Page 7 of Hard to Hold

I have one rule I’ve learned in my years negotiating with athletes: when it comes to men, never let them know they’ve gotten to you. The minute they do, you’re immediately at a disadvantage.

And there’s nothing I hate more than that.

“Gentlemen,” I say in the sweetest voice I can muster. At least one of them has the courtesy to choke on the sip of beer he just took when he sees me. “I couldn’t help but overhear your scintillating conversation concerning my merits—or lack thereof. I get Finn is insecure over how my agency is slowly kicking his ass in the high-profile client department and feels the need to denigrate me because of it, but the rest of you”—I take my time and meet the pairs of eyes who are ballsy enough to find mine—“should be ashamed of yourselves for talking shit about a woman the way you just did. But then again, I guess us bimbo beauty queens should be used to it.” I nudge the man to my left like I’m one of the guys, and he stiffens in discomfort. “Am I right?”

“That’s not what we were—”

“Yes, it was.” I smile and wave a hand at them as if it’s no big deal. “I’m sure your wives and daughters are thrilled to have such forward-thinking husbands and fathers.” I smile again to let my sarcasm sink in. “And for the record, Finn. The balcony in New York? Your fumbling hands?” I look to one of the men and wink. “It’s more than clear why my sister threw him to the curb.”

I reach out, take Finn’s glass of whiskey from his hand, and take a sip without asking. I give a shake of my head as the liquid burns on the way down. These jerks do not deserve any more time from me. They’re morons. And their opinions will never go beyond the maturity of a thirteen-year-old.

“For the record, I don’t need to use sex to lure clients. One man’s incompetency is another person’s gain.”

“But after you sign them as a client? That’s when you sleep with them?” Jason asks, his smug smile widening. “I mean since we’re setting the record straight and all.”

“Look at you trying to be Finn’s wingman.” I shake my head and tsk. “How cute. Don’t ever expect him to return the favor, though. He loves himself too much to be a wingman.” I look around the circle. “Well then, you gentlemen enjoy the rest of your night. I’m going to head up to my room and practice my pageant wave and counting to ten.” I nod and then stride out of the room with my head held high, silently fist-pumping in a cheer for myself.

God, yes, it feels good to tell them to politely fuck off, but it doesn’t take away the sting of their words and the questions they evoke within me.

More than the crass shit these assholes have said is the unsettling feeling that this is how everyone else in this industry sees me. Is that what they think of me? As the window dressing for Kincade Sports Management? The pretty sister with more boobs and less brains who’s called in to woo the simple-minded male athletes over but not the tough, demanding ones?

God only knows what they probably say about the tough-minded ones I have won over. Or rather . . . how I won them over.

Gross.

My sisters are all gorgeous in their own right, but just because I participated in beauty pageants as a means for scholarship money for college—and the one last connection I had with my mother after she died—doesn’t mean I’m not a graduate of one of the best sports management programs in the country.

But the minute the elevator doors close and the adrenaline of the moment is gone, other thoughts start tumbling out of control in my mind.

Little things here and there from the past few months. Texts from my sisters where they’ll take a potential new client because I’m too busy, despite my insistence that I’m not. The sudden shift in schedules our father sometimes makes that doesn’t sit right with me.

Chicago.

What the hell is going on in Chicago?

They’re wrong.

Those guys have to be wrong.

But with each step I take, tears threaten, and my feet feel heavier.

My heart even more so.

Benign decisions about who takes on what client or engagement at the office with my sisters and father in regards to clients or negotiations, begin to cloud my thoughts.

The discussion over the MLS offer replays, and right behind it is my father’s adamant instruction that there was more than meets the eye to the offer and that I shouldn’t take it.

What was the real story behind it?

Before I even have my heels kicked off and the door of my hotel room shut behind me, I’m calling my little sister.

“Aren’t you supposed to be in some boring dinner surrounded by equally boring men where the one who is actually hot is so obsessed with himself that he’s no longer good-looking?” Chase asks instead of answering with a hello. But when fury eats at the emotion and confusion I suddenly feel, I struggle to get any words out. “Lenn? You okay?” Her voice is softer this time, more loaded with concern as she uses our family nickname for me.

“What’s going on in Chicago?” I demand.

“Chicago?” she stutters, and it only makes me more curious, because Chase doesn’t stutter. She’s always surefooted and knows what to say.

“Yes. Chicago. There were some guys here talking about it and how I was invited there for something, but turned it down.”