Mister Cruz (CEOs of Kink #7)

Chapter One

Sutton

If the heat of late autumn in Texas doesn’t kill me, the stress of this deal just might. Pacing the length of this borrowed boardroom only works to spike my body temperature, but I’m too keyed up to remain still.

Too much rides on this deal going through.

Pressure has become the only constant in my life, a second skin. It pushes in on me from all sides, an invisible, suffocating presence that has plagued me for months.

Failure is not an option.

Losing this young man to another agent is not an option.

I’ve had my eye on Emerson Bratt since we first caught wind of him during his freshman year at Texas A I need him.

My agency needs him.

We’re barely staying afloat right now, and although that news hasn’t gone public yet, I have no doubt that when it does, my competitors will gleefully swoop in and pick me apart player by player until all that remains is a silly little girl’s failure and her dead father’s dream.

I close my eyes and tilt my head back.

A million I told you sos run through my mind, all spoken in the voices of the many men along the way who told me I couldn’t succeed in their world, didn’t belong in their world. They mocked me both to my face and behind my back, but I worked my ass off and proved them wrong.

Well, almost. I’m hanging on by the skin of my teeth and trying my damnedest to make it look easy.

But the truth is I’m struggling.

If the agency fails before it even flies, I’ll be proving them all right and honestly, that’s just not an option.

My dad’s legacy deserves better.

I deserve better.

Hart Strategic Management isn’t just my baby; it’s my father’s lifelong dream. I grew up hearing about the pitfalls of professional football, the ins and outs of the game, and the way so many of those billionaire team owners would step on the little guy any chance they got.

If you weren’t their golden ticket, you were nothing.

A fact my father learned all too well when he injured his knee during his first year playing professional ball. He was out of the game before he’d ever had a chance to prove himself, left without a penny to his name and nothing but unfulfilled fantasies of championship rings to fill his mind.

Swiftly following my father’s injury and subsequent hospital bills that drained what remained of his signing bonus, my mother left us both, and I spent the first quarter of my life caring for a man too stuck in the past to realize his future was passing him by.

But even on his worst days, when his physical pain would rival the emotional scars, he’d sit me down on that old worn couch and point out each play, each formation, rewatching old games, yelling at the screen through new, and teaching me everything he knew about the sport he’d bet his life on—and lost his dreams to.

It was in his honor that I created my agency, and with his beliefs, I built this firm brick by brick, player by player.

But a has-been’s dreams and my relentless persistence don’t seem to be enough. Three years in, and I’m not seeing the momentum I hoped for. Agenting is a dog-eat-dog world, and I’m about to be lunch.

I need a big name, a golden goose.

I need Emerson Bratt.

Everything rides on this meeting, on this twenty-two-year-old kid.

And he needs me.

Come Spring, he’ll be scooped up by one team or another, and if he’s not properly represented, he might fall into the traps of greed and gluttony.

I’ve seen it play out too many times to count; players blinded by the promise of glitz and glam, only to realize they signed their best years away to a corporation that didn’t care about them in the slightest.

Which is why I’m pacing in this borrowed boardroom, ten minutes outside of Texas A I don’t need more caffeine. I’m wound tightly enough as it is.

Laughter echoes down the corridor and I freeze.

My heart stops.

Time stalls.

Bracing myself, I turn slowly toward the floor to ceiling windows that encase this meeting room. I know that laugh. Honestly, in a different world, I might love that laugh.

But this can’t be happening.

Please no.

With a deep inhale, I lift my gaze—

My competition strides toward me with his arm around my star player, the young man who was going to secure my agency’s success. The football star I have everything riding on.

Beside me, Anderson gasps, then unsuccessfully tries to cover the sound with a cough.

“You’re seeing this, too?” I whisper under my breath.

“Yes,” Anderson squeaks.

So, I’m not hallucinating then.

My biggest fear has come to fruition.

And that fear is dressed in a delectable three-piece suit that probably cost a small fortune and was made to fit him so perfectly that if I wasn’t so consumed by dread right now, I’d be drooling over the way it hugs his frame—from his broad shoulders to those thick, footballer’s thighs…

Maxwell Cruz, the most beautiful man to ever step foot on the field.

The one-night stand I cannot get away from.

And the best sports agent in the business.

My jaw clenches so hard that if the deafening thunder of my pulse in my ears wasn’t so damn loud, I might be able to hear the sound of my teeth cracking.

“How?” The word slips out just above a whisper as my world crashes down around me.

Anderson’s fingers glide over his phone screen in rapid succession, typing who knows what to who knows who about the destruction heading our way.

I’m standing directly in the line of the eye of the storm, and I can’t seem to move. Can’t seem to do much of anything but gape as my future—and the future of my company—hangs in the balance.

Maxwell Cruz is Hollywood Heartthrob personified.

He’s arrogance, beauty, and charm rolled into a delectable package that makes women fall at his feet and men turn green with envy.

He’s managed to master that City of Angels air of nonchalance while dressed in a three-piece suit that screams Wallstreet, with a build that can only be attributed to an athlete at the top of their game—even though he’s been out of the game for well over a decade.

While his hair is usually a perfectly tousled mess of near-black waves, today he’s wearing a cowboy hat and, much as I hate to admit it, he wears it well.

He’s upped the ante. Because of course he has. This is Max Cruz, after all.

His well-worn cowboy hat reminds anyone looking at him that he’s a southern boy through-and-through, regardless of the bespoke suit or shiny black loafers. It’s a calculated decision, that hat, and I can admit that he has one-upped me in just that simple decision alone.

Because he looks like the young man he’s courting. He would fit right in with those red dirt roads and Friday night lights.

And before he even enters this conference room, I can bet he’s going to turn that southern charm on full blast. His dimpled cheeks and that sexy drawl are his secret weapons.

Not that they’ve ever worked on me, save for that one time.

Max’s megawatt smile is the kind that melts panties—and brains.

But today, as my world crashes down around me, when he directs that smile at me, it only turns my insides to cement. Because if Max is here, I’m doomed.

Hart Strategic Management is doomed.

Max’s dark eyes steal my breath when they lock with mine. Looking at this man is like being trapped in the eye-of-the-hurricane and unable to move away.

Intense and infuriating all at once.

He holds my gaze for a few long beats, making my pulse race, a field mouse locked in the crosshairs of a predator circling high above…

And then he winks.

It’s that arrogant fucking wink that gets me moving again.