Page 7 of Perfect Praise

I shrug. That has zero relevance to the fact that I hear the click of her camera shutter all day on seventy-five percent of the days in a year, and the sound grates me down my spine.

“You’re impossible,” Conrad says.

“Let’s not talk about me. What’s new with my favorite girl?”

He pauses then happily relents because like every new parent, he’ll take any excuse to talk about his daughter, Emmie. “As of this week, she’s holding her head up now. You should see how cute she looks in her little seat, looking around at the world all happy that she can see it. And then, of course, she’s a terror at night because she’s hit a four-month sleep regression.”

I nod in understanding. Four months ago, I had no fucking clue that a one-day-old baby couldn’t hold their head up or what a sleep regression was or that babies can’t drink water. Now, I babysit.

Conrad is in the middle of a story about how she shat in various shades of green and yellow all over his lap after a bath when my phone starts ringing.

I slide it out of my pocket and step away to let him go back to his practice swings.

“Word travels that fast?” I say.

“Pleasure, as always,” Graham replies, “and as your agent, I’m expected to know these things before they happen.”

“Nothing is happening.”

He ignores me. “Rooting around in rivals’ ex-girlfriends? Bold move. One that I can’t control the narrative of when you don’t talk to me.”

“There is nothing to control,” I try again. “That fucking reality show was trying to make good TV. I hardly know the girl.”

“Well, shit,” he sighs. “I thought I stumbled on something. Would it kill you to date someone? Show the world you can be a cute boyfriend in a serious relationship?”

“You think I’m cute?” I joke.

Again, Graham ignores me. “You know what would be a PR dream? Showing the world how much of a better boyfriend you are than Russell Ashe. Doesn’t even need to be real. Do you think this Maren woman would agree to that? It might make you appear more… human.”

“As opposed to?” I question.

“Robotic?” he says with a question mark.

“My AI is showing?”

He scoffs. “Actually, this may be my best idea yet. What about Casie?”

“Over,” I say, playing with a tuft of grass under the toe of my shoe and deciding in the moment.

“Locke.”

I shrug like he can see me. “I’m bored.”

Which I know is a byproduct of not letting someone in, but I don’t care. It’s not worth it, and I have no interest in it. Surface level is all I want, until, well, until I get tired of it and move on to the next temporary surface level thing that satisfies me for a couple of months. Nothing about me screams that I’d want to enter into a fake relationship to better my image, especially when I don’t care about that image.

“Think about it,” Graham insists.

“Thought about it—no.”

“How’s Florida?” he asks, changing the subject.

“Sunny.”

“So is San Diego. I’ve got a few commitments lined up. And before you complain, youhaveto do at least some of this. It’s required, per your contract, and it won’t kill you. This is part of your job. Pressconferences, interviews, dinner and drinks with sponsors, among other things. I’ll email you the schedule tonight. Look it over.”

Amongother thingssounds suspicious.

“I told you this year was the year of less,” I say. “Less tournaments, less obligations. I want more time with my family, especially my niece, and Conrad deserves it. He’s been traveling with me for a decade. If you’re not going to do what I want, what do I pay you twenty percent of my marketing dollars for?”

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