Gunslinger: A Sports Romance (13 page)

"And she isn't anymore?"

"No."

I'm not going to elaborate on why.

"Well you don't need them anyway. I'm the only client you need, because I require your full attention."

"You really need something else to do."

"Something or someone." He grins deliciously.

"Do you ever stop?"

"Not even if you beg me to."

SAINT

It's rare that I see my brother. We're typically in completely different cities during training camp, the season, and during off-season he lives home in Pennsylvania, and I stay in New York. But we're still close, and our busy schedules don't stop us from regular random phone check-ins. Especially when one of us has had a good game, and Michael just had a hell of one yesterday.

"Hey there, young fella."
 

I always like to remind Michael how he's very much the older brother and getting older every day.

"What's up, little Gunslinger."

"Saw you out there kicking ass yesterday."

"Yeah, we're definitely on all cylinders. Something is just clicking for us right now. Feels good."

"How much harder do you want to kick me in my balls, Mikey?"

He laughs heartily through the phone. A familiar childhood sound that reminds me of so many memories. Sometimes laughing with me and sometimes at me.

"You'll figure it out. You always have."

I hope so.

"So what's this I hear about you jumping ship?"

"What do you mean?"

"Dad's feelings are hurt I think."

Oh, the money management thing.

"It had nothing to do with him or Uncle Greg."

"Then what is it? Dad does a good job of managing our careers. What would make you sign on the dotted line with an outsider? A company that dad didn't even get the chance to vet for you. We've never even heard of them."

I don't say anything at first out of embarrassment. I didn't think it totally through when I decided that I had to learn more about Sabrina White on her own territory. I mean I do really want her to find me some endorsement dollars, but that's not the primary reason I went knocking on Carson Financial's door. Truth is that I wanted to see her again. Plain and simple. I didn't actually think about how this would affect my family at the time. How it would hurt my dad's feelings.
 

"I know what it looks like, but trust me when I say that this has nothing to do with my opinion of Dad's management skills. I know he works hard for us, but this is a decision I made for one year, and frankly it's my decision to make."

"Defensive prick. Now I know you've done something stupid. You'd never do something so reckless like this without talking it over with one of us, which means that this probably has something to do with a woman."

Sometimes having a brother who knows me so well is a blessing and a curse.

"Mind your fucking business."

"I knew it!"

"I'm warning you, Mikey. Have you forgotten that I'm taller and bigger than you, and have been since I turned fifteen?"

"As if any of that matters. I'll kick your ass today like I always have little brother. That will never change. And by the way, threatening to do bodily harm is always your defense mechanism when someone's called you on your shit. Just confess. Who is she?"

"There is no woman."

"Well good then, because women are distractions. I should know, I've got one."

"A good one."

"That's why she's a distraction. I always want to go home, or fly her wherever I am. You'll see one day. Just not right now. When you finally meet the right girl, you're going to want your baby growing inside of her all the damn time. That shit is biological."

"That's not in the cards for me. I meet
the right one
every other night and that caveman shit you're talking about ... I don't believe in it."

My brother laughs even louder.

"I bet the chances of you going caveman for a woman will happen before you win a fucking game though."

My mood immediately shifts.

"You're such an ass, Mike."

"Oh stop your whining. I know it's not your fault that you've been dealt a crappy hand in New York, but at least you got a good payday out of it. And next year you can move to a team where you've got a chance of getting a ring and an even bigger check. So cry me a river would you."

"You don't understand the pressure I'm under. I've got the citizens of one of the most global cities on the planet watching me. Judging me. Expecting me to pull a miracle out of my ass every single game."

"Fans are zealous everywhere. That's football. You know what you signed up for."

"You sound like Dad."
 

"You're deflecting. The issue on the table is why did you sign with Carson?"

"I want better endorsements."

"You've never cared about money before. Dad cares enough for the both of us. So you're telling me that you left the one person who would make sure to get you every dollar he can possibly find for you to go with people who don't give a shit about you?"

"Did I tell you that I bought a truck? Gonna load it with gear and take Jake up to the mountains. Just like we did when we were kids. Just like we promised we'd do with each other's kids."

"All right, Saint. I'll mind my own business, but I'm telling you, Dad isn't going to let this go. He thinks someone's gotten in your head, and he isn't going to stand for someone brain washing a Stevenson."

"He's got nerve. Dad might be the actual cult leader. The Stevenson family cult. You're born into it and you can never get out."

And that's when we both finally
share
our first laugh of the day.

***

It's been eight days since I've spoken to Sabrina, and I'm starting to think of some very creative excuses for getting her on the phone. It's not until my brother's words from the other day start ringing in my head like a concussion that I realize what today's excuse will be.
 

"Hello, beautiful."

"Hi, Saint."

"Miss me?"

"It's only been a week."

"So you've been counting."

"How can I help you today, Saint?"

