Chapter 15
Chapter Fifteen
Lucian
A Guide to Pissing Off My Agent
When my phone rings and Jacob McCallister’s name flashes across the screen, I can barely stifle a sigh.
I move carefully, mindful not to wake Luna, who’s curled up in my arms, and slip in my earbuds before answering.
“Luc Crawford speaking.”
“Are you actively trying to give me a stroke?” Jacob’s voice is already at a ten.
I grab my mug and take a slow sip of coffee—because I’m a fucking considerate person and wouldn’t dream of making this worse for him—before responding.
“Gotta be more specific, Jackie boy. Which thing are you mad about this time?”
There’s a pause.
A deep, ominous pause.
Silence that precedes an explosion.
And then, Jacob loses his ever-loving shit.
“The fucking renovation videos, Lucian. Are you trying to audition for the fucking home renovation network?”
Ah, that’s why his panties are all twisted in a bunch.
This man needs to learn to let loose some of that control he holds on too tightly.
I could tell him to get laid, but he’s happily married and popping children out like they’re a family of rabbits.
Okay, two isn’t that many, but still, he gets laid.
So, what is his problem.
I lean back on the sofa, kicking my feet up on the table.
“Oh,” I whisper. “You need to be quiet. I’m babysitting Luna, and we don’t want to wake my girl.”
Jacob ignores this completely.
“So you admit it.”
I sigh, stretching.
“I get that you’re talking about the videos. Not sure what you want me to admit, other than they were fucking amazing. I heard they were a hit, racking up millions of views.”
Jacob makes a sound of pure agony.
“A hit?! You hijacked your own brand, transformed yourself into a walking, talking contractor advertisement, and now the sports network is airing segments discussing whether the Knights’ top player has secretly switched careers because he can’t seem to win a fucking ring.”
I wince.
Okay. That part? Maybe not ideal.
Who knew it would blow up so much that the networks—and my agent—would catch wind of it?
Not me. I thought it’d stay local to the people who really care about hiring Mike or Pete.
I keep my voice even, though.
“That’s harsh. But we’re good, right?”
“Good?” Jacob growls.
“You were meant to be low-key during the offseason. You know—focus on family, train at home, and keep your image clean. Don’t fucking hijack the internet with your fucking reckless antics.”
I raise an eyebrow.
“Fucking reckless? That hurts, Jacob. This was perfectly planned. I don’t make any moves without having a goal.”
I pause, letting the moment hang.
“And let me tell you—the goal? Achieved.” I grin imagining my flustered little neighbor tied into knots because she hates that I’m helping her, but also, she’s warming up to me.
“It was so fucking achieved. I count it as a win.”
Jacob groans like he’s actively aging as we speak.
“It should hurt. Because now? I’m getting calls. The team is getting calls. Do you know what happens when people start talking about a player’s ‘second career’, Luc?”
I shrug.
“Yeah. More press.”
Jacob’s voice erupts through the line, loud enough that I have to pull the earbud away for a second.
“How many times do I need to tell you and your siblings that more press is not always good press?”
I stare at the ceiling, utterly unbothered.
Jacob sounds seconds from combusting, every word tight and ready to blow.
And honestly?
It’s entertaining as fuck.
“That’s not what the Crawford Playbook says,” I remind him.
“You and your fucking family are going to make me burn that playbook,” he growls.
I mean, it’s not as though it physically exists.
But if it did?
It’d be a beautifully annotated, handcrafted guide to life—meticulously curated by my parents, my siblings, and me.
A sacred text detailing all the ways to navigate life and the game.
Hockey.
Football.
And for Scottie?
Soccer, business, and how to be a kickass woman in a world of men.
In any case, the book technically doesn’t exist, but there are a bunch of rules that we pretend are in said family playbook.
Jacob has sworn on multiple occasions he wants to burn it to the ground.
I wouldn’t put it past him to create it just for the sake of symbolically setting it on fire.
“Jacob, let me walk you through something important.”
“I swear to God?—”
I ignore him.
“Section Four, Subsection C: When You Go Rogue, Commit. It clearly states?—”
“Lucian, I swear to God, I’m dropping your ass right now if you keep making up shit about this playbook.”
I grin, stretching out on the couch so Luna can be more comfortable.
“‘If you’re caught in the act of something ridiculous, double down. Publicly. With full confidence. Bonus points if you pretend you don’t understand why people are mad.’”
“I hate you. I hate your entire family. I need a drink.”
I check the time.
“It’s not even noon, Jacob.”
“You people are driving me to the brink of insanity,” he groans.
“Who are these people?” I ask, feigning offense.
“You, Crawford. All of you.”
I grin, pleased.
“You love my family. If you really hated us, you would have dropped us like a bad second date a long time ago.”
Jacob exhales so forcefully it sounds painful.
“Do you realize that you just gave away about four million dollars in endorsements?”
I snort.
“Nah, the renovations aren’t that much.”
Am I aware that after those videos, they received a lot of business from the locals and even from people in the city?
Yes, they’ve been texting about it.
