Love on the Run (3 page)

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Authors: Zuri Day

BOOK: Love on the Run
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4
“Shayna the Sprintress!” Michael smiled broadly as he stepped outside his door.
“Ha! Sprint what?” Michael's wacky-sounding comment dissipated the churning sensation that returned full force as soon as Shayna saw him—the sensation she'd relaxed on her slow walk to the door, when she'd felt nerves similar to those experienced before a race. She'd pulled in a deep breath through her nose and released it through her mouth. She'd felt better, even as she noticed and appreciated the beauty and quiet sanctity of the front yard garden, the Buddha statue welcoming those who followed the cobblestone walkway to the side of the house, and the water feature that spilled into a koi-filled pond. Now just seconds into seeing him again and that sexy smile was stirring up nerves once more. And not just in her stomach either. No, action or rather the desire for action was working on a whole other set of nerves in a whole other area.
Later for that, Shayna. Focus!
“Sprintress,” Michael repeated, after giving Shayna a brief hug. He casually took her hand and guided her inside his perfectly appointed home. “The next California Angels Track Team Superstar.”
One of those touchy-feely affectionate kind,
Shayna thought, forcing herself not to jerk her hand from his. He'd been this way during their other two meetings—too ready to touch her with an innocent enough hand on her arm or around her shoulder as she'd left his office the last time. “What's does that mean?” she asked, determined to keep her mind on what she was there for, and remembering that she wasn't there for him to touch this or feel that.
“You know, like countess or highness. You're going to be part of track world royalty, so hey . . . I'm thinking sprintress is a cool moniker.”
Shayna's expression was dubious as she looked around. “I don't know about that.” She was pleasantly surprised to see that Michael's home was not the stereotypical bachelor pad; no black leather, fur rugs, or stacked dirty dishes anywhere. Instead there were manly yet muted tones of browns and blues, navy mostly, contrasted with silver (or was it platinum?) fixtures, light bamboo flooring, and splashes of color courtesy of pricey art hung in strategic places. But the hands-down showstopper was the view of the backyard just beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass that made up the entire back wall, where the most luxuriously styled pool that she'd ever seen in real life commanded center stage. There was foliage, furniture, and a sunken fire pit that looked warm and inviting, and the typical sterile-looking concrete that surrounded most backyard pools was nowhere in sight. A large fountain sprayed water between the pool and the spa, and the turquoise-colored water made her want to jump in. The man beside her reeking of sex appeal made her want to jump in there with him. Naked.
Shayna, this isn't like you. You don't fawn over men. You are focused and disciplined. Now, act like it!
Her chin rose just a tad as she discreetly continued taking calming breaths while seeming to eye his place. For the first few seconds, however, girlfriend hadn't really seen a thing!
Michael smiled as he watched Shayna check out his place. He'd purchased the fifties-style home two years ago and had it totally updated and renovated to suit the newest interior design trends and his particular tastes. Then he'd hired one of the country's preeminent designers to lay it out. He'd made sure that it didn't look like a man cave, but it definitely was a love lair. The women who'd been captured by his spell by the pool, in the pool, and just after coming out of the pool were too numerous to count. Looking at his newest client brought seduction to mind once again. “Like what you see?” he finally asked her.
Shayna pulled her eyes away from the stunning pool setting and back to Michael. “Very much,” she said, then blushed at the double entendre before quickly turning away.
Me, too.
“Please, let's have a seat in the living room. I'm going to have some orange juice. Would you like that, or something else to drink?”
“Orange juice sounds good.”
“Cool. Be right back.”
Michael left the room. Shayna resisted the urge for a closer examination of all the fine furnishings and instead checked her clothing—a beautifully tailored off-white pantsuit that complemented her curvy frame and dark chocolate skin—before adopting a ladylike position as she sat on the couch. No small feat since she was much more comfortable in a tee and track shorts, but she hoped she looked properly professional. The well-known (and roommate-drilled) fact that the Morgan brothers were playboys had Shayna fully prepared to let him know that her interest in him was about money, not manhood.
