Page 5 of Roughing the Player
I nod while I wait for the other shoe to drop.
Leaning back in his chair, he temples his hands across his middle. “I want you to babysit Brock.”
* * *
Babysit Brock. Yeah. Sure. Piece of cake. Has he met him? For the last seven years, no one has been able to curb Brock’s wild excesses. Not Marty, not his coaches. Not anyone I know. But now it’s up to me to make sure he behaves? God help me.
At least I know some of his weaknesses which is why I’m waiting at O’Hare’s baggage claim area, caramel macchiato and chocolate croissant in hand. The chock-full-of calories welcome wagon is not a wild guess on my part. He loves sweets. I’ve done my research on him. Not that I needed to do much. I’ve followed his career since high school.
True to his aspirations, Brock attended a southern college, Clemson University, where he’d earned glory for the most passing yards and touchdowns thrown in NCAA history. After graduation, he’d signed with Florida. Three years into his contract, he’d been traded to San Diego after things spun out of control at a house party. And just like that, he’d gone from a promising career to backup. I can only imagine how much that had to hurt.
I glance at my watch for the umpteenth time. His flight arrived ten minutes ago. So he should be here any second. I hope I’m ready for this.
As soon as he steps off the escalator, his gaze lands on me. To my surprise, his lips curl into that sensual smile I remember so well. If he was a gorgeous high school senior, he’s downright stunning now. Six-foot-four of a well-muscled frame, honey blond hair and piercing green eyes would get any woman’s motor running, including me. Most especially me.
He struts forward in his master-of-all-he-surveys sexy walk and the masses of humanity part. Some women stop and stare; others downright gawk. Can’t blame them. It’s not every day you get to witness a living, breathing sex god. But much as he did in high school, he ignores all the female adulation until he comes to a stop dab smack in front of me. “Well, well, well. Eleanor Adams. I thought the name sounded familiar.”
“Hello, Brock. I got your favorites.” Somehow, I keep breathing as I hand him the coffee and croissant.
“Thank you, darling.” His southern twang gets my panties wet, the same as it did a million years ago.
I remind myself I’m older and wiser and not as vulnerable as I once was. Or at least I hope I’m not. Putting on my best professional front, I say, “Your bags should be coming out at carousel thirteen. This way.” I point toward the idle conveyor belt, hoping his luggage doesn’t take long to show up.
Rambling along in that easy, long-legged stride of his, he sips the brew, takes a bite of the pastry. “You were my Shakespeare tutor at Stonewall Jackson High.”
And a fuck buddy one stormy night. But there’s nothing to be gained from those memories, so I pin on the business smile I’ve perfected during the last few years and forge on. “That’s right.”
Done with the croissant, he tosses the wrapper into the nearest can. “So, what have you been up to?”
A strident, foghorn sound goes off at carousel thirteen, and the conveyor belt jerks into motion. “College followed by law school.”
“Where?”
“Duke.”
In a beauty of an arc, he lobs the coffee cup into the trash before pinning his gaze on me.
Knowing what’s coming, I take a deep breath and brace for the hit.
“You left halfway through your senior year.”
“Yes. My mom’s fiancé got transferred out of town to a new position. She offered to stay so I could finish high school at Stonewall Jackson. But I didn’t want to keep them apart. So we moved.” I’ve practiced telling that story more times than I can count. It’s the truth, just not the whole truth. When he doesn’t question me further, I ease out a sigh. One giant hurdle leaped.
“And you’re an agent now?”
“Yes. I’m in Marty’s group.” The sports agency pairs junior associates with senior partners. Since Marty recruited me, it was only natural to be assigned to him.
He comes to a dead stop in front of the carousel and stares at me. “Well, in that case, I want four million more.”
My breath shorts. Didn’t see that coming. Although in retrospect, I really should have. Regardless, I have to handle it. He’s a client, after all. “They won’t give it to you.”
He taps his massive bicep. “This is certainly worth the money.”
Unfortunately, that move gains us more attention. This is not good. Not good at all. If he’s recognized, someone might start wondering what the San Diego quarterback is doing in Chicago. “Keep your voice down, Brock. Please.”
He silently fumes while the bags roll by on the conveyor belt. “Any of these yours?” Please let one of them be. We need to get out of here. Fast.
With barely a glance, he grumbles, “No.”
