Page 3 of Hard to Score

“I have lots of reasons for hanging around, one of which was to watch the scrimmage this afternoon,” I say of the last preseason game the Raptors had before the season goes into full swing.

I take him in. Typical quarterback’s body. Lean and tone with not too much excess, say like an offensive lineman, who has to throw his weight around. Handsome in a dime a dozen way. He looks like any Midwest boy raised on beef and beer, complete with the farmer’s tan evident because of his shirtless torso.

The difference is he’s from California, has a cannon for an arm, and an ego to match.

I’d been warned ahead of time.

“And?” he asks.

“And, the team played well. It was preseason but if it’s any indication of what the upcoming season’s going to look like, I’d say you’re in great shape.”

“I know I am. Thanks.”

This is the part where I want to turn around and walk out. This is the part where my job becomes so predictable and, just once, I want it not to be.

“I meant the team in general.”

“And I’m the heart of it, so . . .”

There is no shame there. Not an ounce. But I smile anyway.

“Then that does mean it includes you,” I acquiesce begrudgingly.

“Of course it does. What would a team be without its quarterback?” He glances around and flashes an arrogant smile at one of his teammates before focusing back on me. “But I’ll be the first to admit, my precision was off. I plan on putting more time in to fix that.”

An ounce of humility. I grab it and hold it tight, because that’s something I can definitely work with.

“That’s good to hear.” I nod.

“So what can I do for you, since you’re standing before me and definitely wanting something?” He licks his lips and takes his time glancing up and down the length of my body. He likes what he sees no doubt, but then again, as rumor has it, he’s not exactly indiscriminate when it comes to the company he keeps. When he’s done giving me the once-over, his eyes meet mine again. “Should we go out and have a drink or two to discuss whatever it is you want from me?”

“I hear you’re unhappy with your agent.” I take a glance around. Only a few players are left in the locker room, which is why I chose to enter now. Fewer ears overhearing mean fewer rumors being spread.

But they will be spread.

I’m counting on it.

“Isn’t everyone unhappy with their agent?” he asks.

“Not my clients.” I flash a smile and extend a hand to him. “Brexton Kincade. Kincade Sports Management.”

He takes his time shaking my hand in that way that screams of a man who thinks I’m charmed by him. My only response is to withdraw my hand when he releases it while holding his stare the entire time. “Well, Brexton Kincade, I do think that you owe me dinner and a conversation to discuss how exactly you can be of service to me.” He takes a step closer to me. “And make no mistake, I demand a lot of service.”

Gag.

He seriously just said that?

My smile doesn’t waver as my gross-o-meter hits its maximum capacity. “Good to know. Maybe we can schedule something later in the week? I’ve been given access to the conference rooms for meetings this week, so that would be a great time and place to discuss things.”

Where most guys’ expressions would fall after their innuendos were ignored, Justin’s towel “accidentally” falls instead. And in true asshole fashion, his amused eyes hold mine to see if I look.

I don’t. I refuse to give him the satisfaction.

Instead, I hold a business card out to him, completely unfazed by his average-sized dick simply hanging there in my periphery. “Here’s how you can get in touch with me.”

“I know how you can touch me.”

I lift a lone eyebrow. “I’m flattered. Truly, I am.”