Page 39 of Hard to Score

“How do I not know any of this?”

“I’m good, what can I say?” His smile is quick and highlights the lines at the corners of his eyes. Can’t say he’s my favorite of agents, but he knows sports inside and out—football especially. So much so that I trust what he’s saying as truth without having to look it up. He may be a shark, but his reputation for being knowledgeable is undisputed. Too bad he was an ass to my little sister, Chase, when they dated or I just might like the guy a bit more. “Plus, it was right before the player’s strike so timing helped him at first with the accusation and then hurt him when he was cleared, because the whole thing was overshadowed by the walk-out.”

“So he was cleared, then?”

“Mm-hmm,” he murmurs as he winces when one of his players misses a pass.

“And he was what? Then put back in the starting lineup when play resumed?” I ask as I try to make sense of all of this.

“No. Not sure why. He played out his contract on the sidelines. More of the same when he was traded somewhere else for a year. Now here.”

I nod at what he’s saying but my eyes are fixated on Drew. “So he’s relegated to second string forever then?”

“Your guess is as good as mine, but his agent is Longmire. I mean, how hands-off can you get? It’s akin to not having an agent at all.”

“So no one’s fighting for him is what you’re saying.”

“Correct. But it sounds like you might be looking to throw your hat in the ring on that fight.”

If he only knew.

“I’m always looking to throw my hat in the ring. Question is, is the player willing to fight alongside you?” I murmur more to myself than to Finn as my thoughts are preoccupied with the data dump of information he just provided.

And as if on cue, the general manager of the Raptors heads out of the tunnel and motions that he’s ready for our meeting.

“She’s been summoned,” Finn murmurs and laughs.

“I have.” I pick up my briefcase leaning against my leg. “Make sure to look after my player for me.”

“Whittier?” he asks.

“No, Hobbs,” I say, making sure to get the last laugh.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

DREW

SHE’S NOWHERE TO BE FOUND when I leave the locker room.

That’s probably a good thing, because the way she looked in those jeans and heels is just as devastating as the confusion over how she makes me feel.

But Christ, her kiss . . . I may have been more than buzzed at the wedding but the memory of it has lingered like it did all those years ago. It was like lightning in a bottle, and I’ve never wanted anything more than to open the lid and see what it feels like to let it loose.

I glance toward the practice field, the parking lot, and over where Manny is talking to some people, but she’s fucking gone.

I’m a tad wounded that she didn’t hang around to see me, but then again, that’s not the smartest of things to do.

Not here.

Not with eyes watching.

Not with—

“Hey there.”

And there she stands, with her hips resting against a pony wall, her feet crossed at the ankles so the red sole on the nude heels she has on shows, and a smile a mile wide on those gorgeous lips of hers.

It takes mere seconds in her presence to have me question my masculinity. Women are supposed to get butterflies, not men . . . and yet the sight of her has excitement turning over in my stomach.