Diary of a Bad Boy(16)

“I don’t want to keep you too long, so I’ll get to the point. I called this meeting not only to catch up with you, Roark, but to discuss the hours you have to put in.”

“Hours?” Sutton asks.

“Community service hours,” Foster clarifies and then turns to me. “Do you mind if I share with my daughter?”

“My life is an open book.” I wave him off.

It really is. I couldn’t care less about what people know about me. The more they know, the better actually, because maybe they’ll get the hint I’m not looking for any new connections in life, and I’m perfectly fine with just my two best friends.

Want to know about my childhood? It was simple, boring. Raised in Ireland, had a father who didn’t give two shits about me, and a strict Irish-Catholic mother who used—and broke—wooden spoons on me more times than I can count.

College, yeah, I’d tell you if I could remember. What I do know is I was part of a fraternity. I was drunk every day, threw up in trash cans around campus a lot of the time—I was that guy—and my social game was so damn good I ended up managing the careers of some of my close athlete friends straight out of college.

And now, I pull my head out of my ass when I need to do business, I land some of the biggest endorsement and contract deals in the sports field, and I party almost every goddamn night to get away from the rest of the world.

To forget.

It’s a simple life, one I’m happy with.

And yeah, I might get in some fights, and I could have possibly gone to jail, but only because the hairy-backed, pointy nipple shithead I nailed in the jaw was too much of a pussy to punch me back. He called the cops and reported me.

I’m sure it won’t be the last time it happens.

Clearing his throat, Foster turns to Sutton and says, “Roark got in a bar fight recently and rather that going to jail”—Sutton’s eyes widen—“he’s on probation, has to fulfill multiple hours of community service, and has to go to anger management courses.”

She snorts. “And how’s that going for you?”

I pluck a piece of lint off my black jeans. “The therapist and I are still getting to know each other.”

“And since he’s going to anger management and checking off that box—”

“Doesn’t seem to be working since he clearly still loses it over the stupidest thing. Dad,” Sutton says, “he got in a fight over ketchup.”

“The dick was making a big deal over nothing and needed to be put in his place.”

“You almost ran me over with your idiocy.”

“Is that what this is really about?” I ask. “Were you scared?”

“Yes, I was scared. I was terrified. How did you know the guy didn’t have a knife or a gun?”

I shrug. “You just know.”

Sutton throws her hands in her air. “I can’t believe this guy is your agent. Out of all the people, Dad, you picked the most ill-behaved, unprofessional, out-spoken guy on the planet.”

“On the planet?” I lift my brow. “Wow, now that’s quite the title.” I pretend to write in my hand. “Making note of that for my résumé.”

“Enough,” Foster says, rubbing his hand over his forehead. “Christ, it’s as if I have two children.”

“Yes, exactly,” Sutton points out. “I’m so glad you’re finally realizing that. This man is a child.”

Leaning forward, I nod at her. “He said children, plural, meaning you’re acting petulant too.”

“You are, Sutton Grace,” Foster says. “And it’s making me question if you’re ready to work for the foundation.”

“What?” she asks, panic searing through her eyes. “Dad, I worked my ass off and got a master’s degree, even though it wasn’t required for my position. That’s more than I can say for him.” She thumbs toward me, and though I can be even-cooled for the most part, all it takes is one person to flip my switch and I fly off the deep end.

She’s tinkering with my switch.

“How do you know I haven’t worked my ass off to get to where I am?” I counter.

She folds her arms across her chest. “Please. Did you even go to college?”

“He went to Yale,” Foster says with a grin.

“Yale?” Sutton sits a little taller. “You went to Yale?”

“Yeah, I did, lass. And I fucking graduated with a three-point-eight GPA. Understanding economics was a bitch for me.” And also, it was the early class, and I had a hell of a time trying to stay awake through it.

“Oh.”

“Yeah, oh. From there, I managed Tyler Gaines, Henry Kumar, and Westin Hanks straight out of college. Made some mistakes, but then I created some huge opportunities. From there, my business grew. I have twenty employees who work under me, I represent more than fifty professional athletes including your father, and I have secured some of the biggest contracts in sports history. I make twenty percent—yeah, twenty because I’m that damn good—off every single athlete I manage. Your dad made over one hundred million dollars between his last contract and endorsement deals that I’ve landed him. Do the math.”

She’s silent, mulling it all over, so I continue. “I might drink like my ancestors and get myself into bloody trouble whenever I get my hands on it, but when push comes to shove, my job comes first, and I do a damn good job at it. So, before you go and judge me, know this: I know I’m a fuck-up socially, but when it comes to business, I’ll talk my way through any contract, tripling the income of my client every goddamn time.”