"Have you made any headway on getting me any meetings?"

"Actually, I have."

"Who?"

"During the week you have off–"

"It's called the bye week."

"Right, the bye week. I'm taking you to three meetings. I don't want to elaborate until I've confirmed the date and times but it's one sports brand, one soft drink and one luxury brand."

"Fantastic. Just the news I wanted to hear."

"Glad to be of service."

"Ooh, don't tease me like that, Miss White, or I'll come and service you right in that cubicle of yours."

She chuckles at that comment, and now I feel like Superman.

"Listen, there's one other thing."

"What might that be?"

"My father wants to meet you," I blurt out.

"What?"

"He's been my financial and career counselor for my entire life, and he wants to meet the person who wooed me away from the bosom of my loving family's protection."

"You practically stalked me and forced me into servitude. Do you actually want me to tell him
that
story?"

"Funny how we interpret a situation so very differently, but I guess that's what makes us work."

"Are you insane?
We
don't work, I work for you."

"Exactly, and I need you to keep that mindset when I finally get you into my bed. I want you to work really hard."

"I can't with you today. I'm hanging up."

"Wait."

"What?!"

"What are you wearing?"

Click.

SABRINA

I'd be lying if I said that I wasn't a little nervous about meeting Saint's father. I guess for a lot of reasons. After some further research on his family, I realize now how it makes very little sense that Saint has signed with our fledgling sports division.
 

His father has a pristine reputation in the sports management world. In fact, it's so good that other professional athletes have inquired about having him represent them, although he doesn't do it often.
 

It appears as if the first generation of Stevenson brother's (Saints dad and uncle) bread and butter comes from their NFL pensions and their wildly successful summer combine that they run for student athletes.
 

They've been quoted in a few articles as saying that management is not something that they really want to get into full time, especially because it could be a conflict of interest with the combine if they did.

I feel like I better be on my A game in an effort to convince Saint's father that we have his best interests at heart. People that always want to keep things in-house have trust issues with "the establishment," and while I think we are a unique company with a lot to offer, Carson Financial is definitely establishment. There's no doubt about that, or at least that's the way it will probably look to Mr. Stevenson.

I regret how I've handled this meeting already.
 

I should have insisted that we meet on neutral ground. In New York. Being confined in a car for two hours with Saint in one of my shorter skirts is definitely not what I had in mind. He's already staring at my thighs.

"You ready?" he asks casually.

"To attend this very unorthodox meeting all the way in Pennsylvania? Not really."

"Think of it as a date then."

"Why would I do that? We aren't dating. Not to mention that it's the middle of the day on a Tuesday, and this is a work meeting. A meeting which I put on the schedule, so will you take it seriously please?"

"Why would you put today on the schedule? I told you we were going to have a small chat with my father. Maybe some lunch. Not take a damn meeting with Nike. Honestly, you're the most serious woman I've ever met in my life. It's no wonder–"

"No wonder what?!"

"Nothing."

"Being
serious
is what got me my position in the company at my age."

"That's very important to you isn't it? Reaching a certain level of success within a certain time period."

"I have definite career goals that I want to achieve, but doesn't everyone? Isn't it important for you to get a championship ring sooner rather than later?"

"There are a multitude of outside pressures contributing to whether I meet the goals on my career timeline. Yours are self-imposed. There's a difference."

"Well if you mean that I don't have the pressure of twenty-two million dollars to succeed then you're right. You've got me there."

"I find it absolutely incredible that you are so judgmental about the amount of money I make, yet your entire livelihood depends on the fact that I make it."

"Actually my livelihood depends on the income of musicians and television personalities."

"It depended on them. Past tense. Now it depends on mine as well."

"Not if I get a client like Spin. Then you'll be made somebody else's problem. I know just the person that would love to have you on her roster."

"You think that backyard band's money is better than mine?" he asks, as if I've totally offended him.

"I never said that."

"You didn't have to," his voice rises. "You've all but implied it by your words and actions since the day I signed on the dotted line. Would you feel better if I made my money writing songs about clean water and world peace? Is that what you like, or is the real issue here is that's all you know?"

"I'm sorry if I've made you upset, but I think that I've made it clear ad nauseam that I didn't want to work with you, and that I prefer musicians. So don't get all offended about it now."

"I'm not even sure what it is I see in you," he blusters.

"It's baffling to me too."

"Stop talking."

"Fine by me."

"Let's just listen to some music."

"Fine by me."

Saint gives me a cold hard stare and then turns on a sports talk radio station instead of music. I had to listen to it for almost ninety torturous minutes.

Sadist.

***

Driving almost two hours to Pennsylvania and meeting Saint's family over lunch is increasingly feeling like not a smart thing to do. But there's something about this guy. I let him get away with murder. None of my other clients could pull these antics. Of course none of my other clients look, smell or smile like Saint Stevenson.