I run my fingers over the tape, making sure it’s secure. The last thing I need is blood seeping through. Tracker might never cut me loose again.
I slip the cleaner shirt on and tuck the rogue wisps of hair back into my braid.
When I pull the door open, I find TJ waiting for me with that same smug look.
“You’re going to love this one.”
I glare at him. For some reason, it feels like I’m being kept in the dark on purpose.
“I can handle a kid, TJ.”
The thirty-year-old punk laughs.
“What the hell is so damn funny?”
He laughs some more. “You sure did piss him off this time.”
“I was doing my job.”
“Huh. He clearly begs to differ. And given what you’ll be doing, I think it’s pretty clear how he feels about it.”
I pinch the back of his arm.
He laughs. “Ry, if that’s all you’ve got. . . ” He strolls down the hall.
“You want to take this to the parking lot?” I follow on his heels.
“Sorry, we’ve got a meeting, and you have an assignment. Maybe later.”
I clench my jaw, contemplating grabbing him by the collar and making “later” now.
“Nobody is going to the parking lot.” Tracker holds up a hand, catching us before TJ opens the conference room door.
“The agent is a friend.” His voice is soft. “I’ve helped him out in the past. It’s why they’re here.” His eyes flick between mine, almost apologetically.
“What is happening with this case?” I ask, trying to make sense of this whole morning and their clear avoidance.
“You tell me.” He clears his throat and scratches his nose with his index finger as if to signal that someone is lying.
I scoff. “You suck. Like I’d ever be that obvious.”
“Let’s go.” Tracker steps around us and opens the door.
We enter the bright room with a faux wooden table that seats eight. Large windows run along one wall, covered by sheer curtains providing light and privacy.
Three men sit at the far end of the table. Tracker said there was a kid, an agent, and his manager.
TJ slides in behind me. “Biiiiiggggg trouble.”
I elbow him in the gut, trying to decipher what I’m seeing across the room from us.
Tracker shakes hands and introduces us to Rob. The agent is a short man with slicked-back hair wearing an expensive suit.The tall man next to him is likely in his forties, with graying brown hair and a fake smile that tells me he’s not happy to be here. He’s Greg, the General Manager for the. . .Miami Stingrays.
Oh, shhiiiitttt.
I glare at TJ as he grins like a giddy schoolgirl. I want to punch it off his stupid face, but it’ll have to wait.
Next is. . .the kid, who’s not a kid at all but very much a man. Cole Matthews, I note, because everyone else clearly knows who he is—one of the Stingrays’s players.
