“I don’t know what you want me to do about it.” I was being honest. I’d had thousands of interactions with the press over the years, been coached by media specialists, and even rehearsed lines with my agent (and the agent before that.)
“You can start by keeping your dick in your pants and off of page six.”
Way to sugarcoat it.
Not that I could eat sugar anyway, but still.
Ward cleared his throat before adding, “I think your best bet is to focus on nothing else right now. Put all that energy toward your game.”
Easier said than done. In Milwaukee, it had been a knee injury—my first one—that took me out mid-season. In Detroit, it had been a bar fight with some disgruntled fans. My teammate in Tampa had had it out for me from the moment he'd found out about a previous fling with his wife. And Atlanta . . . Atlanta was a can of worms I wasn’t ready to unpack just yet.
My string of bad luck had followed me clean across the country and back again for over a decade.
I knew this was it. Rose City was my last shot.
I shifted uncomfortably in my seat as Ward studied me. What was it about my presence that had him so deep in thought? You know, aside from my 6’4” bulky frame hunched over a chair more expensive than my grandmother’s farmhouse. Or the five o’clock shadow and darkened circles under my eyes to match. The latter was a souvenir from my recent breakup with Monica.
“Look, Mr. Ward.” My voice faltered. I swallowed and tried again. “Sir. I’ll do whatever you need me to, say whatever you need me to. Please give me a chance—"
“Relax, Sinclair.” He folded his hands together in front of him, perfectly at ease, a stark contrast to the panic coursing through my veins. “Something you should know about me is that I don’t give up easily. And despite your checkered past, I can tell you don’t either.”
The breath I’d been holding whooshed out of me.
His lips tilted to one side, perhaps the closest thing to a smile for Brooks Bailey-Ward III. “You've been staying in Portland?”
“Yes, sir.”
Rose City was about a forty-minute drive north of Portland, perched alongside the Columbia River, just beyond the Lewis and Clark Bridge. From what I knew, most of the guys werecommuting. After all, there was a whole lot more to do in Portland than in Rose City.
“Have you found a place in town yet?”
I rubbed a hand over the back of my neck. “Haven’t really been looking.”
Understanding dawned on him. With my record, the chances of sticking around one place were slim. I’d figured renting in Portland would be the safest bet, rather than looking for a more long-term option.
“Why don’t you stick around Rose City? I know a place on the edge of town.”
“What about the—”
“Trust me, the press won’t be looking for you there,” he said, answering my question before I'd asked.
“I’ll need my stuff.”
He nodded. “I’ll have my assistant take care of the arrangements and have a driver pick you up in the morning.”
Good enough for me.My mom had raised me not to run away from my problems, but she also taught me never to let my pride or ego get in the way. Something had to give, and by the sound of it, Brooks Bailey-Ward III was willing to give it to me. At the very least, I needed to get some goddamn sleep without worrying about paparazzi masquerading as UberEats delivery drivers. It had happened twice this week alone.
He stood from his chair—throne, more like—and rounded his desk. I took the hint when he held his hand out toward the door.
“While you’re at it,” he said gruffly, stopping me when I was halfway out the door, “take a few days off from training. Let the dust—and the media vultures—settle before you come back on Monday for team pictures.”
I blinked. That was four days from now. “But couldn’t I—”
His grim expression was all the answer I needed.
“Okay.”
“I’ve set up a meeting for you with the social media team next week. They might have some ideas for rehashing your image.”
