Sutton
In the nearly two weeks since my confusing meeting with Emerson Bratt, his entourage, and MaxwellfuckingCruz, I’ve worked tirelessly to set-up meetings with Emerson’s NFL prospects.
Of the ten teams contacted, only three have agreed to meet with me. These coaches were either friends with—or fans of—my father, which made it fairly easy to secure meetings with them, but the remaining seven? Well, they’re proving a bit more difficult. And I haven’t even dented the list of prospective teams currently pursuing Emerson.
It’s been made quite clear, in no uncertain terms, that until I’mofficiallyrepresenting Emerson Bratt, none of the coaches—save for the three who are doing this in honor of my deceased father—will meet with me.
A problem I imagine my competition hasn’t faced at all.
In fact, looking at his smug face on the home page of theDeadspinwebsite right now proves Max has had better luck with at least one of the coaches who’s refused to meet with me.
“Ugh,” I groan, clicking on the article because I’m a glutton for punishment. “Look at his stupid face.”
Paparazzi caught him lunching with the Rams’ assistant coach just yesterday, looking like he doesn’t have a care in the world. I’m sure that gaggle of Rams cheerleaders at their table on that rooftop terrace downtown doesn’t hurt much either.
“I hate him.”
“Lies,” Anderson teases as he strides into my office.
“What?” I quickly click out of the article, but Max’s face is still on the screen because the home page remains open and my assistant is too fast for his own good.
Looking at my competition’s infuriating face on the screen, Anderson sighs, then looks at me and cocks one eyebrow. “You’re terrible at lying, cousin. Always have been. Remember that time we were out at Great Auntie Cheryl’s place, and you—”
“Zip it,” I say with a huff, then I press the button on the side of my monitor to darken the screen. “Don’t you have work to do?”
“It’s lunchtime.”
“Oh.” I sigh and plop back into my chair.
“And it’s Friday, so… I believe you have a lunch date…?” He leans forward, raising his brows as if to jog my memory of something—
“Oh! Shoot!” I push my chair back and grab my purse. “I can’t believe I forgot about Mo!”
“I mean, I guess ogling Maxwell Cruz would do that to anybody.”
“I wasnotogling.”
“Okay, boss.” Anderson smirks and I growl, hurrying to the door.
I reach the small lobby and realize I can’t even recall the details of today’s standing lunch date with my best friend. “Remind me…” I turn back toward Anderson. “Where am I going again?”
“What you would ever do without me, I have no idea.”
“Exactly, so you can never leave me.”
“We’re family; I think that means I’m, like, bound to this job for life…” He waves his hand in the air. “Or something.”
“You heard it here first, folks.Life.”
Anderson chuckles as he points to the door and says, “Joyce. Noon.”
I snap my fingers in the air as I remember the plans now. Imogen is my most impulsive friend and picks a new place every week, so at times, it’s difficult to keep up. “You’re a lifesaver.”
“I’m aware. Your Lyft is at the curb.”
“Thank you,” I shout as I hurry outside. As promised, an understated sedan awaits me at the curb. I open the door and lean in.
“Sutton?” the driver asks, pronouncing my name like there are two d’s in it, rather than two t’s.
