Here at the stadium, I’m tapped back into the hunger of how much I want to sign these two athletes. Sex might feel good, but I’ve made my life in sports. And working closely with elite athletes is the closest I’ll get to the thrill of playing pro ball again. I’d be a fool to risk it now.
Although Orlando is pretty damn elite himself. Or he will be, I’m sure, assuming he can keep his shit together.
A knock pulls my attention from the field, where I’m watching the team warm up. When I turn, Dana Patel is there, ducking through the doorway as he walks in to join us. His hair is buzzed short like always, and he’s wearing a white button-up with a pair of jeans.
“Evening.”
Mel offers her hand. “Dana Patel. Pleasure to see you again.”
Patel shakes her hand and nods at us. He has an easy smile, matching his good-natured reputation.
“If you’d like a little discretion,” Mel says as she glances at the door, “we’d be happy to close the blinds, so to speak.”
Patel shakes his head. “It’s fine. I hope my agency does find out I’m in your suite.” He chuckles. “They can sweat a little.”
I nod, aware that word about this will definitely get around. “Whatever makes you happy.”
The staff comes walking back in with our food and drinks. I frown as I take my chili dog, steaming in a paper box.
Shit. These are so messy. I shouldn’t eat it while I’m welcoming Patel.
But chili dogs just aren’t the same cold.
Damn it.
“Anything for you?” Mel asks.
Patel points at my beer. “One of those. Thanks.”
I put the chili dog down, disappointed, and crack my beer. “Baseball fan?” I ask him.
Patel hesitates, looking at me like he thinks I might bite him for saying the wrong thing. “Been into baseball since I was a kid,” he says. “Honestly, I watch just about any sport you could name.”
Mel smiles. “You and Troy have a lot in common.”
Patel relaxes a little more. He’s got thick eyebrows and round cheeks, and he meets my gaze directly. “That’s what I understand. The best publicity house in town and an agent who actually cares about sports more than business. Who would have thought?”
I grunt. “You rush enough yards, you get my attention. Just a shame you don’t have a contract that reflects that yet.”
He looks satisfied by that answer. Half of my persuasion is just that I talk to athletes like they’re athletes and not products.
The staff returns with his beer, and after he cracks it open, we all raise our drinks. When Patel asks me about my time on the team, the conversation shifts, but I’m still working. Every word counts.
A couple more athletes from the agency arrive, and when the game is about to start, I walk over to the balcony to get a good look. The excitement, the music, the noise all wash over me, rooting me right back in the game I love.
“Excellent,” Zeke says loudly. “I hoped you’d be up here instead of down behind the plate.”
I turn, surprised to see him, but not nearly as surprised as I am when I see Orlando and Kevyn standing beside him.
Figures. He’s taking them under his wing. And they’re clients. The booth is for them to use.
But this is the last fucking thing I need right now.
“Zeke,” I say, putting on my professional face. “You know Dana Patel.” I turn to the other guys. “Kevyn Madrigal and Orlando Onassis. Part of the Philly Force, starting defense and offense, respectively.”
Kevyn offers his hand to Patel. “An honor,” he says, and I’m relieved to see Orlando behave just as respectfully.
“I’ve watched your career for years,” Orlando says. “Legendary, man.”
