“That happens more and more often,” he says.
“Yeah,” I agree. “It’s still kind of trippy.”
I stretch my arm over my head, feeling the ache in my muscles. “This extra training is kicking my ass.”
I’m about to tell him how good it feels to get pushed to the edge, that I love it and feel hyped about how it’s helping my game, but that’s the moment Troy appears. He’s in an old dark suit with no tie, his collar loose and the top buttons of his shirt undone.
“Good,” he says, voice rough like he’s correcting me. “It should kick your ass.” He looks between me and Kevyn, eyes hard as ever.
“Gentlemen,” he says and pushes through the doors.
Kevyn puffs out a breath as he follows. “I hope these cocktails are strong.”
We walk the two flights of broad wooden stairs in silence, and when we arrive at the club, Troy is greeted like a regular by the door staff, and the small crowd parts ways for him. Inside, a long, well-stocked bar occupies one wall, and across from it, floor-to-ceiling windows offer a generous view of Philly. Oak and leather furniture is scattered about, unused stone fireplaces dot the walls, and the steady murmur of conversation mixes with quiet jazz.
“Drinks are on the agency,” Troy says, his voice steady as he fixes his eyes on Kevyn and then me. “What are you having?”
Like always, his façade doesn’t break, but I feel a surge of energy rise between us. It’s a magnetic charge, from my chest to his and back again, the truth of what we’ve done impossible to ignore.
Or maybe that’s just me.
Maybe I’m projecting onto his hard-set face. Hungry for some kind of reaction. But the more he throws walls up, the more I want to provoke him, break through the act. Find the man I met at the bar that night.
A bad idea.
And so tempting.
“A beer is good,” I answer, holding his eye. “Something light. Thanks.”
A minute later, the three of us are situated by the windows. Troy’s beard is full on his strong jaw, and my eyes dance down his thick neck to the white collar of his shirt.
Fuck, he’s handsome.
“A good agent,” he says, speaking slowly and clearly, “should take care of business so you don’t have to. You’re athletes, some of the best alive. You need to focus on your sport, and it’s my job to make that possible.”
Some of the best athletes alive. That’s a hell of a compliment.
“Unfortunately,” Troy continues, “soccer is still a business. I can handle your contracts, legal work, all of that. But sometimes, you’ll have to put on a suit and make nice.” He takes a healthy drink of the brown liquor in his glass, and his voice comes out raspy. “Trust me. I hate it as much as you do.”
Kevyn relaxes into a smile. “Hey, at least I look good in a suit.”
I chuckle, but Troy frowns. “When you’re at a professional event, dial things back. Be polite, but don’t try to charm anyone,” he says sternly and fixes his eyes on me. “And if you think you’re being clever, it’s a good sign you should shut up. Jocks trying to crack jokes have cost us deals.”
I clamp my mouth shut. He never lets up.
Before he has a chance to go on with his lecture, two women who are passing by stop, recognizing Troy. One of them is tall with an impressive set of biceps under her simple black dress, while the other, the redhead with the frizzy hair in a buttoned-up white shirt, stands up to her companion’s shoulder.
“Troy Frisk,” the shorter woman says, smiling. She turns, gesturing. “You surely recognize Amina. I’m doing some PR for her. Amina, this is Troy Frisk of Frisk Sports. I’ve been hoping for the chance to introduce you.”
“Amina,” he says with a nod. “Jackie.”
Jackie offers a warm smile, but Amina is just as serious as Troy. She nods back before turning her eyes slightly to the tennis game playing on one of several silent televisions, sports broadcasts scattered around the room.
“Great season for Navarro,” she says.
Troy nods. “Money’s on him.” He lifts his glass, gesturing to me and Kevyn.
“Kevyn Madrigal. Orlando Onassis. With The Philly Force. We just signed them.”
