Linebacker's Second Chance (Bad Boy Ballers) (9 page)

“Because you screwed up royally. That little filly you were talking to—well, we caught her leaving your property with a camera full of pictures and some kind of recording device that got everything you said to her, combined with everything your teammates said about
you.
”
 

“Let me guess,” Mack mumbles. I can tell he’s sobering up, but it sounds like he’s intentionally slurring his words to get out of talking with us. “They all love me. They love me so much.”
 

“Not exactly,” Wingate says, fuming. “It’s a lot more than that.” He glances at me, and I detect a hint of nervousness in his eyes. I know that Wingate might have his differences with his cousin, but there’s love there that defies all understanding. And what he has to say to Mack right now isn’t pretty. “Get up, cuzzo. Let’s go inside and get you in the shower before we talk about this. You smell like a frat house.”
 

Wingate’s right about that. Even though the industrial cleaning team has been through here and removed every bit of garbage while Mack was sleeping off his hangover, Mack himself still smells like the inside of a keg. His cousin assured me he’s not usually like this, that he’s a little more subdued at his parties. But if what I read is true, this version of Mack makes an appearance more often than not these days.

Man-child, I think. Get ahold of yourself, Renata. This is clearly not the man you grew up with—and he’s not the man you fell in love with either. He’s something else entirely.

I cross my arms and watch, my gut twisting and wringing itself out as Wingate picks up his hungover cousin from the overly expensive teak lounge chair where he’s stretched out in all of his gigantic glory. The two walk ahead of me into the house, and I thank my lucky stars that Mack’s never been a belligerent drunk. Instead, he’s often extra agreeable, extra gullible, and extra friendly.
 

That’s probably why we have an SD card full of pictures of him surrounded by mostly naked women and a recording of him talking about how parties are the most important thing he could do for his career.
 

Perhaps against my better judgment, I walk into the replica of the house that seemed like it was designed out of my brain. I silently curse Wingate for “needing” me on this day, for dragging me into the talking-sense-into-Mack portion of our plan. But with a confirmed paparazzo sneaking in to do a tell-all piece on Mack’s decline in the league, I can’t deny that Wingate is probably in over his head. And I can’t deny that Mack does
need
some kind of intervention, with a person besides his cousin orchestrating the thing. After all, he hears Wingate’s voice every day, telling him he’s screwing up, telling him he’s headed into a deep downward spiral. To Mack, it’s probably just background noise.
 

I sit down on Mack’s leather couch and put my head in my hands as Wingate shoves his cousin toward the shower at the back of the house. I hear some cursing and bumping, but then the shower turns on, and Wingate reappears in the main living room.
 

He looks at me and shakes his head sadly. “He’s not what he used to be, Renata.”

“He’s not. I was just thinking that.” I kick off my sandals and smooth out my skirt, leaning back in one of the reclining chairs on Mack’s sofa. “I’ve seen this before in other NFL players. They start out strong and hold steady for a number of years, and then it’s like their maturity gets sucked out of them. Once they get too big for their britches, they end up shooting themselves in the foot. It’s not pretty.”
 

Wingate paces, looking like he’s lost in thought. After a few rounds of stomping over the hardwood floor, he comes and sits down next to me. “I’ve seen a lot of this type of thing too, Ren. But this is almost different. It’s like he doesn’t have anything to hold onto.”
 

I sigh heavily and shake my head to try and clear it out. I keep wanting to think of Mack as the man I used to know, the one who took his studies just as seriously as football, the one who prioritized practice over everything, even leaving me and Wingate to drink by ourselves in college when he felt he’d had enough for the evening. Right now, I need to think of Mack as just another NFL player, one with a particularly bad attitude. He’s nothing to me now, isn’t that right? So I need to treat him that way and put my plan into high gear.
 

“It doesn’t matter the cause of it, Wingate,” I say, searching my brain and recalling the different things I’ve done to help wayward NBA and NFL players. “It just matters that we fix it. And we need to fix it as soon as possible—before the pre-season starts up, before he starts making appearances on TV and getting interviews in the magazines.”

