Page 8 of Playing for the Hat Trick
And now I have to fix him.
I groan and drop into my chair as if it personally offended me. I glare at the ceiling, silently begging for divine inspiration—or a lightning bolt. I’d settle for either. The third option of the ground swallowing me whole? Not happening. Unfortunately.
“Text Jacob and tell him he’s fired. I’ll get myself a new agent,” I mutter.
“I’ll add it to the list,” Em says with a chirpy efficiency that makes me want to throw my shoe at her. She’s already tapping on her tablet, probably logging it between ordering more resistance bands and saving the Boss from herself.
Jason fucking Tate.
Of all the ways I thought this day could go, getting blindsided by the universe’s cruel sense of humor wasn’t on my bingo card. I’d rather take a flying resistance band to the face again. And I’ve had one snap on me mid-stretch—I still have trust issues with latex.
If he’d just told me . . . if Jacob had mentioned this minor detail . . . I could’ve delivered a hard, fast, hell-the-fuck no. Gift-wrapped with a bow and a “best of luck with the rebranding.”
But no. Of course not. Because why make things simple when we can make them humiliating?
I haven’t seen Jason since the Olympic closing ceremony. There was champagne. Confetti. Tongues in places they don’t normally belong, and hands that were so soft. The stupid cardboard beds didn’t even slow us down. But as quickly as the moment came, it vanished (along with any sign of Jason) the morning after. . .
I felt like such an idiot, wanting to wake up in his arms as if it meant anything to him. And then I disappeared like Houdini with abandonment issues: barely saving face from what would’ve been a revolving circus of paparazzi until he denounced me publicly like a stupid school-age crush. At least he saved me time and dignity by showing me how he felt upfront. “You could say no,” Em says softly as if she’s handling a wild animal or a woman on the verge.
But we both know I won’t.
First, I owe Jacob that much. And second . . . if I start turning away every athlete who pisses me off, I’d be left with three clients and a volleyball team from Salem that brings me baked goods and zero emotional trauma.
I press my palms against the desk. The cool wood feels good against my sweaty hands. I take a deep breath in and out. I’ve got this.
“He’s not going to show,” I say, leaning back like I’m unbothered. I deserve an Oscar.
“You don’t know that,” Em replies without looking up.
“I do. Jason Tate doesn’t beg. He broods until he implodes, and someone has to call a therapist or a PR firm.”
“So you’re not worried?”
“Not at all.” My voice is breezy. My stomach, however, is doing a backflip and landing crooked. Traitor.
I don’t trust my gut today. It’s hormonal. Or caffeinated. Either way, logic has the wheel.
Fifteen minutes later, my father strolls into the office with his green smoothie and that look that says,I have opinions and nowhere else to put them.
“You’re pacing.”
“I’m not. I’m strategically shifting between desk zones.”
“You’re muttering, too.”
“It’s called stress dispersal. It’s practically clinical. Look it up.”
He sips from his smoothie like it’s my fault he’s retired. I’m one passive-aggressive comment away from buying him a fancy blender and mailing him back with express shipping to wherever my father is. Full retirement looks about as good on him as bangs did on me last year when I was way too desperate to find a new look.
Can his husband not keep him distracted with a renovation or a fake emergency? Honestly, I’m starting to think he sends my dad over here on purpose. And I might start doing the same.
“You’ve got that look again,” Papa says.
I pause. “What look?”
“The ‘someone just challenged me to a duel, and I’m only bringing sarcasm and a questionable life plan’ look.”
I sigh, dragging a hand through my hair. “Jacob sent me a patient. A complicated one.”
