4. Brock Jones
Chapter four
Brock Jones
“Ricky, you can’t climb a light pole after you win a game and expect no repercussions,” I say with an exasperated sigh.
“It was a huge win!”
“It was a preseason game,” I reply drily. “No climbing light poles or anything else. I can’t have you losing your sponsors or worse–get benched –because you don’t know how to celebrate like a normal football player.”
These first-year NFL players are going to be the death of me.
They think because their team is paying them millions that there are no consequences to their actions.
Unfortunately, most of the time, they’re right, but it still makes my job difficult when they cross the line.
Like my newest client, Ricky Charleston, who decided to climb a light pole and get arrested because his team won a preseason game.
“Okay, okay, I won’t climb anything. My girl got mad at me anyway because she was waiting for me back at the penthouse, but I was, you know, in jail.”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. This guy makes more than a nurse or a doctor or a teacher yet acts like a child. I love being a sports agent, but wow do guys like him make me question my career choice.
“Yes, listen to your girl and keep your feet on the ground.”
“Well, I have to jump sometimes while I’m playing, or during practice–”
“Not what I meant, Ricky. I’ve got to go. Stay out of trouble.”
“You got it!”
I hang up before he says another thing to increase the ever-growing migraine pulsing behind my eyes. As soon as I hang up, the lights on my desk phone blink to indicate multiple clients or brands waiting on me to pick up. My phone buzzes a few times a minute with emails, texts, or calls.
I scrub my face and click the button to transfer to the next caller.
“You’ve got Jones,” I say, trying not to sound as exhausted as I am.
I didn’t take Ariel’s advice last night. I worked until past midnight, then ate cold garlic bread before crashing on my futon. Needless to say, I’m not in the best shape this morning.
“Hey, Brock, it’s Gianna with Sports Illustrated. I’m calling to check and see if Olive has approved the photo for the cover yet? We haven’t gotten anything from her.”
One of the Olympic swimmers I represent got a feature in Sports Illustrated.
She was supposed to approve of the mock-ups last week at the latest. I pull my email up on my desktop screen.
A quick search reveals that Olive sent her choices to me instead of Gianna.
So it’s partially my fault they aren’t in the right place.
I get so many emails it feels impossible to keep up with, and they easily get lost.
“Hey Gianna, I’m sorry about that. I’ve got the photo choices right here and I’m sending them over right now. Let me know if you need anything else.”
I forward the email.
“Just got it! Thanks, Brock. I’ll be in touch if I need anything. Have a good one.”
“You, too.”
Before I click over to the next call, I check my cell again. Just in time to see I have a missed call from Ariel. My stomach flips. I can’t miss her call on day one of our deal. As fast as I can, I call her back.
“What did we say about not answering my calls, Carolina?” she asks in a teasing tone.
“If you knew how many calls I get in a day, you wouldn’t have made this rule in the first place.”
“Maybe you should decrease that number. Would do wonders for your stress.”
I might as well quit my job.
“What do you want, Duke?” I grouse.
“You’re in a peachy mood this morning. Let me guess, you slept at your office?”
I rake a hand through my hair. “I have a lot of work to do this morning,” I say instead of answering her.
“Do you need to be at your desk to do that work?”
My brows scrunch together. “Why?”
“Because your task for today is to go sit outside in the sun. It’s beautiful weather, and I know there’s an adorable little courtyard beside your building. Go sit on one of the benches for at least ten minutes.”
“That’s…” Not so bad. “I guess I can do that.”
“And I want you to take off your shoes.”
I raise a brow. “My shoes?”
“Yes. I read that putting your feet in the grass is good for stress. Outside. No shoes. Ten minutes.”
I glance out my windows. It is a beautiful day. Wouldn’t hurt to take some calls from outside.
“Okay, fine, I’ll go outside without shoes.” My phone starts buzzing. “I’m getting another call. I’ll talk to you later.”
“Wa–”
I hang up. She’s going to be furious with me for that, but oh well. I’ll do her silly little task while I talk to people who need me.
“You’ve got Jones,” I say as I message my assistant, Marie, asking her to forward all calls to my cell.
“Hey, Brock, it’s Kylie from Pilates for Penguins. You gave me your card at the Galapagos Gala last month. I’m reaching out to see if any of your athletes would be interested in participating and promoting our next Pilates event in Los Angeles?”
I leave my office, nodding to Marie on my way out. She nods back, her focus on her computer, where she’s likely fielding more calls than me.
“Hey, Kylie, I think I remember our conversation. Your organization donates to Galapagos penguin conservation efforts?”
“Yes! We put on large-scale Pilates events with celebrity guests. All of the proceeds go to the conservation and protection of penguins.”
I’m sure there are better ways to spend the millions my athletes make, but I know a few are big on animals, so they’ll be excited–and it will make for good press too.
“Okay, I’ve got a few clients in mind. Do you have a preference of male or female? Any particular sport?”
“We’ve found that the male athletes garner a lot of attention on social media when they try out our exercises, but we’d be open to whoever seems passionate about the project.”
I nod as I step onto the elevator. “Got it. I’ll talk to a few of my clients and get back to you with their information. What date is the event?”
“Next month on the fifteenth. Thank you so much! We–and the penguins–appreciate you.”
Never been told that a penguin appreciates me, but there’s a first time for everything.
“You’re welcome. Talk soon.”
I hang up as I walk out of the elevator. Another call comes in as I step outside. This time, it’s one of my clients asking for advice on an interview they have next week. I coach them through it as I walk to the courtyard.
The late August sun warms my back through my suit coat.
I shed the jacket and drape it over a stone bench.
The call finishes up with the client feeling more ready for the interview, and I have a second to breathe before another call comes in.
Or I should, if it weren’t for Ariel’s name on my screen. This time, it’s a text.
Ariel: Are you outside?
Brock: Yes.
Ariel: Bare feet in the grass?
I huff and slide off my leather dress shoes, then my socks. If anyone sees me, they’re going to think I’ve lost it. Maybe I have.
Brock: Yes.
Ariel: I need proof.
I smirk and type out a reply.
Brock: Is this all an elaborate scheme to ask me for feet pics? If so, I commend your creativity.
Ariel: You’re the worst.
Brock: *best
I send a photo of the courtyard, sans my bare feet.
Brock: Does this suffice?
Ariel: Yes. I’d prefer if you didn’t work out there and did some deep breathing exercises, but I think you’d stop breathing altogether if you tried that.
I roll my eyes.
Brock: Haha, very funny.
Ariel: I was going for sad.
Brock: Working a lot isn’t sad.
Ariel: Whatever helps you sleep (on your office futon) at night.
I tip my head back and sigh. So what if I sleep in my office occasionally? It’s not a big deal. It shows how dedicated I am. Ariel doesn’t understand. This is what it takes to make it in this industry. And I’m going to make it.