It was a win-win situation.
They help me help Olivia, who believes that everyone is out to use her.
And I help them gain more business.
“What are you getting in return for this?” he asks, likely trying to figure out if he can salvage something or if he needs to figure out a way to secure his usual cut.
I sigh, stretching lazily.
“Me?” I pause for dramatic effect.
“Hopefully, a kiss by the end of next week.”
Silence.
“From the contractors?” Jacob’s voice is low.
Confused. Like he wasn’t expecting my answer at all.
I chuckle—quietly so I don’t wake the baby.
“Both of them are in their fifties and married. Definitely not.”
I push off the couch and head to the nursery before I do something I’ll instantly regret, like laugh too loudly and end up with a grumpy Luna in my arms.
“I’m referring to the hot doctor who owns the vet clinic and that house undergoing renovations. More like resuscitation. That poor woman got the money pit.”
There’s another pause.
Then Jacob groans. “So, you hijacked your entire offseason brand for a crush?”
I smirk.
“Nah. I hijacked my entire offseason brand to win her. It’s just a small challenge before I have to return to playing the game and being me. Win the doctor, then go back to my life.”
Jacob exhales so hard that it sounds as though he’s actively aging.
“If that’s your reasoning, stay away from her. We know you’re not exactly skilled in relationships.”
I roll my eyes.
“Oh, here we go—I don’t?—”
“You want me to remind you what happened last time? You almost lost everything you owned,” he reminds me.
I scoff. “Nothing happened. Because even when I was about to do a reckless thing, you made sure I didn’t lose my shirt.”
“Your parents are still mad at me,” he huffs.
“If I knew what you were doing, I would’ve told them.”
I could hit him with the agent-client confidentiality agreement—but instead, I simply smirk and say, “Thank fuck you’re not a snitch.”
Jacob ignores that.
“This time, I’m the one saying walk away before you do something you’ll regret.”
I pause in the doorway, hand braced against the frame.
“I wouldn’t do anything questionable.”
Jacob snorts.
“Luc, you only do reckless things. Should I send you the videos where your pretty face is pumping the local contractors?”
“This is just for funsies.” I keep my voice casual, but it feels .
. . forced. Hollow. “I need a friend I can . . . you know. Hang out with, fuck when we’re both horny. My life is fucking lonely, Jacob. According to you and my publicist, I can’t be out here fucking around with any willing body because of some image I have to maintain.”
“Maybe you should start going to therapy.”
I blink.
“What do I need that for?”
Jacob sighs, the kind that indicates he’s been waiting for me to ask that question.
“Ingrid left you too fucking jaded.”
My jaw tics.
Not this conversation.
“Not every woman you meet is planning to become a football player’s wife, Luc.” His voice is now softer, less exasperated, and more concerned.
“Some might genuinely want to get to know you. Might actually want to fall in love with you.”
I let out a slow breath.
“That’s where you’re wrong.”
Because it could’ve been like that.
If I had met someone before .
. . Before I became Lucian fucking Crawford.
Before, my name was on jerseys.
Before, my bank account had enough zeros to make people act differently.
But now?
Now they just see what I can do for them.
They see the house, the money, the fucking status.
They don’t see me.
She didn’t fucking see me, only cared about who I was becoming.
I scrub a hand over my jaw, shaking off the past before it can settle in my chest like a fucking rock.
Jacob knows.
He was there.
For all of it.
For Ingrid.
For the quick, regrettable town hall wedding that was supposed to be low-key before we moved to San Francisco where I swore I would be winning all the fucking games and be happy.
Jacob was there for how she changed the moment we signed that fucking marriage certificate.
For how she transformed from my college girlfriend into a woman who suddenly recognized she was a football player’s wife.
For the fights. The exhaustion.
For the day I found out she had a whole-ass post-nuptial plan in case things didn’t work out in her favor.
For the way she looked at me—not like I was Lucian, the guy she’d spent years with.
But like I was a fucking investment that wasn’t paying off fast enough.
I exhale through my nose, pushing all of that away.
Jacob remains silent for a moment, as if giving me time to process the storm that has just erupted in my mind.
“Luc.” His voice is calm, even.
“Maybe your neighbor is different, but you’re already pushing her into the friends-and-fuck zone.”
I huff, shaking my head.
“Yeah. Maybe. Or maybe she’s just better at playing the game than Ingrid was.”
Jacob groans.
“If she is, then why the fuck are you trying to win her?”
I wish I knew why I want .
. . no it’s not want, I crave her mouth.
Why I want her to see me.
The real me.
Why I want her to stop looking at me like I’m just some arrogant asshole determined to make her life miserable.
Maybe all I really want is to prove her wrong—show her I’m not the guy she thinks I am—and then walk away.
I’m not some mindless jock who coasts through life on talent and charm, who treats women like trophies, who only cares about the next win.
But while I’m at it, while I prove I’m more than she ever gave me credit for .
. . I also want to fuck her.
Because why not have a little fun?
I’ll have to design a new play, and this weekend, I’ll stay away from her before I make a complete mess of things.