Chapter One
I should have skippedgraduation. Sure, you only get your MBA once, but this is my chance to prove myself.
A gust of the warm May breeze smacks my cheeks as I dart between luxury cars. My sensible two-inch heels don’t snap as I sprint toward the stadium entrance, and I thank years of soccer for strong ankles.
Joyful screams of spectators pierce the night sky, which is my favorite part about the retractable roof being left open for home games at Pilot City Stadium.
“Hi,” I rasp, draping the lavender badge around my neck. “Agent.”
The burly guard in a navy uniform gives me a slow once-over. I probably look like I’m headed to a dance in my pink dress, the one I wore under my graduation gown as I walked across the stage an hour ago, but my name tag and the diploma in my passenger seat prove I’m meant to be here as an agent. Not as a girlfriend, a wife, or a fangirl.
Even if that surprises men.
After inspecting my badge for what feels like eons, he grins. “Little late, don’t you think?”
It’s not my fault the commencement speaker droned on or that Turner is near the end of the alphabet. Either way, being late is not professional, and my stress spikes at the reminder.
With a glare, I slip past him and jog down the hallway. Pilot City Stadium, home of the Carolina Pilots, is breathtaking. The walls are a gleaming white with navy and shiny gold accents, much like the uniforms they wear for home games. As much as I love the Pilots, and have for years, I’m not here to watch the home team.
I’m here for Garrett Blane, the Virginia Jackals’ first baseman.
Garrett isn’t a client a junior agent would usually be tasked with signing, but my supervisor approved my request. I mean, Trevor laughed when he heard my lofty goal, but I got a halfhearted thumbs-up, so here I am.
After sending thousands of cold emails and social media direct messages, the awkwardness and hesitancy faded. I learned to press send and forget about it, distracting myself with something else. Coming back from a bubble bath to an email from Garrett agreeing to meet me after tonight’s game felt like a victory.
If tonight doesn’t go my way, it’ll be just another no I’ve gotten in my pursuit of being a sports agent. The first was when I told my undergraduate advisor about my career aspirations. He swore he didn’t believe in gender roles but recommended something more “feminine” like public relations or marketing.
Yes, he used air quotes.
Then the reminders I wasn’t one of them kept coming. Guys huffed when I entered the classroom with my pink pom-pen. Suggestive snickers fill the boardroom when I discuss my male clients. My supervisor drills into me that agents must be tough, fierce, and knowledgeable.
As if those are three things I can’t be.
“Eight and a half innings complete,” the announcer booms. “Jackals six. Pilots four. Dirk is the new pitcher for the Jackals. Let’s hope the Pilots will take advantage of their last batting opportunity. Parker at bat, Hofmann on deck, and Owens in the hole. I’m expecting something good from the golden rookie.”
I barely manage to keep my head down. It would be easy to search for the familiar face, but I’m not here to open old wounds that have long been stitched up.
I’m here to make a name for myself.
“No, I’m not a fan. I’m an agent, and I was told to meet Garrett Blane.”
The security guard blocking the entrance barely glances at my badge before crossing thick arms over his chest. “He said he’s meeting Turner. Your name isn’t Turner.”
I tap the hard plastic. “ShayleneTurner.I am Turner.”
His ruddy forehead creases. “Let’s call that luck, little lady.”
“Sir.” I’m tempted to show him my badge again, but it’s clear reading comprehension isn’t his thing. “Will you please tell Garrett I’m waiting for him?”
“No can do,” he sings. “And yes, I see your badge, but I’ve stopped many creative schemes. One woman dressed as Cade Owens’s grandmother: muumuu, gray wig, and a cane. The whole shebang. Come back with a better story next time, okay?”
Frustration rushes up my throat, but I choke it down. This isn’t the first time I’ve been denied access to a player area, and I’m sure it won’t be the last, but it always hurts. Still, I lift my chin and walk away.
There’s nothing men hate more than women who show emotion.
“Turner! Hey!” A wave of relief floods me at the deep voice I’ve heard in countless postgame interviews. Over my shoulder, Garrett waves me down with a tired smile. “Sorry. Media took forever. You ready?”
I nod and give the guard my sweetest smile, but he refuses to meet my eye, like a coward.
