Total pages in book: 110
Estimated words: 106774 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 106774 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 534(@200wpm)___ 427(@250wpm)___ 356(@300wpm)
“Grab a seat,” Renn says, motioning to the leather chair facing him.
I pull my clipboard out of my bag before I sit and get situated.
Most of the work I do for Renn or his family members is done virtually. If I need to pop into their homes or offices for something, they’re usually away. I have to say, though, seeing Renn in person never fails to stagger me a bit. He’s thathandsome.
Perfect symmetry. Full lips. He has a regal air about him but also an approachability that makes him impossible not to love. Everyone loves Renn Brewer.
“I have a proposition for you,” he says, running a hand through his tobacco-colored locks.
On the surface, his statement is routine. It’s a typical exchange between a boss and his employee. But I’ve worked with Renn long enough to hear the emphasis on certain syllables and the touch of hesitance in the words. That only means one thing: this isn’t going to be an innocuous proposal.
I lift a brow. “Usually, you just text those to me.”
He smiles—but not the kind that floods me with the warm and fuzzies. This one tightens my stomach. This smile is a cherry-red flag.
“Just say it,” I say.
“I acquired a new scrum half from Denver.”
He nods as if he’s mentally applauding himself. This acquisition means nothing to me … so why is he telling me about it?
“Congratulations,” I say, my tone filled with suspicion.
“Thanks. It was practically a steal. This guy was the best player in the league.”
Was? I don’t want to ask why he said that in the past tense. The more I know about the player and his backstory, the worse off I’ll be. But the way my boss is watching me makes it awkward not to ask.
“Why would you want someone on a downhill slope?” I ask with the enthusiasm of a sleeping sloth.
He leans forward. “Because I don’t believe it’s a death spiral. He might be a shadow of the player he used to be, but he’s still great—just not as fit or focused as he once was. There’s so much untapped potential, so much room for greatness, and I think we can get him to come back around with a little guidance.”
What’s with this we shit? I stare at him. Street signs may not be guiding us to our destination, but I can see the path as clear as a bell. Renn must’ve taken more hits to the head than we realized if he thinks I’m going to go along with this.
“That’s where you come in,” he says.
Ugh. I knew it. I look at the ceiling and exhale harshly.
“He needs someone to match his … temperament,” Renn says carefully.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that he needs an assistant—someone who will stand up to him. Who won’t back down from a challenge. Someone I can trust to help him get on the right track.”
“I don’t know how to do that,” I deadpan.
“Of course you do.”
Technically, I do know how to do that. And technically, I can do it. But that doesn’t mean I want to—and Renn knows it.
I’ve had enough experience with the sports world to know that athletes are a lot of work—too much work for what it’s worth. I’ve met other personal assistants to players through Renn, and their stories are wild. These guys seem to be cut from the same cloth. They’re overconfident and dismissive. Hardheaded as hell. Most of them can’t, or won’t, follow directions, and very few of them appreciate the work other people are putting forth to help make them great. I don’t want any part of that.
I’m fortunate to have worked with Renn. He’s a unicorn. I’d like to keep it that way.
“There’s a reason I don’t have kids, Renn. I don’t like them. They’re little fun suckers, and this feels very fun sucky, but with a very large male.”
He coughs back a chuckle. “Remind me. When was the last time you had fun?”
I glare at him even though he has a point. It’s not like personal assisting his player would put a crimp in my lifestyle. I don’t have a lifestyle beyond egg sandwiches for breakfast, working hard throughout the day, and watching trash television at night while I promise myself that I’ll do better tomorrow. But none of that is relevant in this conversation.
“I’m only asking that you do for him what you did for me when I was playing,” he says.
“So I should plan on answering calls from his father about why he’s in the emergency room with contusions on his head and a prostitute in his hotel room who refuses to leave?”
“That wasn’t like it sounds, and you know it.”
I watch him carefully. He’s avoiding my gaze and grabbing at the collar of his shirt—two telltale signs that he’s hiding something. “What are you not saying?”
“There may be rumors of gambling problems and a fetish for sex workers.”