A fact that was easier said than done as Mr. Manhood came around the corner bearing two large glasses of fresh-squeezed juice, and Shayna's preparation was replaced with punanny pulsations. She'd purposely kept her eyes firmly on his during their greeting, before turning her attention to his place to further tamp down the blatant attraction she tried to ignore. But there was no getting around how fine her new manager looked in his casual attire of jeans and stark-white button-down shirt. He was built like a man who was no stranger to a gym. And tall, over six feet, Shayna figured. But in her seated position he seemed even taller. His presence fairly dominated the room.
“It's all about branding,” Michael began, handing Shayna her orange juice and setting a stone coaster within reach before taking a seat on the couch. “Highlighting those unique qualities that make you stand out, and developing the position, situation, or product that when people see or hear about it, they automatically think of you.” He took a sip of orange juice, placed it on his coaster, and continued.
“You remind me of Flo-Jo.” Shayna's brows rose, knowing she looked nothing like Florence Griffith-Joyner. “Not in looks—y'all are opposites in that regard. But like her, you have that spark, that special thing, that indefinable something that makes people notice when you walk in a room, that makes people smile for no reason.” Michael grinned. Shayna pulsated. “When I say her name, what do you think of?”
Shayna answered without hesitation. “Long hair and nails, stepping on the track looking like a fashion model.”
“The one-legged long pant outfits.”
Shayna nodded. “Those outfits were off the charts.”
“Not to mention her record-breaking sprinting ability.”
“No doubt.” Though she'd only been two years old in 1988 when Flo-Jo set records at the Summer Olympics in Seoul, South Korea, Shayna had idolized the former track star since grade school, when a physical education teacher said Shayna reminded him of her. “Who's that?” Shayna had asked him. The teacher not only told her, but showed her. Turns out he'd been a huge fan and had photo albums filled with pictures and newspaper clippings of the running phenom. Sixth grade, that's when Shayna decided she wanted to be a track star. Like Flo-Jo.
“It's the same with all great athletes. They all have a trademark something. Michael Johnson had the trademark gold shoes; Michael Jordan, the trademark three-pointers and hook shots with his tongue hanging out. Venus and Serena changed what women wear and how women play on the tennis court; Phelps made swimming cool. They—” He was interrupted by the sound of a vibrating phone. Shayna immediately tensed up. Michael, who didn't miss much, didn't miss this. “You need to get that?”
“No,” Shayna quickly replied, reaching for her phone. “I should have turned it off.” She did so, her frown fleeting as she recognized the number of the texted message before dropping the phone back down into her bag.
Fleeting though it was, Michael noticed the flash of concern on Shayna's face. “You sure everything's all right?” Shayna nodded. “Because as your manager, I need to be able to trust that you're keeping it one hundred, and vice versa. I know that trust and respect are earned, and I plan to do that. But anything happening in your life that might affect you publicly, quite simply, I need to know about it.”
“Okay,” Shayna replied, wishing her voice sounded more confident. She cleared her throat. “Of course.”
“So where were we? Ah, yes. Talking about ‘the Sprintress.'”
Shayna rolled her eyes.
“Okay, maybe not, but you see where I'm headed.”
“Away from that crazy nickname, I hope.”
“Ha!”
 
 
A young black man sat parked on the side of the road in his black Beamer, silently fuming, creased brows and narrowed lips marring his otherwise handsome face. Suddenly, he jerked up the phone that he'd earlier tossed on the passenger seat and angrily punched the face next to the name on his Android, ready to punch her for real if she didn't answer. The call went straight to voice mail.
“Dammit, Shayna, answer the phone!” He threw down the phone again and slammed his fist against the soft, leather seat. “I can't believe that you're dogging me like this! We've been through too much for you to keep ignoring me!” He picked up the phone and then, knowing how all of the other attempts had ended, calmly placed it beside him and reached for his keys. “I've had it with this bullshit. You may not talk to me over the phone,” he mumbled, bicep muscles rippling as his hand squeezed the wheel, “but I bet you'll talk to me before the day is over.”
5
While anger was simmering elsewhere, a level of comfort was being found in Hollywood Hills.
“Anyway,” Michael finished, “the world will never know that their oh-so-macho running back would rather dance with a tight end, if you know what I'm saying.” Michael's eyes twinkled as he watched Shayna react with neck-thrown-back laughter.
