“Yes. She passed the baseball certification exam.”
“Is she good at her job?”
A pause. “Yes,” he bites out, and I can tell it is hard for him to admit. “But I think—”
Great, that’s all I need to know.
“If I’m signing with Permian, it’s going to be with her.”
Chapter Four
I’m not sure whodecided the workday should begin at eight, but they deserve jail time.
Okay, that’s a bit harsh, but I hope their life is plagued by not-so-fun things. Like finding both sides of their pillow to be warm in the middle of the night. Or their socks are always damp. Or their favorite show gets canceled on a cliffhanger, and they spend the rest of their life with only theories.
Yeah. Those are more appropriate.
Normally, I love Fridays, but not this one. All because of the red exclamation mark that is mocking me, swollen and urgent beside the email. I’m rarely asleep before two in the morning, but last night, I managed to crawl into bed around midnight. Then my phone pinged with a meeting invitation from Trevor, and I dove back into work to prepare for whatever he threw at me.
Updated data on the basketball league’s salary structures? Done.
Possible endorsement opportunities for his vegan footballer? Here are ten options.
Contract renewal dates for his clients? Already in his inbox.
Trevor even canceled our weekly babysitting meeting, coined by The Quartet, which includes Mallory, Adri, Jo, and myself, because he spends an hour treating me like a child.
Unsurprisingly, I’m the first person here, which is sad, considering the amount of effort it takes to get to work. Fifteen minutes to stop snoozing my alarm, ten minutes to drag myself out of bed, twenty minutes to get ready, and another thirty minutes to drive from Clear Lake to Charlotte.
And at the expense of my sanity, I’m the “secret angel” who brings donuts every Friday.
After dropping off the donuts in the break room, I burst into my office and slip off my heels. I still haven’t decorated the glorified broom closet. The walnut desk takes up more than half of the room, leaving barely enough space for two chairs, a coat rack, and a mini fridge that’s stocked with more caffeinated drinks than a girl could need.
With my protein shake and energy drink in hand, I review my pink sticky note to-do wall and navigate to my emails.
A toothpaste commercial opportunity awaits Brett Reynolds, a center for the NC Grizzlies. Considering he’s missing three teeth, he’ll be ecstatic. Lionel Stiller, a shooting guard also on Reynold’s team, is in Cabo for a family wedding and sent his social media logins so I can manage the pages. Victoria Hall’s hosting a book club to get to know her new teammates after being traded in March to the Carolina Rage soccer club as their new right winger. Fretful energy trembles through the screen as she begs me to choose the book and theme. Delilah Anderson, my only tennis client, sent photos from Paris, where she’s training for the French Open.
An ongoing email with Holly Trent, a striker for the Carolina Rage, appears next.
Holly Trent: Stop emailing me at 12 a.m. You need sleep. Also, is a Mercedes too flashy?
I snort and reply,Way too flashy. Connecting you with a financial advisor this afternoon.
My favorite part of being an agent is the random hats I wear. On top of managing contracts and negotiations, I’m a financial guru, social media manager, personal stylist, assistant, gift consultant, grocery shopper, advice giver, and a shoulder to cry on—which has led to a few therapy referrals.
My laptop chimes, and if it weren’t for the name at the top of the screen, I would ignore the video call like I do with all nonwork-related texts and calls during work hours.
“What did I say about SOS texts, Shaylene?” Mallory’s cheek is pressed to the camera like an old lady who recently learned how to FaceTime. “Send context or I’ll assume the worst. We thought you were dead!”
She may be whispering, but I know I’m being scolded. She’s CLU’s former soccer captain and The Quartet’s mom friend for a reason.
Adri’s half-asleep laugh rustles the speakers. “Nope. Only Cap thought you were dead.”
“I kind of thought you were dead.” Jo yawns, smoothing wild blonde tendrils.
I forgot about the panicked text I’d sent after receiving Trevor’s meeting invitation. I check the flood of messages on my phone. Twelve are from Mallory in the GOAL GALSgroup chat. Adri’s and Jo’s responses are much tamer. There’s also one from my mom, wishing me a productive day, and my dietitian asking if I ate breakfast.
Me
