Gunslinger: A Sports Romance (9 page)

I audibly gasp.
 

This guy is insane.

"You're finally getting it now, are you?" He licks his lips after chewing a small bite of his sandwich.
 

"If you don't take me on as a client, then I'll take my business elsewhere. I certainly didn't sign here to end up with that guy you've been schoolgirl crushing on for years to manage my money. He doesn't look fun at all."

"You are out of your mind."
 

And how does he know I've liked Jason for years?

"That's what they tell me, darlin'."

What should I do right now? If this Gunslinger jerk leaves the company because of me, I can certainly forget about my promotion. I may even lose my job. But if I take him on as a client, then I don't know what I'm in store for. I have no idea what he's up to. I don't play games, and I don't even pretend to know how to.
 

"What exactly do you want from me, Mr. Stevenson?"

He uses his strong legs to roll the chair he's sitting in completely around to my side of the table then sighs heavily before speaking again.

"You're all business aren't you? It's killing you to call me by my first name no matter how many times I ask you to. And look, you have stress lines etched across your beautiful forehead from this conversation. This isn't supposed to be a tense transaction. This is supposed to be good news. I'm the client that's going to make you a star around here. Don't you want that?"

Of course I do, but at what cost? And what's in it for him?

"I have to say that I'm really confused as to why you've offered
me
this opportunity. We had a five minute exchange in a restaurant a couple weeks ago. You don't know me."

"You remind me of someone I once met." He grins.

"So that's the criteria you're using to make major business decisions?"

"There's just something about you I trust. Is that better?"

"Wasn't your family managing your money before? You don't trust them?"

"You're starting to hurt my feelings, Miss White. If you don't want to manage my twenty-two million just say the word."

"I don't want to manage your twenty-two million," I say defiantly.

"Gah!"

Saint slams his hand down on the table in what seems like part frustration and part amusement.

"I like you, Miss White, so I'm going to give you one more chance to answer correctly."

"What else do I need to say for you to understand? I'm
not
interested."

"What is this prejudice you have against me or is it with professional athletes in general? What jock broke your heart in college or was it high school?"

He's hitting a little too close to home, the arrogant baller.

"I had no interest in jocks then or now," I lie just a little. "I prefer musicians. I specifically selected this company to work at because we represent really great musicians, and call me crazy, but I want to
like
the people I work for."

"Ouch, that hurts," he chuckles. "You're cold blooded, Miss White, but I guess that's only going to work in my favor when you make the big endorsement deals for me."

"What endorsement deals? I'm only managing the books. Paying your bills."

"No, that's what you do for those reality show singers you represent. For me, you're going to go get some endorsement dollars. I'm big time, Miss White."

"That's not what I do."

"That's not what you're comfortable with. Two very different things."

"Don't you have a sports agent, Mr. Stevenson?"

"My uncle is my agent."

"But you still want me to do double the work? Manage the books and find you endorsement dollars. That's your uncle's job. I'm assuming he hasn't done much on your behalf."

"You should probably read over your contract, Miss White. Making me more money is definitely part of your job."

I can see that my comment about his uncle seemed to rub Saint the wrong way. I kind of like that I have wiped the smirk off of his face, even though this is one of the most unprofessional exchanges I've had with a client ever in my life.

"But as you well know, a sports agent typically handles your major deals."

"My uncle has my best interest at heart, and he'll negotiate my league contract next year, but it's difficult to get endorsement dollars when your team isn't playing well."

His heavy posture tells me all that I need to know. I've hit a sore spot, and I can't believe I'm thinking this, but I'm actually feeling a little bad for the millionaire.

"I'm sorry about that, but I don't know if I can do any more for you than your uncle. Maybe your team will have a better season this year and things will turn around."

"Have you watched us lately?"

"To be honest, Mr. Stevenson, I don't watch football. So I don't know much about The Nighthawks."

"Well that's going to have to change."

"A lot of things would have to change for this to work."

"So you're reconsidering?"

"If I'm going to become your business manager, then we'd have to keep things perfectly professional between us. That means I need total honesty from you, and there will be no flirting."

He suddenly fingers the hem of my skirt.

"Is that what we're doing? Flirting?" he teases in a voice that's heavy and thick.

I clear my throat.

"And no discussing Jason unless it's in reference to something purely professional," I demand.

"Professional," his deep voice echoes back.

Damn he's distracting.
 

That voice.
 

That body.
 

That face.
 

And that smell. A subtle mixture of natural elements: water, earth and musk. Smells expensive and also very distinct. It's a scent that lets every woman know for miles around that a man is in the vicinity. A real man that chops wood, scares away burglars, and nails you hard in the shower.

Oh dear God. I'm losing it.

"Yes."

"Like you and the short dude are strictly professional."

What is his obsession with Jason?

"Exactly like that," I respond exasperated.

"You seem to have a lot of conditions in regards to me paying you and your company to take care of all of my money."

"Let's not forget that I didn't ask for the job."

"Ungrateful little–"

"And it may seem like a lot of conditions to someone like you, but in the real world it's not."

He scoots his chair even closer to the table and closer to me. The castors on the bottom of his chair squeaking as if they're not used to someone as heavy as him putting them to work.

"Someone like me? Oh, so I don't live in the real world?"

"I worded that poorly," I thinly apologize. "I meant in the average person's world."

