“Onassis. Madrigal.” He gestures to Troy. “Troy Frisk. Founder of Frisk Sports.”
Ice water crashes down on my shoulders, chilling me to the bone.
That’s why Troy is here.
I dirty-talked the head of Frisk Sports into his first gay sexual experience. Why am I like this?
I manage to recover enough to shake his hand. His big grip squeezes me tight, and our eyes lock, but Troy’s façade doesn’t break. “Frisk,” he says gruffly.
No indication he’s met me. My brain works enough that I know to join him in this silent agreement.
“Orlando Onassis,” I say and retrieve my hand.
My heart in my throat, I join the men at the booth. Kevyn sits across from Zeke, leaving me the spot across from Troy.
The two older men have already started in on dinner. Zeke has a nearly empty cocktail, and Troy an empty bottle of beer. There’s bread and salad on the table, and some on each of their plates.
“I was just telling Frisk about you two,” Zeke says, his voice low in the din of the swanky restaurant.
Someone comes and takes our drink order, and I realize I can’t even look at Troy directly. It’s too much.
Troy leans forward. “You’re talented, Zeke tells me,” he says with a steady, gravelly voice. “He shared your stats. Impressive.”
Kevyn perks up. “Thank you.” I manage to nod, too.
Zeke clears his throat. “Frisk has one of the best agencies in the country. And when I know athletes who are extraordinarily talented, he asks that I introduce them to him.”
A strange mixture of hope and dread washes through me.
Troy frowns. “Unfortunately, I’m not sure you’re going to work for my agency,” he says.
At that moment, our drinks arrive and with them four steaks. Kevyn and I share awhat the hell?glance in the middle of the motion, but the men across from us barely miss a beat.
“We have strict stipulations in our contracts,” Troy says as he cuts his steak. “We reward our athletes with generous terms in exchange for a commitment to achieve their best, both on and off the field. Whether with PR, sponsorships, or dealing with leagues and teams, everyone knows that our athletes will deliver not just now, but over the course of a long career.” He looks down at his dinner before tilting his eyes back up to us. “Understand?”
His voice is commanding. “Yes, Mr. Frisk,” I say as clearly as I can manage.
Mr. Frisk.
The formality just slips out, but it feels wrong on my lips. He’s Troy.
Except maybe he isn’t anymore, because whenever he glances my way, his expression turns to steel.
Zeke chuckles, turning his eyes from me to Kevyn and back again. “You two have no idea what you’re getting into.” He points a steak knife at me. “Eat it while it’s hot. That’s a $100 steak.”
I turn to my steak. It’s perfectly seared and delicious, but I don’t taste it. My eyes are everywhere that isn’t Troy. My brain is only thinking about him.
We eat in silence, and I can feel Kevyn’s energy humming next to me while he chews. Every part of my brain wants to blurt something out. Anything! But Zeke and Troy are quiet, and I channel all my focus like I’m on the field and force myself to shut up.
Shut up, shut up, shut up, Orlando.
No one says a word until the steaks are gone, and Troy and Zeke each receive a new drink.
Finally, Troy puts his glass down and talks again. “The contract is strict, but nothing you wouldn’t expect. No public debauchery. No lawbreaking. No drugs.” He fixes his glare on me. “No late arrivals or missed practices. And if you don’t maintain your training, we drop you.”
I swallow. Just perfect. Thank you, Zeke, for telling Frisk that I’m late for training sometimes.
Troy, not Frisk.
