“Then how will I … you know,” I ask, waggling my brows, which I know she hates, “arrange to meet up after a game or something?”
Drew throws up a hand. “I don’t much care. So long as it can’t be screen-grabbed, it’s not really my concern.”
“Are we done with the rules?”
“Yes,” she confirms, looking more than pleased with herself. “For now.”
Picking up her phone, she takes a picture for her own records and hands me the piece of paper. “This is for you. Sign it and keep it as a point of reference.”
I take the black pen she was using, sign at the bottom, and fold it in half. “Is this the usual contract you make with your clients?”
Drew makes a face akin to pride. “No. And I’m sure you’ll be stoked to know that you’re one of my more unique—and high-maintenance—clients.”
Drew’s List of Rules for William “Hotshot” Jones
Rule one:Never address the publicist as Baby.
Rule two:From now on, all official meetings between the client and publicist must take place in the First Line PR offices.
Rule three:The client should never show up at his publicist’s apartment without her prior knowledge or approval.
Rule four:There is to be no judgment about what the publicist eats or drinks. That includes any working lunches the client and publicist might share or events they might attend together.
Rule five:The publicist will require the client’s credentials and around-the-clock access to all of his social media accounts.
Rule six:To add further to rule four, the client shall never order food on his publicist’s behalf. Not unless he wants to be diagnosed with early-onset diabetes, courtesy of desserts being forced down his throat.
Rule seven:Moving forward, the client will never ever share private messages with random members of the public, especially for hooking-up purposes.
I, the client, hereby agree to comply with all of the above.
W. Jones #25
5
. . .
Will
Four days after my “business” meeting with Drew, I’ve got an inbox full of unanswered emails from her and a to-do list into next week.
Why would anyone need to know my entire events schedule for the next twelve months? Hell, aside from conditioning and practice, I don’t know what I’m doing this weekend.
It’s tempting to ignore her completely and claim all her emails fell into my Spam folder—and I’d do it if I thought she’d let me get away with it. Professional Drew is intense and committed and, to be honest, kind of fucking intimidating.
“Will, hi. It’s nice to meet you at last.” Standing by a massage bed in the center of a therapy room, a blonde-haired woman smiles warmly at me.
Remembering the introduction email she sent a couple of days back, her name is Candice, and she is my appointed physical therapist, or PT, for the season.
Fuck.
She’s hot and absolutely the type of girl I would take home with me if I got the chance.
Is there not a male PT who can touch my groin? Getting a hard-on during a massage is not the kind of first impression I want to set.
Professional. Act professional, William.
Rolling my shoulders back, I stride toward Candice and hold out a hand for her to take.