“We didn't want to believe it,” Shayna replied, speaking of the former classmate she knew who'd turned pro publicly and was gay privately. “When we were in school, he'd be the first one to call out some dude for acting feminine and all the time he was the one in the closet.”
“Boisterous commenting is sometimes a red flag, with the loudest critic being the biggest hypocrite.”
“But how did you find out? I mean, I know because he and I have been friends since high school. But you can count on one hand those who know his secret. And here you not only have the information, but in this day of no privacy for professionals, you've managed to keep it under wraps. How do you do it?”
Michael's response was deadpan, all matter of fact, no cockiness. “I'm good at my job.”
Shayna's response was equally sincere. “I believe you.”
They looked into each other's eyes and for a moment, a brief, unchecked moment, something passed between them. Something both recognized, but neither acknowledged. The atmosphere changed in the room. Heat that had nothing to do with the weather. The afternoon meeting lasted into the evening, their brand brainstorming punctuated by snippets of personal information and tiny windows into each other's lives. For Shayna, the discomfort of being around Michael dissipated and for Michael, the options for making Shayna a one-name star grew with each moment spent in her presence.
“Are you hungry?” Michael asked after checking his watch, surprised that so much time had passed.
“A little.” Had she dared been honest with herself she would have added that what she desired was sitting in front of her, not in the kitchen.
“Then please excuse me for a moment.” Michael left the room.
Okay, is this brothah getting ready to cook for me?
The thought of those sexy biceps rippling as they stirred a sauce or flipped a burger made Shayna's mouth water more than the thought of food.
Naw, he's probably calling a restaurant to have something delivered.
He was doing neither. After locating and having a brief conversation with Orlando, the chef who worked for him three to four days a week depending on his travel schedule, Michael sent Gregory a quick text: Meeting running long. Will call when done.
An hour later Michael and Shayna sat on the patio, having enjoyed the Thai food that Orlando had prepared, sipped bubbly that either rarely imbibed, and now relaxed in the beauty of a warm, autumn evening. And still the heat, pulsating and vibrant, like a third guest. Felt yet ignored. For both, there was a running inner dialogue that this was strictly business. A lie, but it sounded good in their minds.
The chef removed the dinner plates and set down dessert. As soon as he'd retreated into the house, Shayna picked up her spoon and dug into the creamy gelato creation. “Is this you every night?”
“What?” Michael didn't reach for his dessert. He was too busy enjoying the chocolate sweetness on the other side of the patio table, and wishing that he could have a lick of her instead of the ice cream in his bowl.
“This,” Shayna said with a sweep of her arm across the table. “Chef-prepared dinners, moonlight dips in the pool, champagne wishes, and caviar dreams . . .”
Michael shrugged. “You could say that, but then again . . .” Another shrug. “It's not something that I think about. As I told you earlier, my growing up in Long Beach was fairly typical, pretty solidly middle class. Guess you could say this is my new normal.”
“It's a pretty nice normal.” For a brief moment, Shayna closed her eyes and focused on the ambrosia of flavors on her tongue. The deepest, darkest of chocolates, but she could detect other flavors, cinnamon and vanilla among them. “Wow, this is heaven right here, heaven in a bowl.”
“Yeah, Orlando is the real deal. He can do it all: cook, bake, and make desserts like this. I stole him from one of my favorite eateries on the Strip, haven't been able to set foot back into that restaurant since!”
“I can see why; his food is amazing.” Another couple bites and then Shayna continued. “How did you get into this, managing athletes?”
“I always loved sports, especially tennis. But by the time I'd graduated college, I'd learned that the best way to secure a long-term career in this arena was not to play a game, but rather to manage those who played each of them best. I started managing my college classmates' careers, securing promotional opportunities and endorsement deals. Some turned pro: football, basketball, a few tennis buddies, and a couple baseball stars. Before you know it I had a reputation and my own company.”
“How old were you when you formed your company?”
“Twenty-three.”
“Wow. A bit young for such mature decisions.”
“I'm pretty sure of myself when I know what I want.”
A frozen moment. Looks exchanged. And again. The heat.
“You were lucky to know your path so early.” Aside from being successful in track, Shayna had no idea what she wanted her life to look like.
