TROY
I spend all morning running numbers. My office door shut and shades drawn, I’ve got spreadsheets covering my desk. We’re negotiating with some of our biggest athletes this month, and as their careers advance, they expect us to keep delivering more.
Loyalty matters. After joining us during the early years and sticking it out with the agency, our core roster deserves our full, focused attention. My highest priority is to treat my athletes right, and I show up to every negotiation with something strong to offer.
But when a moment opens up between calls and meetings, my thoughts circle back to last night.
It’s not like I’m inexperienced or naive. Especially when I was younger, I took time to enjoy myself. I’ve fallen for a few women over the years, too, but outside of a couple girlfriends who I saw on and off, nothing lasted.
My life was about baseball, and later about building the agency. Launching a business didn’t leave room for much more, and nothing but sports ever seemed to hold my attention.
But that encounter with Orlando inspired something in me that I still don’t understand. The young man knocked me off balance. Forward and cocky, not afraid to step out of bounds, the way he looked at me felt like a challenge.
Like a risk.
I can still feel his lips wrapped around my cock, the greedy suck of his tight mouth up and down my shaft. Sloppy but good. The urge to fuck his face came from my core, primal and surprising.
Orlando gave me permission, but what we did in that bar bathroom doesn’t have to mean anything about who I am. A blowjob is just a blowjob. And I’m putting it out of mind.
Thank god, I’m sure I’ll never see him again.
Although when I close the spreadsheet I’m reviewing, I remember the way he shivered.
The way he wanted me.
My office phone rings, pulling me from my thoughts, and I realize I’m gripping a miniature football so tight, my fingers are white. I drop it and hit a button on the phone.
“Zeke is here to see you,” my assistant, Puck, announces.
“Come in,” I holler toward the door, loud enough for him to hear.
Zeke is one of those core clients that I’m proud to represent. The best soccer goalie playing in the major leagues here in the US, he shines on the world stage, too. I take care to handle the business of his career without a hitch, allow him to focus on his sport.
Mutual respect has formed a bond between us, and even though we stay professional, that athlete-to-athlete connection matters to me.
The tall goalie sports a pair of blue jogging pants and white T-shirt, and his face is blank, not betraying why he’s stopped by when we already have dinner on the books tonight.
“Zeke,” I greet him, cautious that something might be up.
Zeke gives me a firm handshake but doesn’t sit down. “I know we’re on in a couple of hours.”
I nod. “We are. And all the finer points of your contract renewal are worked out. We’re set to sign before steak arrives.”
He nods. “Good. Fine. Except I need one more thing.”
I bite back a frown. Zeke has never played hardball with the agency, but if he’s decided to negotiate for better rates, now is the time to do it. We’re right up against the clock.
I’m just disappointed. I’ve delivered for him like no one else could.
“What’s on your mind?”
“Have you been watching my season?”
“Of course.”
The truth is I’ve mainly only watched his highlight reels and caught a handful of home games. I’ve got too many clients to keep up with, not to mention the athletes who aren’t major stars. The clients who ran into injuries or had to quit the pro leagues for one reason or another don’t bring in big dollars, but I follow through on my commitment to their careers. I make sure they land in comfortable positions in other parts of the industry, and I stay available when they need assistance.
Not that I need to mention that to a million-dollar man like Zeke. He should feel like the only client I have, same as how every other client should feel.
