Challenging the Center (Santa Fe Bobcats #6)(4)

If it was outrageous—and legal—she wasn’t going to say no. Being a good girl got her nowhere. Maybe focusing on her own happiness, and not the perception of others, would do something for her career.

At least it would make her happier.

Sawyer’s eyes narrowed as she took a bite of her sauced hash browns. “God, that’s disgusting.”

Peter asked quietly from the corner, “Do you still love the game?”

The food stuck in her throat halfway down. Choking, Kat grabbed for her water glass and gulped, soothing the ache. “What?” she croaked out.

“Do you still love the game? Tennis. The sport you play for a living. The game you clawed and scratched your way through since you were nine. That you’ve endured countless injuries, seen dozens of setbacks, and kept fighting through so you could keep playing.”

The man had a way with words, even if some of them were mangled by his accent. She felt a sting behind her eyes, and she blinked rapidly to keep tears from forming. “You should be writing ad copy,” she said, trying to sound flippant. “That was masterful.”

“I have a job. Coaching you. You are making that difficult.” His accent made the short, clipped sentences sound harsher than they already were.

Sawyer put up a hand to stop Peter. “It’s my job to sell my athletes. It’s my athletes’ job to be sellable.” He pointed a fork full of boring, plain, unseasoned eggs at her. “You’re heading to Santa Fe.”

Luckily, she hadn’t taken a bite yet when he dropped that bomb on her. “Santa Fe. As in New Mexico? As in nowhere near a beach, water, anything?” When he nodded, she just let her fork drop to the plate and sat back in the booth. “Why the hell would I go there?”

“Because we said to,” Peter growled. He wasn’t a fan of being questioned, on or off the court.

“Call it a change of pace. Fine,” Sawyer added when she narrowed her eyes at him. “That’s where your ‘manny’ lives, to borrow your phrase. You’re going to him.”

“Normally, handlers do the bidding of their clients.”

“He’s not a handler. He’s an athlete. A Bobcat, to be exact. And his season is in full swing.”

That took her by surprise. “So… this isn’t some professional career cleaner.”

“Nope.”

“Not someone with a psych degree who will try to make me meditate and chant junk, shop for crystals, and preach to a woo-woo god.”

“I don’t think Michael has ever owned a crystal.”

“Michael who?” she asked warily.

“Michael Lambert.”

Kat shrugged her shoulders. “Never heard of him.”

Sawyer took that as a reason to continue. “He’s a center for the Bobcats, and he mentors the younger guys on the team. He’s got a calming way about him. He’s the athlete whisperer.” When Kat rolled her eyes, he grinned. “Fine, that last bit was bullshit. But he’s doing me a favor. Look, hang out with him a bit. See a new part of the country. Relax. Stay the f*ck out of the media for a few weeks, maybe a month or two. Come back refreshed and ready to train for a new tour, and we can put this year of debauchery behind us.”

That…was not a plan she would have come up with by herself. But the more she thought about it, the more the idea of a new place, a new location, a new arena for her to breathe and reboot began to sink in. She could get out from beyond the frustrating, smothering layers of her coach, her agent, the people around her who knew the story and wanted nothing to do with her and just go be somewhere else for a while.

Yes, the idea of needing someone to “babysit” was infuriating, even demoralizing. But that was slowly taking a backseat to trying out a new location for a while. A new crowd. A new… life.

But there was no way she was about to make Sawyer think she was looking forward to the excursion. Never that.

Casually, so as not to tip her hand, she took another sip of water and rolled her eyes. “Fine. Whatever.”

Sawyer narrowed his own eyes a moment as if gauging her sincerity, then nodded. “Good.”

Peter muttered more Russian. She might have caught the word shit in there, but she couldn’t be certain.

She flicked some extra-saucy hash browns onto Sawyer’s plate, splattering his food with the red stuff. He just sighed.



Michael locked his door, tested the knob behind him, and sighed inwardly while lifting the phone to his ear. “Sawyer, you’re sure she was supposed to be here by now? Because the front desk swears nobody has asked for me.”

“She texted me and said she’d arrived. I checked with Peter—her coach—and he received the same message from her. I’d have hand delivered her myself if I didn’t have another fire to put out.” Sawyer growled. “I’ll text her again, but she says she’s there.”

“She got the address wrong then.” Michael punched the button for the elevator harder than necessary, then reminded himself to rein in his temper. “I’m the one doing the favor, Sawyer. Remember that. My in-season off time isn’t all that plentiful.”

“I know, and I love you for it,” his agent said in that voice he used to soothe problem clients. Michael knew; he’d witnessed him doing it before. Just never to him.