Page 26 of Roughing the Player
Chapter 8
Eleanor
WHAT AMI DOING AT BROCK’S PLACE? I should be home with my daughter, not in his condo passing myself off as the tenant although, technically, I now am. Originally I may have leased the place in the agency’s name, but Marty requested I change it to mine to give credence to me being here. Problem is, it now looks as if I’m the owner of those sex toys and that bed with the restraints. If word were to get out, I shudder to think what would happen. But then I guess that’s the price I must pay for going along with this arrangement.
I agreed to come here, partly for money, partly to save Brock’s reputation. I’d told myself it would be okay. That Marty would explain the situation to Brock before I moved in. But he’d asked me to handle it. Brock has no idea I’m here going through his possessions. And that is so wrong. Whatever Marty thinks, I have no right to intrude into Brock’s privacy, especially after the way I walked out on him. No. I didn’t leave. I’d fled without bothering with any explanations.
Of course, Marty doesn’t know about Saturday, nor is he aware Brock and I know each other. He asked me to complete this assignment to see what kind of an agent I’ll make. According to him, sports agents have to go way beyond the call of duty for the good of the client. And this is one of those times. I’ll need to provide cover for Brock, and if need be, fall on the sword. Hopefully, it won’t come to that.
Well, at least I’ll have a couple of days before I need to explain things to Brock. He’ll be done with camp tomorrow and move in the next day. It will be awkward at first, but surely he’ll understand. I just need to figure out what to say to him.
In the meantime, I better get busy. This might not be my stuff, but I will be living here, and we’ll need a working kitchen. I might as well put away some things. If Brock asks about it, I’ll tell him it’s part of the move in service. Other than dishes, glasses, flatware and a fancy coffee maker, he doesn’t have much in the way of kitchen stuff. It takes me no time to empty those cardboard boxes.
Done with that task, I make my way to the guest bedroom, the one that has a regular bed. Unlike the kitchen, there are oodles of boxes here, all clearly marked. My conscience rears up its ugly head. It’s one thing to put away his dishes and cutlery, it’s another to handle his personal belongings. Some of the containers are labeled “suits.” Maybe it would be okay to hang them up? After all, there’s nothing too terribly personal about his fancy threads. Besides, they might wrinkle badly if left in their wardrobe boxes too long. In reality I’d be doing him a favor. Having rationalized my actions, I tear open one of the boxes and get busy. I’ve just cracked open the second one when a rattle sounds at the front door.
My breath hitches as my heart jumps to my throat. What on earth? Except for the condo management and me, nobody has a key to this place.
When steps grow closer and closer, I grab a wooden hanger and burrow deep in the closet. Whoever it is, I won’t go down without a fight. But when a huge shadow looms larger than life at the opening, my courage deserts me, and I squeak.
“Ellie?” Brock steps into the light, sporting a frown.
I whoosh out a breath from the sheer relief of it. “Thank God, it’s you.”
“What are you doing here?”
I return the wooden hanger to the rod. “Ummm, unpacking your stuff?”
His brow knits as he stares at me. “Why?”
Think fast, Ellie. “I-I-I”—gulp—“wanted to surprise you.”
“Surprise me?”
“Yes.” I struggle to put on my game face. “You only have seven days between training camp and the first game, which as you know is on the road. And you’ll be busy next week at the Outlaws’ compound getting ready for that. Since you wouldn’t have much time to unpack, I thought I’d surprise you by doing it for you.” I fling my arms open wide. “Surprise.”
He scratches the back of his head as if he can’t quite figure me out. “Oh, okay. Thanks, I guess.” His brow remains wrinkled. No wonder. Saturday, I’m storming out of his room. Thursday, I’m hanging up stuff in his closet. Can’t blame him for being confused. Hope he doesn’t ask about my change of heart. I don’t have an answer for him.
Stepping into the bedroom, I ask as nonchalantly as I can, “How did you get the keys to this place?”
“Someone from your agency sent them to training camp, along with a note saying that my stuff had arrived.”
“We did?”
He stares at me like I’ve grown two heads. “Yeah. Didn’t you know?”
“I’d forgotten.” I’d forgotten all right. Forgotten to tell my assistant not to do that. After my conversation with Marty, I’d had a chat with her. Turns out she’d known all along who’d be living in the condo. And since our standard operating procedure is to provide our clients with the personal touch, she’d followed through and sent Brock’s keys to him at camp. Well, no sense crying over spilled milk. The damage is done. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“Mind?”
“That I’m here. Going through your stuff.”
His lips curl into that sexy grin I love. “No, I don’t. You might be in for a surprise, though.”
I scrunch my face. “You mean your orgy room?”
He barks out a laugh. “My orgy room?”
“Yes. Isn’t that where you have your—” I can’t say it a second time.