I go over my game plan with Wingate, outlining the different pieces I’ve thought of. And today, during the noise and bustle of the party, I outlined everything on my laptop. I got it all down on paper—the different steps in the game to get Macklin Pride back into the NFL limelight, and in a good way. I even made sure to put in stipulations so that he felt respected as a person, and not just like he was a puppet. Hell, I did so much that I might be able to leave it all to Wingate, to leave and go back to California while he handles the whole damn thing.
 

Just as I’m finishing the details, Mack appears, dark hair wet from the shower, his eyes looking a little more sober than they had been. He doesn’t smell quite as bad as the inside of a keg, more like the outside of one.

With those stormy blue eyes, Macklin looks between the two of us, suspicion brewing on his face. “Y’all out here plotting my demise?”

I purse my lips. There’s nothing I want to do less than interact with this man, but I force myself to think of the money coming my way if this job is successful. It would mean a new life for me and for my parents. “We’re planning for your success.”
 

More words dangle on the tip of my tongue. I want to give him one of those speeches his cousin used to give us.
You’re better than this—this isn’t you. You’re Macklin Fucking Pride, and you’re the best goddamn linebacker in the league, so you need to act like it. You need to practice instead of partying, you need to focus on your teammates instead of focusing on women, and you need to lay off the booze.

But I couldn’t pull it off like W could. I’d sound like a mother scolding a child, where Wingate could always make it sound like he was a concerned cousin—and I’m guessing he’s already tried that route and failed. The scolding parent doesn’t fit with the kind of PR relations agent I am. I’ve seen other agents take this route, and they’re no better than bullies. To make a plan stick, the subject of that plan needs to be fully on board. And if I’ve broken my own damn contract to come up here and talk to this man, by damn I’m going to talk him
into
what I’m doing.
 

“I’m already successful,” Mack huffs, taking a seat in the chair that happens to be the farthest from where I’m sitting.
 

Fine, be that way. I’ll take the high road and pretend that you’re not a dick. I’ve already ignored the fact that you left me—you hurt me—so I’ll just ignore the fact that you won’t acknowledge anything about me. You’re a client, just like any other.

“You are, cuzzo,” Wingate replies. “But do you want to stay that way? Because if those pictures and recordings got leaked, you’d be more of a laughing stock than anything else. That’s not the man I went into business with, and that’s not the man I believe in. You’ve even seen it happen to some of your own teammates. Guys more concerned with getting pussy—excuse my French—than playing ball. What happened to them?”
 

Wingate’s voice is much calmer than it has been since he came to get me, and I look over to see that he’s poured himself a drink from Mack’s whiskey stash. I can’t say I blame him. I might need one when he gets up for a refresher.
 

Mack looks back and forth between us again. He doesn’t respond, but I can see on his face that he knows exactly what we’re talking about.
 

“I’ll fill in the blanks,” I say, trying to keep my tone as neutral as possible. “Two years ago, Marcus Smith had an affair with that eighteen year-old girl. Now, that’d be fine on its own, but her parents got involved, and they outed him to the media and found evidence of a second girlfriend. He was an amazing quarterback, wasn’t he? But now you’ve got a new one…”

“What’s he doing now?” Wingate asks.

“You know what he’s doing,” Mack responds. “Y’all both do.” He pauses. “But you’re going to make me say it, aren’t you? He’s coaching ball at Hampden Sydney because he couldn’t get a job at a co-ed college. And we got a new QB. But that was—that was a while ago.”

“That means that by now, everyone’s in the mood for a new scandal. And besides celebrities out in Hollywood, you all are the next best thing. In some circles, a good story about a football player is even better than Brad and Angelina. And recently, all eyes are pointing in your direction. Including that photographer’s eyes—and unfortunately she had an empty SD card and a phone that took some pretty excellent pictures.” I sigh.
 

