Chapter 4
Chapter Four
I’m not sure who decided the workday should begin at eight, but they deserve jail time.
Okay, that’s a bit harsh, but I hope their life is plagued by not-so-fun things.
Like finding both sides of their pillow to be warm in the middle of the night.
Or their socks are always damp. Or their favorite show gets canceled on a cliffhanger, and they spend the rest of their life with only theories.
Yeah. Those are more appropriate.
Normally, I love Fridays, but not this one.
All because of the red exclamation mark that is mocking me, swollen and urgent beside the email.
I’m rarely asleep before two in the morning, but last night, I managed to crawl into bed around midnight.
Then my phone pinged with a meeting invitation from Trevor, and I dove back into work to prepare for whatever he threw at me.
Updated data on the basketball league’s salary structures? Done.
Possible endorsement opportunities for his vegan footballer? Here are ten options.
Contract renewal dates for his clients? Already in his inbox.
Trevor even canceled our weekly babysitting meeting, coined by The Quartet, which includes Mallory, Adri, Jo, and myself, because he spends an hour treating me like a child.
Unsurprisingly, I’m the first person here, which is sad, considering the amount of effort it takes to get to work. Fifteen minutes to stop snoozing my alarm, ten minutes to drag myself out of bed, twenty minutes to get ready, and another thirty minutes to drive from Clear Lake to Charlotte.
And at the expense of my sanity, I’m the “secret angel” who brings donuts every Friday.
After dropping off the donuts in the break room, I burst into my office and slip off my heels.
I still haven’t decorated the glorified broom closet.
The walnut desk takes up more than half of the room, leaving barely enough space for two chairs, a coat rack, and a mini fridge that’s stocked with more caffeinated drinks than a girl could need.
With my protein shake and energy drink in hand, I review my pink sticky note to-do wall and navigate to my emails.
A toothpaste commercial opportunity awaits Brett Reynolds, a center for the NC Grizzlies.
Considering he’s missing three teeth, he’ll be ecstatic.
Lionel Stiller, a shooting guard also on Reynold’s team, is in Cabo for a family wedding and sent his social media logins so I can manage the pages.
Victoria Hall’s hosting a book club to get to know her new teammates after being traded in March to the Carolina Rage soccer club as their new right winger.
Fretful energy trembles through the screen as she begs me to choose the book and theme.
Delilah Anderson, my only tennis client, sent photos from Paris, where she’s training for the French Open.
An ongoing email with Holly Trent, a striker for the Carolina Rage, appears next.
Holly Trent: Stop emailing me at 12 a.m. You need sleep. Also, is a Mercedes too flashy?
I snort and reply, Way too flashy. Connecting you with a financial advisor this afternoon.
My favorite part of being an agent is the random hats I wear. On top of managing contracts and negotiations, I’m a financial guru, social media manager, personal stylist, assistant, gift consultant, grocery shopper, advice giver, and a shoulder to cry on—which has led to a few therapy referrals.
My laptop chimes, and if it weren’t for the name at the top of the screen, I would ignore the video call like I do with all nonwork-related texts and calls during work hours.
“What did I say about SOS texts, Shaylene?” Mallory’s cheek is pressed to the camera like an old lady who recently learned how to FaceTime. “Send context or I’ll assume the worst. We thought you were dead!”
She may be whispering, but I know I’m being scolded. She’s CLU’s former soccer captain and The Quartet’s mom friend for a reason.
Adri’s half-asleep laugh rustles the speakers. “Nope. Only Cap thought you were dead.”
“I kind of thought you were dead.” Jo yawns, smoothing wild blonde tendrils.
I forgot about the panicked text I’d sent after receiving Trevor’s meeting invitation.
I check the flood of messages on my phone.
Twelve are from Mallory in the GOAL GALS group chat.
Adri’s and Jo’s responses are much tamer.
There’s also one from my mom, wishing me a productive day, and my dietitian asking if I ate breakfast.
Me
Does a protein shake and energy drink count?
Sarabeth
Ma’am. Your PCOS will thank you when you eat consistently and bring your stress levels down.
