Page 11 of Most Likely to Score
But a little help would be nice, and there’s only one person I can turn to. One luscious, delicious, fantastic person. None other than the woman I’ve been lusting after for years.
Damn shame we’re going to be spending so much time in close quarters in the next few weeks, especially since everything needs to remain hands-off.
That is, until it doesn’t . . .
9
JONES
The ball arcs majestically, curving through the blue sky then landing with a softthunkon the green, five feet away from the flag for the eighth hole. I pump a fist and head to the little white orb that tortures me most days on the links. My dirty little secret? I suck at golf. But I love it. Just fucking love it.
“You get this hole-in-two, and I’m landing you a job on the PGA tour,” Ford says.
I roll my eyes. “If you can land me a job playing golf, then you should find a gig for one of your golf pros running pass routes.”
“And maybe you can nab me a job as the closer for the San Francisco Cougars,” Trevor chimes in.
Ford brandishes his golf club at my brother like a magic wand. “Abracadabra. You now have a hundred-mile-per-hour wicked curveball.” He turns and shoots me a serious stare. “For the record, all my magic tricks are legal. Everything is one hundred percent above board in my business.”
“As it better be.” I head to the ball, lining up the shot.
My previous agent, and the money manager he worked with, are in prison now for embezzlement. Turned out my agent wasn’t actually investing the money from my contract like I hired him to do. Nope. The bastard furnished false financial statements to make it only look like my money was turning into more money.
In reality, he gambled it. Then gambled some more. Then used more to pay those gambling debts. The manager helped him cover it all up.
Poof. Millions of dollars up in smoke.
That’s a bitter pill to swallow.
I was wary of signing with any agent again, but my buddy Cooper convinced me, since he’s worked with Ford his whole career. I need someone who is above board, without question. But we’re still learning how to work together, and I’m not sure I trust him, or anyone, for that matter, who isn’t related to me.
“All I want is to know that the money I earn goes to me and to my family. That’s all I need,” I tell him, since I’m well aware of what it’s like to not have it. When I was growing up, my dad worked as a truck driver and my mom was a nurse. With four kids to feed and a house that was mortgaged to the hilt, money was stretched thin in those years, but they made it all work somehow and still made sure the four of us went to college, thanks to loan after loan after loan.
Fortunately, I nabbed a scholarship, so my school was paid for. After graduation, when I was drafted inthe fourth round, I didn’t earn the highest signing bonus or the fattest contract, but it was more than enough to pay off the loans for my brothers and my sister.
And my parents’ mortgage.
And then to buy a new home for them.
That’s just what you do. When you get that kind of jack at age twenty-three and your parents worked their asses off your whole life, you buy them a new home.
Despite what happened with my agent, none of the Becketts are suffering. We’re all doing just fine, thank you very much. But still, I don’t like that a whole heap of my hard-earned dough was siphoned off.
I want to protect what I earn so my family is taken care of, and so I’m taken care of when I can no longer play. One wrong step, one illegal hit, and you can be toast.
You need to sock your money away while it’s coming in, because the gravy train can end on any given Sunday.
Ford swings his club like a pendulum. The man is a torrent of energy; stillness is anathema to him. “I hear you loud and clear. You know that’s what I’m already doing on your behalf. But I want to turn things around for you. I’m talking to some brands. It’s high time we start getting you some marquee sponsorships to match your star power.”
That was another thing that had vanished. Deals my agent lined up for me went belly-up. I was radioactive, right along with Chuck and his money manager. “That’sall well and good, but Margulies promised that, too, and no one wanted to do business with me after working with him. You really think you can pull off sponsorship deals?”
Ford stops mid-swing then drops his club. “Yes. That is my job, and I take it seriously. And you aren’t with Margulies anymore. You’re with me.”
“I need you to be clear with me on what they want and don’t want. Margulies set me up with an energy drink company two years ago, and he said they didn’t care what I did. There were no clauses or whatnot. Then boom—a picture of Annika and me leaving a club shows up”—I mime slicing my throat—“and it wasn’t even the shot where she had the bottle of champagne in her hand.”
“Exactly,” Trevor adds, leaning on his club. “It was a guilt by association thing, and they dropped him, and that’s why we need you to be upfront about this. You need to set the expectations.”
“I will,” Ford says. “You have my word.”