“I didn't always know,” Michael explained, finally reaching for his spoon and scooping up a bite of the decadent gelato. “During college, my goal was to become a tennis star. I'm a huge fan of all sports, but tennis is still my favorite.”
“You went to that other school, right?”
Michael chuckled at Shayna's reference to USC's rival, UCLA. “You mean the better school?”
“Here we go,” Shayna intoned with a roll of the eyes. “Looks like I'm going to have to
school
you on some things.”
“You know what they say. Don't start none, won't be none.” He took another bite of the dessert. “Yeah, Big O did it again.” After swallowing the substance that melted in his mouth, he agreed with Shayna. “This stuff is righteous.”
“So if you were so focused on playing, how did you go from wanting to be a tennis star to managing people like me?”
“Injury in my junior year, at the same time a high-powered agent was talking to me about financial opportunities once I turned pro. He used to represent all the greats in basketball, football, baseball, you name it. The more he talked, the more I began thinking about a career doing what he did instead of what had me limping. At that time he'd already been in the business twenty years, much longer than I'd be able to reign on the court.”
This was news to Shayna. Michael struck her as an invincible god who hadn't a care in the world and always got what he wanted. Unlike her, for whom “life had been no crystal stair.” She'd read up on his background and didn't remember seeing anything about an injury. “I don't think I've ever read anything about your being hurt.”
“That was by the design of that high-powered agent I mentioned. He made sure that everything was kept under wraps.”
“Why?”
Again, that one-shoulder shrug that Shayna was quickly learning was a Michael Morgan reflex action. “Why highlight a weakness?”
Good question, one that in the coming months would serve Shayna well.
When she looked at her watch, Shayna was shocked to see it was just past nine p.m. The time had gone by faster than a 4 x 400 relay. She was pleased with the progress they'd made, and convinced that as much as she enjoyed her privacy and was slow to take people into her inner circle, she knew that signing on with Morgan Sports Management was a good thing. Michael looked at his watch as well. It dawned on Shayna that this was Friday night, and she'd probably worn out her welcome by about, oh, three, four hours or so. Had she really been at his house for six hours? The time had flown by so quickly!
“It's getting late,” she said, taking time to stretch before she stood. “Thanks for dinner.”
“No worries at all.” Michael stood as well, trying to ignore the feeling of discomfort at the thought of her leaving. “I'm excited about our partnership, and will contact you next week to set up a tentative PR schedule for the next three to six months.”
They reached the door. Shayna held out her hand. “Thanks for everything, Michael.” Again she mentally denied that there was any attraction. But her rapidly beating heart told a different story.
“I was born here, but my roots are southern; grandparents were born and raised in the red dirt of Georgia,” Michael said, bypassing her hand for a quick embrace. “We prefer hugs over handshakes.”
Minutes later, Shayna zipped down the circular road and turned onto Sunset Strip. She pondered the feelings surrounding her meeting with Michael and was surprised at the label she put on her mood—hopeful. Yes, that was it. Shayna laughed out loud. She hadn't felt this happy since, well, in a very long time. Even when tackling sticky subjects, like Shayna's fear of being exploited, Michael was open and straightforward. She smiled, feeling particularly proud of standing up for herself by reiterating words her attorney had spoken during the signing. “I don't plan on being the athlete so caught up in the game that they forget the business,” she'd told Michael earlier, her eyes unblinking. “Leaving the sports world with nothing to show for all the hard work I've put in.” Smiling, she remembered Michael's answer. “When it comes to business and my clients, I believe in being totally transparent. That's why I insist on independent accounting, as well as your right to view the books twice a year. I didn't come after you to hustle you,” he'd continued, his dark eyes framed by long curly lashes looking totally sincere. “I came after you because I believe in you.”
The frenzied Friday night traffic slowed, allowing Shayna the chance to take in her surroundings. Traipsing through Hollywood was a rare occurrence, and she marveled at the facelift this iconic city had been given. On a whim, Shayna spotted a novelty shop and pulled over. She and Michael had brainstormed on what could be her trademark. They'd tossed around a variety of ideas, but none of them fit. She pulled into a parking space, hoping to go inside the shop and get inspired.
She was so fixated on the display in the window that she paid no attention to who watched her from across the street, whose eyes narrowed and fists clenched as he began walking toward her.

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