I curbed the desire to bust out a hugefuck yeah! grin followed by anit's about damn timeside eye, instead nodding as if the suggestion mildly intrigued me. "What makes McKendrick such a priority?"
Rebecca tucked her glossy black hair over her ear. I was pretty sure it was a wig but I had no hard evidence on the matter. I always watched to see if I could catch it wobbling on her head. "The team is betting on him to get them through the post-season and bring home another World Series appearance. They have no one to replace him. They've picked up a few from the farm teams, but without McKendrick, they need a miracle." She hit me with her frosty-yet-fiery smile, the one I was certain she'd picked up from Cruella de Vil. "Be the miracle."
…or be gone.In the same way Rebecca didn't have to tell me that she was annoyed at my tardiness to an unscheduled meeting, she didn't have to tell me there was no room for error. Rebecca didn't believe in second chances. You either got the job done or got the hell out.
The only reason I'd survived eleven years at Boston Sports Management Group was because I was a closer. I nailed it every time, brought home the win, shut it all down. But I'd been on a plateau for the past year. I was getting the job done with the problem cases but I was overdue for a big score. If I wanted to level up, McKendrick was the way to do it.
After discussing strategy and logistics with her, I returned to my narrow office overlooking Copley Square. Flinn and Tatum shared a cubicle suite near my door, and they were hunched over their laptops when I appeared.
"Can we keep him?" Flinn asked. "We've never had a baseball player who can't keep his pants on in public before. Please tell me we can keep him."
I snorted as Tatum handed me a takeout menu. "We're keeping him," I said, pointing to my regular—a BLT with avocado in a spinach wrap—before handing the menu back. "Let's just pray he's willing to play nice."
Flinn and Tatum high-fived at this news.
"I'll see what I can do about scheduling visits to the children's hospital and assisted living facilities," Tatum said. "Those grannies just love pinching some MLB ass."
"I'll see what I can do about getting the photos and video from last night removed," Flinn said. "After I study them for a minute or two."
"For authenticity, right?" Tatum asked.
"I'm a fan of the human form. Man, woman, everything in between and none of the above. I admire all of them," he replied.
"But you're really fond of the male form," Tatum countered.
"The chromosomes don't matter to me," he said. "I'm attracted to people, not parts."
"You're telling me you're attracted to Lucian McKendrick as a person?" she argued. "His kind heart and giving soul, the one that urinates all over the subway while smiling for photos?"
"Listen, I never said I was perfect," he replied, laughing. "He's nice to look at but that doesn't mean I want to drink piña coladas and get caught in the rain with him."
Tatum shook her head. "But how is that—"
Ducking out of another sermon from Flinn on pansexuality, I headed into my office. I settled into my desk and scrolled through sports highlights and social media for the next two hours while returning the calls that had piled up while I was meeting with McKendrick and sharing a scone with Cal.
Cal.
That boy knew how to start a heart. Even a heart hidden under a thick, protective layer after one bruising too many. And those self-inflicted bruises, those hurt the worst.
"In four years, this is the first time that I'm seeing you daydreaming," Flinn said as he pulled a chair up to my desk. "There was that one time when you were glazed over, but you had the flu."
"Good memory." I turned my attention back to approving or deleting my clients' tweets.
"About the license plate you texted me," he prompted. "Whose car was that? Is someone bothering you? I can call up that private investigator we used when our favorite running back had all that baby mama drama. Or the bodyguard we used when the power forward's half-brother lost his damn mind."
"You have a stalker?" Tatum squeaked from the doorway, her tablet in hand. "Is that why you were late getting here?"
"I bumped into a guy on the trail this morning," I said, omitting the part about the Mesozoic Era creature—which was not a beaver—and my boob-crushing fall. "We grabbed coffee and got to talking."
"This is the guy with the license plate?" Flinn asked. "The one you texted me?"
"What happened with the license plate?" Tatum asked. "You didn't text me about a license plate."
"There's always a story about some otherwise normal person who turns out to be running a human smuggling ring and you can never be too careful." I shrugged. "That's why I sent you his license plate. Sorry, Tate. Didn't mean to exclude you."
Flinn ran his fingertip over his eyebrow as he stared at me. "Coffee. How'd that go?"
Tatum settled into a chair beside him, nodding for me to continue.
