Page 23 of Plays Well With Others

Wilder Blaine likes to see the bling on his players’ fingers. Totally his prerogative. The man pays our very pretty salaries, hires the best coaches and trainers, and makes sure his GM drafts the best players.

The Renegades are a well-oiled machine, and I’m damn lucky to play for them.

When I pull up to the course—on time, thanks to my matrix of alarms—I say hi to the valet then tip him well on Venmo. I head straight for the clubhouse to look for Maddox LeGrande. My agent is always early. It makes me a little jealous, how easily time management seems to come to him.

I’m pushing open the door when a high-pitched voice calls out, “Mommy, that’s Carter Hendrix! Number eighty-eight.”

I spin around to find a girl—maybe nine or ten—pointing at me from ten feet away. “You’re my favorite Renegade!”

“And you’re my favorite fan.”

A woman in khakis and a polo sets a gloved hand on the girl’s shoulder. “Grace, what did I tell you about the members? Give them their space, honey.”

“I don’t mind,” I say as I walk over to the mom, who I’m pretty sure is the club’s new golf pro. “You work here, right?”

“I do. I’m Alice,” the woman says, then squeezes her kiddo’s shoulder. “And this little troublemaker is tagging along today.”

“I like to make good trouble,” Grace declares. “And I’m going to hit a hole in one today.”

I offer her a fist for knocking. “I like that attitude,” I say as she knocks back.

“Can I have a pic for luck?” the girl asks.

Alice gives me an apologetic look. “We’re not supposed to ask members. You don’t have to.”

I wave a hand to dismiss that worry. “But I want to,” I say, then I bend to kneel next to the confident little kid as her mom snaps a shot with her phone.

“Carter, since I’m going to hit a hole in one, can you make a big catch on Monday? That only seems fair,” Grace says intensely.

Damn, this kid would make a great agent. She’s a helluva negotiator. “I think that can be arranged,” I say. This convo is more fun than facing the music about my sponsorships, so I chat a little more with Grace about the upcoming game.

A few minutes later, I say goodbye and head inside.

Maddox stands by the counter, and I’m relieved he doesn’t seem to be waiting for me. He’s busied himself chatting with the man who pays the team’s bills.

Wilder Blaine looks every bit the badass billionaire who came from nothing and made his money in Vegas real estate. Even his golf clothes seem custom-fitted, but they’re not preppy. He wears black slacks and a dark gray shirt. It’s like they saydo not fuck with me. The dude has ink on his knuckles, too, like he rode through the night in a rebel biker gang before he took a wrecking ball to the sorriest properties on the Strip and built new beauties instead—buildings that have funded the team.

As I near them, he turns to me. “Morning, Hendrix,” he says, with a casual chin nod.

“Morning, sir.” I can’tnotcall him sir.

“You can call me Wilder.”

“No, I really can’t,” I say honestly.

Maddox laughs, then meets Wilder’s dark gaze. “I’m afraid you’re not going to win this battle with my client.”

“But I’ll keep trying. I’ll leave you two to your business,” Wilder says, clapping Maddox on the shoulder, then looking me in the eye. “But I hope to seeyouaround more.”

Why is he directing that comment at me? “Here at the club?”

“More like…around town. But only if it works out.” He gives a smile that saysit—whatever it is—better work out. On that vague note, his attention lasers on a little sprite racing toward us from the ladies’ room, wearing golf pants and a polo.

“I’m ready, Daddy,” the kiddo calls out as she rushes over to him.

“Let’s do that lesson, sweetheart,” he says warmly, then wraps an arm around his daughter.

“And Grace is going to help teach me too. Along with her mom,” Wilder’s daughter says.

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