“Couldn’t help reading up on me, Renata?” He smiles, but there’s an edge to it.

My cheeks go hot and I absently pull a long lock of hair over my shoulder and start playing with it. I’m liable to make it all ratty looking, but my hands need something to do with him sitting there like that, looking at me with those eyes. “It’s my job to keep track of these things. I’m a sports agent.” I feel the need to add something sarcastic, but I brush it off instead. That’s not the route I’m taking with him.
 

“You gave up on your clause I that contract pretty quick. Wingate could have handled this one by himself.” Cockily, he crosses one knee over the other and leans forward. No, this isn’t the man I used to know, not at all.
 

The wind feels like it’s been knocked out of my sails. And I sense something—he’s
trying
to piss me off so I’ll say something I can’t take back, or maybe so I’ll just pick up and leave. But I didn’t take this job because I couldn’t stand heat from professional sports players. I brush my hair back over my shoulder and lean forward, looking him in the eye. “Look, if you really want me to leave, I will. Do you think I
want
to be here? No, I don’t. I’ll go ahead and address the elephant in the room, Mack. You broke my heart. It changed the entire direction of my life, and I don’t want to be here helping you.
 

“But do you know where that life led? It led me to the best sports agency in the country, and I’m the best public relations agent they have. Your cousin is paying me a fuck load of money for me to make sure you don’t screw up your life. But please, by all means, kick me out of your house and send me home. I’m fine with that. I’m not going to beg you. I’m not going to insult you either—Wingate has that covered. And I’m damn sure not going to act like your parent.” I sit back and sigh.
 

Deep down, something in me is jangled. I told him he hurt me. I acknowledged why I was here. None of this was supposed to happen. But if it means that something breaks through to this man, we’ll be in a good place.

After tonight, I can go back to no contact.

Tomorrow, I can go back to interviewing.
 

Mack sits back and wipes his hand across his face, sighing deeply. “Wingate’s paying you?”

“What did you think he was doing?” I ask.

Mack laughs. “Okay, fine. As long as I don’t have to quit throwing parties, I’m in.”

I sit back in my own chair, surprised. I gather my thoughts. “Fine,” I say after a second.

“Fine?” Wingate nearly shouts it.
 

“Sure, that’s fine,” I say, turning to Wingate. “You can keep throwing parties. They’re going to look quite a bit different, though. And you’ll be throwing them with your brand new fiancée.”

“Say what now?” Mack's deep blue eyes meet mine. There’s a hidden look there, something I can’t read. This should be old hat for him—seducing a woman and getting with her, but this time he’ll be getting engaged. I’m tempted to say that he’s done it once before—and he can do it again. But that’s beneath me, and I guess he must have had his reasons. They’re reasons I have no interest in knowing, reasons that would probably tear me open inside.
 

Still, he can do this one thing.
 

And I can clear my mind enough to tell him what’s what.

“Macklin Pride is getting a fiancée. The Mack Pride brand—well, it’s getting an upgrade. You’re getting a classy, well-bred, intelligent, educated football wife.” I smile at him like I’ve smiled at so many men I’ve worked with.
Trust me. I’ve got this.

“A wife? Are you fucking kidding me?” Mack looks at me like I’ve started launching rotten tomatoes at his face. “I’m not—that’s not what I do. I mean it was—and I was serious when I—God, woman, you can’t do this—”

My cheeks grow hot, and there’s a clenching feeling inside my chest. I push aside the welling tide of emotion, trying not to read the looks crossing over Mack’s face. Yes, that was us, once. But I’m here for a job, and the situation in front of us is demanding this type of solution. I’ve done it a dozen times before. I take a deep breath and shrug to signal my nonchalance. “Macklin, there are all sorts of contracts, non-disclosure agreements, interviews, and processes in place to make sure we’ve got the right girl for your image. I’ve already talked to a few of them and we’ve already got a frontrunner. Now, none of this means you have to be with her for the rest of your life—”