Chapter Two
Max
I knew Sutton would be pissed to see me here, crashing her meeting with the Bratt kid and his folks, but that fire in her eyes holds so much more than surprised anger. She can pretend to loathe me all she wants, turn me down every time I ask her out, but her eyes have never lied to me.
What I wouldn’t give to show her just how fucking good we could be together.
We’ve been circling one another for years now, and the chemistry between us is off the charts.
Not that she’d ever admit that to herself, stubborn little thing that she is.
She’s made it quite clear—to me and anyone else with a pulse—that she doesn’t date within the industry.
Even though injury took me out of the game years ago, she’s been adamant about her stance: once a player, always a player.
All that aside, though, Sutton Hart is a force to be reckoned with. She’s a fierce competitor in a game where all odds are stacked against her. In a profession where men like me dominate the field, she holds her own. It’s hot as hell to watch the woman work, but I can’t let her win this one.
This kid is mine, and I never lose.
She strides toward us on sky-high heels that make her legs look endless, and I shamelessly take a moment to drink her in.
She has the kind of body made for bending and breaking, smooth skin that begs to be marked red by my palm until it’s dappled and glistening with sweat, supple curves that deserve to be explored and adored.
Cheeks that should be flushed and warm to the touch from the racing blood in her veins, the adrenaline flowing as I push her past her comfort zone again and again.
She’s tough as nails, but I’d give anything to see her let go of that.
Strong women make the best submissives. When they finally choose to let go, when they trust their Dominant enough to release that death grip they have on the reins, goddamn is it beautiful.
That kind of submission is a gift that should not be taken for granted.
But this isn’t the time to entertain fantasies of Sutton Hart, so I push those thoughts aside.
Her smart pantsuit hugs her full hips, and her jacket is open over a prim ivory blouse that, though buttoned up to the neck, is just sheer enough to tease the lacy bra beneath.
Even when she’s dressed for ball-busting and closing deals, Sutton Hart is the kind of woman who commands the room.
It’s a quality that has carried her far in this business and something I hate to squash, but today’s not going to go in her favor.
It’s just the way life plays out sometimes.
We can’t all be winners.
She pushes the glass door open and strides into the hallway to meet us, anger rolling off of her in waves.
Stepping forward, the entire reason for this meeting, and coincidentally, this standoff, Emerson Bratt extends his hand toward her, and I get the pleasure of witnessing Sutton’s scowl morph into that knockout smile I rarely get to see.
She turns it on full blast for the young man beside me, and a tiny spark of jealousy flares in my chest. It’s silly, I know, but I’d give anything to see that smile directed toward me.
“Ms. Hart, thank you for coming all the way out here, ma’am.”
She shakes his hand, wrapping both of hers around his affectionately. “Of course, Emerson. You know I don’t mind coming out here to see you.”
That’s right, I forgot she was frequently in the stands with his family at the Aggie home games. Smart move, I’ll give her that. But working this kid and his family for months isn’t what’s going to win her this client. She simply doesn’t have the numbers to beat me.
The kid is in highest demand, and currently being courted by more than two-dozen teams. He’s a sports agent’s wet dream and holds all the cards, but he needs someone with equal skin in the game. He needs Apex Athletics.
We’ve followed his career since high school, and I have no doubt Sutton has done the same. She knows what a player like this would mean for her career.
Unfortunately, so do I. No matter how big Apex gets, I don’t pass up players like Emerson Bratt.
The kid has amazing support, too, which makes our job a difficult one.
With the Bratt family, education truly comes first, and now that he’s in his final year at A it shows he’s been paying attention and knows his stuff, but Sutton’s little labor of love can’t hold a candle to Apex Athletics.
Which is why if looks could kill, I’d be six feet under those sky-high heels right about now.
She’s out of the running, and that shit probably stings.
I hate that I’m the cause for that discomfort, but losing to anyone else would have just been insulting.
At least it’s me. At least it’s Apex Athletics, the number one sports agency in the world, right?
And at least it gave me a chance to see her.
The kid’s coach, Robbie Armstead, a longtime acquaintance of mine, claps me on the back, breaking the tension between us as he extends his hand to Sutton.
“Ms. Hart, it’s a pleasure to see you again.
I apologize for the little change in plans today; Emerson wanted to meet with his top two picks this week, and today was the only time Max—Mr. Cruz—had available. ”
“Wonderful.” She shoots me a look that says this chance encounter is the exact opposite of wonderful, though I’d beg to differ. “So nice of you to squeeze us into your busy schedule, Mr. Cruz.”
“It was no trouble at all,” I lie.
Between you, me, and the fence post, I fucked my schedule for the entire week to be here for this meeting, but she doesn’t need to know that. Plus, this is why the Lord made personal assistants, and mine is an actual godsend.
“I assume you two know each other?” Armstead asks. “Both of you are based in Los Angeles, so I just figured you’d met before…”
Sutton’s jaw clenches, but she’s quick to push her disdain away, flashing a forced smile as she nods. “We’ve interacted a time or two, yes.”
I cock one eyebrow. Interacted? I’ve asked this woman out no less than a dozen times.
“Good, good.” Armstead motions toward Emerson’s parents. “Max, this is Emerson’s mother, Cecelia Bratt, and his dad, Joshua Bratt.”
I shake their hands in turn, exchanging greetings, then step back as the kid’s mother moves toward Sutton and opens her arms.
Sutton’s smile for Mrs. Bratt is far more genuine than any I’ve ever received, and as she embraces the woman, I fight to keep my own smile in place. I’ve underestimated her.
Part of winning over a college kid destined to be thrown into the big leagues is winning over his parents.
Some might even say that the parents are the biggest hurdle in securing a client like Emerson Bratt.
Parents and coaches, really, but Armstead and I go too far back for me to be concerned about where his loyalty lies.
Mr. and Mrs. Bratt, however? Wild cards.
And in that respect, Sutton Hart has me clearly beat.
After a moment of small talk between the two women, Coach hoots happily, interrupting the conversation. “Why, Ms. Hart, are you bribing us?”
“Wh-what?” Sutton sputters.
“Is that a box of Porto’s refugiados, I see, all the way from California?”
Sutton smiles, and it’s the kind of thing that would render most men speechless. “You mentioned Porto’s during our last conversation, and they were on the way to the airport, so…” She shrugs as she blushes a little.
I don’t know where she lives, but there’s not a Porto’s location anywhere near LAX.
Armstead claps me on the back. “Giving you a good run for your money, eh, Cruz?”
“It certainly seems that way,” I answer, not looking away from Sutton.
He chuckles as he leads the kid’s parents into the conference room.
As soon as the glass door closes behind them, Sutton’s smile falls and that full upper lip curls into a scowl as she whispers, “What are you doing here?”
“I was invited.”
“That’s bullshit and you know it. You can’t just crash my meeting; that’s not how it works.”
“I assure you, Ms. Hart, this is exactly how it works. I’m surprised you don’t know that by now.” She does, she just doesn’t want to admit it, and honestly, that’s understandable. “A player says jump; his agent leaps.”
Her nostrils flare at that. “You are not his agent.”
I smirk. “Don’t fool yourself, Ms. Hart. It’s just semantics at this point.” I jerk my chin toward the conference room. “After you.”