Did you sleep?
I ignore Sarabeth because she won’t like my answer, and I apologize to my friends.
“It’s fine. Just don’t do it again.” Mallory props her phone on the kitchen counter to make her morning cup of hot chocolate. “What caused the freak out?”
The vanilla shake sours on my tongue. “Trevor scheduled a last-minute meeting for this morning.”
A curse leaves her lips. “Do you know what it’s about?”
“Nope. No details, but I stayed up all night preparing.”
“If you had no information, how did you prepare?” Jo, our resident voice of reason, asks.
I drop the pink five-pound binder onto the desk, and all three women jump. Out of the thirty files inside, only five are mine. The rest are Trevor’s. He brings in the big-name clients, and I do the majority of his work.
“I read every file and jammed each word into my brain.”
“Don’t fret.” Throwing off her wine-red comforter, Adri appears. For someone who just woke up, she looks runway ready. “That’s Trevor’s modus operandi.”
“His huh?” I ask.
“Ignore her.” Jo rubs tired eyes. “She’s binge-watching Criminal Minds. Again. Looks like we’ve got a possible FBI agent in the group.”
“Lose the sarcasm, JoJo. When a serial killer comes, you’ll wish I were Detective Morgan.”
“Derek Morgan does nothing for me. Prentiss though? Now we’re talking.”
I check the clock. “Guys, I’m running out of time! Adri, continue your FBI talk.”
Her grin is victorious. “Trevor has probably known about this meeting for weeks and wanted you to panic. Like the time he didn’t invite you to the agency lunch until thirty minutes before. Making you sweat is his favorite pastime, so don’t freak out. It’s probably nothing.”
The logic is solid, but I’m not entirely convinced. “Okay maybe, but what if I’m getting fired?”
Mallory pulls her coils into a bun at the top of her head and lifts her mug. “If you get fired, make sure you kick every man right where it hurts. In the dick.”
I’d laugh if I didn’t know how serious she is.
Jo loses the battle and smiles. “Aren’t you supposed to be a pacifist?”
Laughing, Mallory licks the foamy whipped cream mustache from her upper lip. “I am, but that doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy watching karma get terrible men.”
“Agreed, Cap! It’s never too early for violence,” Adri cheers.
Rolling her eyes, Jo redirects the conversation. “Did you do anything to get fired?”
I wrack my brain, but nothing comes to mind.
I’ve done everything asked of me by not only Trevor but everyone here.
All assignments are done perfectly. I attend babysitting meetings without complaint.
I manage my clients, and his, to the best of my ability, create rock-solid contracts, and negotiate like my life depends on it.
“No,” I admit. “But—”
“What if Trevor is getting fired?” Adri cuts in.
The idea thrills me. Maybe another client dropped him and they want me to witness his termination and escort him from the building.
God, I wish.
Catching a glimpse of the clock, I sigh. “I love you guys, but I gotta go. Thanks for distracting my brain.”
Air kisses and a chorus of encouragement fill my office. It’s been like this since we became teammates and friends four-plus years ago. Constant love that I’ll never deserve and never let go of. Even when I’m radio silent for work, they always come when I need them.
“Kick them in the dick!” Mallory chants before I hang up. She may be group mom, but she’s as chaotic as Adri.
I stand and inspect myself in the mirror on the wall. Box braids fall past my hips, curling at the ends. I re-tuck my blush blouse into black slacks and slip my heels on before entering the hallway.
Professionalism is my number one. As the only woman at Permian, I can’t afford to give anyone even the slightest idea that I’m not up for this job and all it entails.
I must be capable, competent, and knowledgeable at every turn, because one mistake could ruin everything I’ve worked so hard to build.
Mom taught me how to survive in a male-dominated field, making sure I was prepared for a lifetime of being on the outside.
The lesson that stuck with me most was only spending time on things I can control, like my reputation and performance, the emotions I show, how I present myself, and my level of independence.
But the things I can’t control—like love? No thanks. Love is unpredictable. I learned that firsthand when Mom and Dad split up.
