Challenging the Center (Santa Fe Bobcats #6)(2)

“Had a sex tape, yeah.” Sawyer sounded exhausted just saying the short sentence. “So you’ve heard of her.”

“Sort of. Wasn’t it with another tennis player? A dude? Uh, what was his name…”

“Dorchessky. Igor Dorchessky. She released it, for God knows what reason. Maybe to spite him since he claims he’d broken up with her right before she released it.”

“And you haven’t dropped her from your roster because… why?”

“Because there’s enough of me that sees something redeemable in her. She swears she didn’t actually release the video. Maybe it was an accident. Maybe she got hacked. I don’t know.”

Michael rolled his eyes. My phone was hacked was the new I swear, Officer, that’s not mine, I was just holding it for a friend excuse. “Hacked. Uh-huh.”

“Up until that moment, she was a model athlete, off the court anyway. Prone to injuries but agreeable enough. Anyway, she’s sort of derailed since the video hit the Internet and didn’t get the results she wanted. Partying, photographed with some less-than-ideal companions, acting up in the locker room and on the sidelines.”

“Fighting?”

“Dancing,” his agent said through what Michael could only assume were clenched teeth. “She likes dancing. Badly. Says it helps clear her mind, which whatever. But it’s doing nothing to rebuild her reputation as someone sponsors want to work with. They think she’s a party girl with no substance.”

“Dancing,” Michael muttered. He loved cutting loose like anyone else, joking around with teammates. But not when it distracted someone from the job at hand.

“I need you to calm her down.” Sawyer sighed. “Look, she’s good. She’s not Olympic gold good, but she’s solid. She had the potential for a decent career—injuries notwithstanding—with lasting cred to get her a good coaching job after. Suddenly this video hits and she’s a pariah. Now she’s acting out some teenage-rebellion phase she must have missed out on and wants to reclaim. She’s in the media more than she used to be, getting more play in places like Sports Center, but it’s all for her antics off the court.”

Which might have been why Michael had at least heard the name before. Though tennis wasn’t a sport he followed, he might have seen the name pass by on a scroll or flash in the corner while watching something else on TV. Like most other athletes, he was a sports-news junkie. Some sports channel was playing nearly all the time around him.

“And every time she does something ridiculous, they make sure to bring up her video.”

“None of this explains my role in this little play.” He scratched at his chest with the corner of the remote, debated stretching out for a nap on his one day off during the week, then decided against it. A nap would f*ck up his sleep schedule. Sleep was the magic bullet during the season.

“I need you to do your magic with her. That thing you do with all the babies of the team where you take them out for meals and suddenly they’re perfect children. That thing. Whatever it is you do with them, do it now with her.”

“And she just happens to live in Santa Fe?”

Sawyer scoffed. “Of course not. I’m setting her up with an apartment in your building. Short-term lease. She’ll be nearby to keep an eye on.”

“I’m not a paid nanny, Sawyer. I have a season that’s in full swing currently. Why me? Why now?”

“Because she has a break in the action, and if she doesn’t pull her head out of her ass, she won’t be returning for any more tournaments. That’s the end for her. So help her. Please.”

Michael said nothing.

“Please.”

Nothing.

Sawyer sighed. “I’ll owe you.”

No, Michael never turned down earning brownie points… or IOUs. “Done. I’ll let you know when I want to cash in on that favor.” Michael hung up and stretched out, unmuting the TV simultaneously. One bratty teenage athlete he could handle. She couldn’t be more than nineteen or twenty, tops, the way Sawyer talked about her. How much trouble could she be?



“You got me a mentor? A dude mentor?” Kat Kelly scoffed as she stared at her agent, Sawyer Grade, then her coach, Peter Morozov. “Let’s just call this what it is… a manny.”

Peter’s dark brows drew together. “His name is not Manny,” he said, his voice thickly accented with the tones of his beloved motherland, Russia.

“Manny. Male nanny. Watch VH1 or something,” Kat said again, crossing her arms and resting her elbows on the scarred tabletop of the booth they sat at. She’d insisted they both meet her in a public spot when her agent had called—surprise!—to say he was in town and he wanted a “quick chat” with her and her coach. Sawyer was never in town for good things. And involving Peter? Even worse news. But in a public place, Sawyer was less likely to lose his cool and yell.

Peter would yell anywhere. There was no saving her there.

Sawyer leaned back in his own seat and scowled. “Manny, mentor… Let’s call this what it is: your last chance. Nobody wants to touch you with a ten-foot pole, Katrina.”

“Kat,” she said through gritted teeth.

“Kat.” His dark gaze brightened as he flashed a smile at their waitress while she dropped off their orders. “Thank you, this looks amazing.”