"You've got me there, Miss White, because I'm definitely far from fucking average."

I barely hold back a snicker in reaction to that arrogant comment.

"I have a condition of my own," he announces.

I look up and firmly hold his eyes with my own in anticipation of whatever this is.

"And what could that possibly be?"

"If you're going to manage my money, and make me more money, then I want you to learn all about what I do for a living."

"I think I know enough about football to manage your financial affairs."

"Do you? Because you didn't know who I was, darlin', and that's a sure sign that you don't know shit about the game.
 

"I
am
football."

SABRINA

I've mopped my kitchen floor (if you can really call it mopping) with one of those hands-free wringing mops for the third time today. Every time I come back inside my tiny kitchen to check on the hot wings, which are warming in the oven, I see a new scuff mark that the legs of my counter stools have made across the floor, and so I mop yet again.

Obviously it's my nerves getting the best of me. Jason is coming over to watch the game and to begin giving me my lessons on the basics of football. The fact that he will be my tutor and inside my house makes learning about it much more bearable.
 

When my phone vibrates across my granite counter I know who it is. Very much like me, Jason is prompt. I'm pretty sure it's him calling to let me know that he's on his way. He's supposed to be here in about thirty minutes.

"Hello?"

"Hey Sabrina, I'm outside. I came a little early, so we can watch some of the pregame coverage."

What! I'm showered, but I'm dressed in my ratty Spin T-shirt and a pair of baggy sweats. I'm not wearing any make up, and I still have to empty this bucket of dirty mop water.
 

"Can you give me a few minutes?"

"I'll watch the pregame show while you finish doing whatever you're doing. Don't worry about me. I'll stay out of your way. Is it okay to park the car across the street in this neighborhood?"

Ugh, I guess I can't leave him sitting in his car. That would be seriously rude on my part.

"Umm, your car will be fine across the street. You can park there all day on Sundays. Alternate street parking is only during the week."

"Actually I was asking if it's safe. Have there been any break-ins in this area lately?"

Okay, I feel some kind of way about that comment, but I'm going to let it go. I realize that Jason lives in a more upscale neighborhood than I do, and that many people make assumptions about the safety of Brooklyn. As if it's still stuck in a crime ridden 1980s time warp. I just thought he was smarter than that.

"Not that I'm aware of. I'll unlock the front door for you because I have to run into the back for a moment. Let yourself in."

"Will do."

I live in a small garden floor apartment of a brownstone house in Brooklyn, New York. It's a revitalized neighborhood which is close to the Brooklyn Bridge, so it takes me only about thirty minutes to get to work, which I love. It's just long enough of a train ride, so that I can get a few chapters read of a book, but not too long of a ride that I fall asleep and end up lost somewhere in Harlem.

I unlock my deadbolt and literally run straight down the hall to my bedroom and shut the door. Before I started mopping earlier, I laid out two outfits across my bed for today. A modest but casual T-shirt dress and a pair of jeans with a V-neck long-sleeved tee. Now that I'm looking at them for the hundredth time today, it seems pretty ridiculous to wear a dress to watch football in my own house no matter how casual the dress looks. So I go with the jeans and tee.

I hear the door slam.
 

"It's me, Sabrina." Jason calls out. "Hey what's that smell? It smells fantastic in here."
 

"Some chicken I have in the oven. I'll be out in a minute. The flat screen is in the first room to your left."

I swiftly put on my clothes, try smoothing my frizzy ponytail, and waltz out to my first "working" football Sunday with Jason.

"Hi there."

"Well hello to you." He takes a longer look at me than I think he ever has. "I think this is the first time I've ever seen you in a pair of jeans."

I think it's his version of a polite compliment, but funny how the only thing I can think of is how Saint seems to like me in my skirts.
 

"Is the chicken ready?"

Oh, right the chicken.

"Yeah, it smells ready. Did you want something to drink while I'm in there?"

"Do you have any beer?"

"Sure do. I'll be right back."

As I walk towards the kitchen, I turn back around to take a quick look at Jason. It's weird having him in my house. I mean I've always dreamed of spending a lazy Sunday afternoon with him, but I never thought it would be because of a football tutoring session. I also thought I'd feel more excited about it. What's my problem? I decide to check in with Marisol really quickly about it.

Me: I feel like I'm 14 again.

Marisol: Awww, why?

Me: Because I feel the need to check in with you about my love life.

Marisol: Love life?! I like the sound of that. Is my boy there?

Me: Don't be so excited. He's here, but I'm not on cloud nine like I thought I'd be. I don't know what I'm feeling.

Marisol: You're just nervous.

Me: Maybe

Marisol: He just got there. Give it some time. Stop overanalyzing everything, and for God's sake drink something alcoholic. It will loosen you up.

Me: Lol! I'll try.

After bringing out the wings, some blue cheese for dipping, a beer for him and ice water for me, I settle down on the couch making sure that I am sitting an appropriate distance from him. I don't want it to appear as if I'm under any delusions that this is a date. The word "professional" keeps ringing in my ears in Saint's accusatory voice.
 

"So right now these five guys are talking about all the games that will be played in the NFC conference today. Then if we click to another channel we'll see another team of analysts talking about the games coming up in the AFC. Each network has an exclusive deal with the conference games they show. The Nighthawks are in the NFC, so that's why we're watching this channel."