Page 49 of Texting, Trouble & Touchdowns
Lucian: Mi casa es su casa. And I promise to make it fun.
Chapter Fifteen
Lucian
A Guide to Pissing Off My Agent
When my phone rings and Jacob McCallister’s name flashes across the screen, I can barely stifle a sigh. I move carefully,mindful not to wake Luna, who’s curled up in my arms, and slip in my earbuds before answering.
“Luc Crawford speaking.”
“Are you actively trying to give me a stroke?” Jacob’s voice is already at a ten.
I grab my mug and take a slow sip of coffee—because I’m a fucking considerate person and wouldn’t dream of making this worse for him—before responding.
“Gotta be more specific, Jackie boy. Which thing are you mad about this time?”
There’s a pause.
A deep, ominous pause.
Silence that precedes an explosion.
And then, Jacob loses his ever-loving shit.
“The fucking renovation videos, Lucian. Are you trying to audition for the fucking home renovation network?”
Ah, that’s why his panties are all twisted in a bunch. This man needs to learn to let loose some of that control he holds on too tightly. I could tell him to get laid, but he’s happily married and popping children out like they’re a family of rabbits. Okay, two isn’t that many, but still, he gets laid. So, what is his problem.
I lean back on the sofa, kicking my feet up on the table. “Oh,” I whisper. “You need to be quiet. I’m babysitting Luna, and we don’t want to wake my girl.”
Jacob ignores this completely. “So you admit it.”
I sigh, stretching. “I get that you’re talking about the videos. Not sure what you want me to admit, other than they were fucking amazing. I heard they were a hit, racking up millions of views.”
Jacob makes a sound of pure agony. “A hit?! You hijacked your own brand, transformed yourself into a walking, talking contractor advertisement, and now the sports network is airingsegments discussing whether the Knights’ top player has secretly switched careers because he can’t seem to win a fucking ring.”
I wince.
Okay. That part? Maybe not ideal. Who knew it would blow up so much that the networks—and my agent—would catch wind of it? Not me. I thought it’d stay local to the people who really care about hiring Mike or Pete.
I keep my voice even, though. “That’s harsh. But we’re good, right?”
“Good?” Jacob growls. “You were meant to be low-key during the offseason. You know—focus on family, train at home, and keep your image clean. Don’t fucking hijack the internet with your fucking reckless antics.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Fucking reckless? That hurts, Jacob. This was perfectly planned. I don’t make any moves without having a goal.”
I pause, letting the moment hang.
“And let me tell you—the goal? Achieved.” I grin imagining my flustered little neighbor tied into knots because she hates that I’m helping her, but also, she’s warming up to me. “It was so fucking achieved. I count it as a win.”
Jacob groans like he’s actively aging as we speak. “It should hurt. Because now? I’m getting calls. The team is getting calls. Do you know what happens when people start talking about a player’s ‘second career’, Luc?”
I shrug. “Yeah. More press.”
Jacob’s voice erupts through the line, loud enough that I have to pull the earbud away for a second. “How many times do I need to tell you and your siblings that more press is not always good press?”
I stare at the ceiling, utterly unbothered.
