“If it wasn’t for you, I’d just have a different agent.”
“Yeah,” she said, “another agent who would have no hope whatsoever of getting you this kind of deal your first season on a team.”
“You don’t know that.”
“I damn well do know that. Who do you think talked to my father to get him to pull strings at Nike—telling them you were the next big thing? You may think a million bucks is a lot of money, but if you show who you are out there on the court, you could be looking at three times that in a few years.”
We didn’t say anything for a moment, but I hadn’t failed to notice she was complimenting me. “You talked to your father about me?” I asked.
She blushed slightly, and I wondered what planet I was on. Her, blushing? I’d always thought she had ice in her veins. “It’s part of my job,” she responded. “I observe, I make assessments.”
“You break guys’ balls.”
She hit the desk with her tiny fist to keep from laughing. “Will you just say yes and sign?”
“I don’t know, I think I might need something to sweeten the deal.”
“Something more than a million dollars?”
I stretched my arms up in the air, pretending to yawn.
“Am I boring you?” she asked with a scowl.
“No, but I could use a massage. My back’s been killing me,” I responded.
“Careful, Di Bianco,” she warned me.
I bent forward and looked closely at her, at those thick eyelashes, those carmine lips.
“Or what?” I asked, surprised again at how gorgeous she was.
“Or I can make your life on this team a living hell,” she said without skipping a beat.
“Damn,” I replied with a laugh, “you’re actually scaring me.”
She got off the desk and ripped the contract from my hands. “Either you accept my offer, or it’s bye-bye to this contract,” she said, getting ready to tear it up.
“Not even you would be capable—” I began, and then I saw she wasn’t bluffing. She really was ready to rip it in half. “What the fuck?”
“You play with fire, you might get burned, Taylor.”
“You’re honestly willing to give up all that work?”
“You think I can’t find other players to represent?”
“I’m a future star, you said it yourself, and I know it’s not just dumb luck that you chose me to work with. You’re like me. You want the best.”
We stared at each other for a few long seconds.
“Sign the damn contract, bump me up to 30 percent, and the offer’s back on the table,” she said, very sure of herself.
I hesitated, then responded, “I’ll sign, but with one condition,” and I lifted a finger to emphasize that. “You have to be my date to my brother’s wedding.”
I observed her reaction: first a blank stare, then a long exhalation, then a look of something like relief. “I didn’t know you had a brother.”
“I’ve got my secrets. I’m curious now what you thought I was going to ask.”
“Nothing,” she said, putting the contract back on her desk. “I’ll go. I mean, it’s pathetic that you can’t get a date without extorting someone, but you’re pathetic, so no surprises there. Now sign.”
