I sigh, knowing that sooner rather than later I am going to have to make the dreaded trip home to see my family. My younger sister is getting married in six months, and I’ve missed out on many family planning meetings to dole out tasks and assignments to bridesmaids. And since I’m the maid of honor, I should havethe most on my plate. But living three states away makes it difficult to go to fittings, plan luncheons, review seating charts and taste food samples for cocktail hour. And those missed activities always lead to speeches laced with guilt from my mother, so it’s safer to stay hundreds of miles away where I can’t see the disappointment on her face.
“Valentina. Your hermanita needs you by her side. This is the most important day of her life, and her sister should be there for every moment. Can you not move back home and work here? Must it be Houston? Maybe if you came home, you could find a man of your own.”
It doesn’t matter how many times I’ve told my mother that finding big name clients in small town California is impossible, she still insists I can do my job from anywhere. I need to be where the action is, where the scandals are. Las Granitas’ most scandalous event was when the fire chief was caught using his hose to do more than put out fires with the local optometrists daughter. The chief was divorced and the daughter was in her thirties, but it was still the gossip around town for months. I can’t make a living shushing the little old ladies who sit out on their front porch, sharing all of the latest “news” with passerby’s.
As a highly sought after PR Crisis Agent, my demand among athletes and politicians has doubled over the last two years. I’m like Olivia Pope, only younger and Latina. I have a wardrobe to rival hers and a similar motto of doing whatever it takes to get the job done. Being in the heart of a fast-paced city is where I belong. Right in the middle of tax evading congressmen and cheating athletes. While I hate to see people hurt in any financial, mental or physical way, it’s what pays the bills. It’s never personal, always business.
If I’m being completely honest, it’s what gets my blood pumping. There’s nothing like the feeling of accomplishment after cleaning up a catastrophe that ends with happy clients and a story that fades into the background, no longer consumption for fodder.
The stress of my job isjustmanageable, but when you add to that the constant chatter of why Valentina is not married, it’s an Everest sized mountain of anxiety that is impossible to climb. It’s why I only make it home for holidays. Life is tough enough without your family making you feel inadequate. So when my family Christmas Eve always turns intoSet Val up on a blind date with men she’s known all her life,I could only imagine what living with that, day in and day out, would be like.
The thought alone is enough to send chills down my spine and has me slamming my leather portfolio closed.
Like a trigger, the shrill of my phone rings from where it sits next to my laptop. I don't recognize the number but seeing as it’s a local number, I assume it’s a new client in need of cleanup on aisle 9. Or it’s a spam call and I’ll get stuck in a five minute conversation, trying to explain to some stranger that I do not need cost saving solar panels for my roof. I live in a condo. I have no need for such things like a yard or a pet to care for. Or a needy man.
I swipe at my screen to answer the call, and bring it to my ear. “Valentina San Ramón.”
“Please hold for Mr. Montgomery.” A woman greets me and I’m immediately put on hold as if I was the one to call and ask to speak with whomever this person is.
I look at the time on my new Cartier watch, a present to myself after the big payday from handling a disgraced oil tycoon, and decide that I’m going to call it a day. Tonight screams for a few drinks and bingewatching the new season ofOutlander. Lord does that Jamie Fraser get my pulse jumping. That’s the only man I have time for. Or the patience.
“This Mrs. San Ramón?” A thickly Southern accented voice practically blows out my eardrum from the other end of the phone.
“Yes. This is Valentina San Ramón. No missus. May I ask who’s calling?”
“This is Howard Montgomery. Owner of the Houston Drillers.” My eyes grow wide and a little bit of spit gets stuck in my throat when I gasp. “You okay, darlin’?”
“Yes. I just…” I clear my throat and straighten my shoulders, getting myself back into professional mode. “Hello Mr. Montgomery. How may I help you?”
“First, you can start by calling me Monty.”
Though I’ve never met him, I know exactly what Howard Montgomery looks like. He’s exactly what you imagine a sixty-five year old man who owns a chain of immensely successful restaurants, a car dealership, a private island and a football team would look like. I don’t even need to go into details because the image is there. Just be sure to add a thick white mustache on him.
“Of course, Monty. And please, call me Val,” I reply.
“Alrighty. Val, I need your help. Seems my rookie wide receiver can’t keep his pants on or his exploits off of the damn internet. We’re getting ready to start pre-season and I need this young man to be squeaky clean by the time September rolls around. He’s my new star, and I can’t have the franchise resting on the shoulders of a man who likes to swing his ding-a-ling around for everyone to see. Excuse my crass, but it is what it is.”
I roll my lips between my teeth, trapping a chuckle inside my throat. I can’t say that I’ve ever heard the wordding-a-ling come out of anyone’s mouth, much less an old billionaire.
“I see. Sounds like he’s taking his new found fame a bit too far.”
“Too far is an understatement.”
“Who is this player?” I rest the phone between my cheek and shoulder and click open a new browser window.
“Nico Loving. The boy is a certain Hall of Famer if we can keep his hands clean and his mind on football and instead of showing off his assets to every girl that bats her eyelashes at him.”
I type in his name and a plethora of articles and images pop up. There are dozens of photos of him in his uniform, caught in action during games, but those aren’t what catch my attention. My eyes freeze on a candid photo of him, shirt off, laid back on a sun lounger with a small smirk on his chiseled face. His warm brown, sun-kissed skin glistens from the sweat that drips down his ripped abs, and his eyes are a unique hazel color that capture me. It’s as if he’s looking only at me.
“Yes. I, uh, think I recognize him from billboards and commercials.”
Houston has already fallen in love with the newest addition to the Drillers family. He’s got the athleticism of a fine tuned machine, and the looks of a supermodel. The entire city is placing all of their hopes and dreams of a championship squarely on his shoulders. That’s a lot of pressure for any man to handle, much less one the young age of twenty-two.
His charisma oozes through the screen as I flip from one picture to another, looking for evidence that he’s running amuck. It doesn’t take long for a blurred photo to stand out in the small images all crammed on thescreen. I bypass the sensitive content warning and click to view. Instantly, I am fully aware of why Monty has come to me.
With one last gander at a body part on my new client that I definitely should not be looking at, I close out the picture and get back to the details.
“That’d be him. Boy could charm an eskimo out of his fur-lined jacket. And the women out of their britches.”