There was a brief moment where I thought I could be different, though. That I could have the job and love, so I went for it.
See how well that worked out for me?
“You okay, Turner?”
I let out a tiny yelp and grip the banister along the wall. When my vision focuses on one of Trevor’s minions, I force myself to recover and stand up straight.
“Yes, Andy. Everything is fine.”
Andy Walker and I completed the Permian internship with eight other college seniors, but only we received job offers.
His babysitting ended after six months, while mine will likely never end.
He is recommended for special projects over me, every single time.
Trevor’s man club took to him immediately, leaving me on the outskirts and all alone.
The only way I’ll earn their respect is by being the best agent here.
He lifts his hand to open the door to the boardroom but pauses. “Do you know what this is about? Trev just texted me and asked me to sit in on this meeting.”
My fear reignites. I’m getting fired, and he is the witness.
How goddamn embarrassing.
Because I can’t seem to form an answer that doesn’t end with me screaming, I say nothing and open the door.
Sour cologne and sugary donuts mix disgustingly in the air.
Leaning against the table, Trevor stuffs three donut holes into his mouth and gives Andy a bro nod or whatever men do instead of speaking. Then he looks at me and rolls his eyes.
Pink is his least favorite color, which makes me love it even more.
“Whoever brings donuts every Friday deserves a raise,” he grumbles to Andy. “Makes my days much more tolerable. Especially with the shit that’s about to happen.”
That grabs my attention. “What’s about to happen? There were no details in the email.”
Trevor’s lip curls, and I genuinely believe he would growl at me if it wouldn’t come off as weird. When someone enters the room behind me, his face transforms into the one that’s sleek, kind, and professional.
Bullshit. Bullshit. Bullshit.
“Winston,” Trevor says. “I didn’t realize you’d be here for this.”
“Wouldn’t miss it!” Winston beams his perfect smile at us. “Good morning, Andy and Turner. Now we’re just waiting on the guest of honor. He should be here soon.”
I smile at the CEO of Permian Sports Agency. Winston actually likes me. If Trevor had any say, I would’ve been fired on my first day.
“Good morning,” I repeat. “Guest of honor?”
Winston opens his mouth, but Trevor pulls him away before he can say more. The men move into a small huddle, shoving me aside. It stings, but it’s expected, so I make my way to the window and look outside, focusing on the navy-and-gold flags flapping in the wind at Pilot City Stadium.
Deep breaths. Good thoughts.
The air grows thick with renewed excitement when the door creaks open again. The guest of honor has arrived.
“Welcome back, golden boy!” Trevor shouts. “Glad to see you again.”
“Golden boy?” I murmur. I’m sorely unprepared for the way my heart falls to my stomach when I turn and see the man shaking Trevor’s hand, towering over my colleagues.
Turning my back to the blast from my past, I slow my breathing. I’d like to believe I’m hallucinating, but it’s him. That’s his voice. Deep yet light enough to make me feel like I’m floating when he speaks. Euphoria wraps itself around every syllable that falls from his lips.
Lips I happen to know are very soft.
No, Shaylene.
Even without looking at him, I know he’s doing what he does best—making people feel special. All his attention is on my colleagues, casting Trevor, Winston, and Andy under his spell, laughing as if they’ve known him for years.
The way I know him.
Knew him.
“Turner!” Winston bellows, and I whip around at the authority in his voice. “Join us.”
Gorgeous eyes are already on me, and I flinch at the intensity. I almost forgot how warm his hazel gaze is, more green than brown in the early morning light. So familiar that I could create a color palette from memory.
Against my better judgement, I don’t rush toward the door and sprint back to my office.
Instead, I walk toward the men and extend my hand.
We haven’t shaken hands since the day we met freshman year in that little study room.
It’s as awkward as that first time, his callouses sliding against my palm as his hand engulfs mine completely. Warm and welcoming.
So much like the man I quietly fell in love with.
Of course I knew he was traded to the Pilots a few months ago. It’s my job to know what’s going on in the baseball world, but Cade Owens isn’t my business.
Hasn’t been since the day he didn’t come home.