’m having a great time.

More than anything, I’m happy to see Warren again. I’d hoped that a few days apart would help diminish my attraction to him. But apparently there’s some truth to the saying absence makes the heart grow fonder.

At least on my end.

It’s been hard to read him this evening. He’s casual and confident and winning, so naturally he’s in a great mood. His connection with his buddies is obvious and that speaks volumes to who he is—a lot of professional athletes have trouble staying connected once careers end. But he’s keeping a slight distance from me, and his gaze—when it does drift my way—is void of any real intensity.

Had I imagined the connection between us last week?

The last game ends after midnight and everyone gets ready to leave, but Warren sends me a look.

I’m up. Time for my pitch!

I clear my throat and stand. “Hey, before you all leave, I was wondering if I could have just a few minutes of your time.”

The players look slightly uneasy—they obviously know what’s coming—but Warren says, “Dudes, you took all her money, it’s the least you can do.”

I send him a grateful smile and he winks at me.

That wink has gone from irritating to cute to completely catching me off guard, and I almost sag in relief at the briefest hint that I hadn’t imagined our connection. Not that anything can come of it.

I force a more professional demeanor as I smile around the table. “Who’d like to go first? Maybe we can head into the spare room?” Five minutes with each of them is all I need to glimpse into their individual futures and formulate a pitch that resonates...

Uninterested expressions stare back at me.

A phone chimes and Alan—a kicker for the San Francisco Dolphins—stands. “The wife. Gotta split. Sorry, Hailey. Great to meet you though.”

“Oh, um...”

With a fist bump to Warren, he’s gone.

Shit. Lost one already.

I glance at Warren and he sends me a look that says “this is as good as it gets.”

I repress a sigh as I sit back down. Team pitch it is, then. But how the hell am I going to touch their lifelines this way?

I’d wanted to start getting clients on my own merit and hard work, now’s my chance to try.

I clear my throat and start my spiel. “As all of you know, I am a life coach and I’m building my roster of sports clients.”

“Who do you coach already?” Jeremy asks.

Should have expected that one. No one wants to be the first to jump on an empty bandwagon. “Well...no one, but I have feelers out there.”

Lack of interest all around. I’m crashing and burning. This is the first time I’ve had to rely on anything but my gift.

Think, Hailey, think! How do I impress these guys? After research, I know more about football and the leagues, but my mind is going blank in this pressure cooker of a moment. I’ve never had to think on my feet like this before.

My phone vibrates, tucked under my leg on my chair, and I ignore it.

Then Warren kicks me under the table. I shoot him a look and he sends a nod toward the phone. I glance down at it and discreetly open the text from him that reads:Jeremy wants to make a move to Dallas.

My eyes widen. He’s tipping me off?

I glance back up and direct my attention to Jeremy. “Hey, Jeremy, are you happy with San Diego?”

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