Kickin' It (Red Card #2)(2)

“Uh-huh.” I checked my watch and tried to ignore how sound her logic was, then checked my watch again. Damn, I was going to be late. “Look, you live in California, what are you going to do? Pack up all your shit, move here, and just . . . try it out? What if it doesn’t work? You realize this is a huge commitment. You’ll be around professional athletes who think their shit smells like roses. You have to be tough, you can’t be . . . you,” I coughed out. She was naturally flirtatious, and I could only imagine what some of my clients would think about that. “Sorry, that came out wrong.”

“I’ll prove myself,” she said in a small whisper. “It’s what I’ve always wanted, to be just like you.”

“Ah, she offers cake while a knife gets shoved into my back. Nice.” I let out a long sigh. I knew my reasons for saying no were purely out of fear, and maybe a little bit about her growing up too fast. “I’ll give you three months.”

“Yes!”

I pulled the phone away from my ear. “One catch. I’m not letting you just . . . live in a crappy apartment with no security where any of the athletes can track you, or downtown near the party scene. If you commit to this and—”

She burst out laughing. “Matt, do you hear yourself? Why would a professional athlete follow me to my crappy apartment? They aren’t criminals! Or stalkers!”

I thought about some of my clients and winced. “Right . . .”

“Matt, be reasonable.”

“You’ll live here or the deal’s off.”

“Matt . . . I have a friend that’s moving up there too, we were going to live—”

“Look, I gotta go. I’m running really late, you got what you want, congratulations. Send me the details later. I’m not trying to be an ass. If you want the job bad enough, you’ll make it work.”

“But what about—”

“Your friend will be fine. I really need to go, Jagger’s waiting—”

“I mean I guess she could come with me.”

“Sure! Yup. Sounds good.” The clock was ticking in my head. There wasn’t enough time in the world to babysit another athlete hell-bent on ruining his own reputation. “Whatever.”

“Really?” she said.

What the hell was she talking about now? Was she still on the phone?

“Sure. Willow, I have to go. Love you, just put everything having to do with the move on the card, keep your receipts, and text me when you have details, yeah?”

“Matt, you’re the best, I can’t wait to tell—”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah, love you!”

I hung up and ran into my living room just in time to hear the doorbell. The door opened a few moments later.

“Yes, please, come in.” I waved my arm in the air. “Jagger, you need to learn about boundaries, personal space . . .” I eyed his orange joggers. “Fashion . . .”

He rolled his eyes. “This is from one of my sponsors. I have to wear this shit so they pay me so I can pay you.” He grinned.

“If I go blind from those pants I want a raise.”

He flipped me off in typical Jagger style. The guy was one of soccer’s highest-paid goalies and talked a lot of shit, but he did a good job taking it as well. He’d recently gotten into a verbal altercation with another player. As luck would have it, he was shoved into the ref and accidently gave him a black eye.

The video went viral.

It was his third viral video this year. He kept going viral for all the wrong reasons.

Keeping Jagger out of the news was an art.

Like swimming through shark-infested waters with a flesh wound . . . and surviving.

“So.” Jagger plopped down onto my couch, taking up double the space needed to sit like a normal person. “What’s the plan?”

I had opened my mouth to reply when the doorbell rang again.

The door opened before it stopped ringing.

Slade Rodriguez, best striker in the world, yawned and made his way toward Jagger.

“Why ring the doorbell if you never give me a chance to answer it?” I said louder than necessary.

Slade grinned. “Saw Jagger’s car, figured he already made sure you weren’t in your kitchen naked again.”

I glared. “One time. And when a man lives by himself—”

“He tends to dance naked to John Legend?” Slade said while Jagger choked out a laugh.

I greedily started searching for my painkillers. With my luck, these two were going to give me a stomach ulcer at age thirty.

“Think he’s already searching for ibuprofen?” Jagger whispered.

“It’s all a front. We don’t really bother him that much,” Slade offered in a hushed tone. “Besides, he’d be bored without us.”

“Actually . . .” I found a glass of water and threw back the pills in a big gulp. “The headache started when Willow called and wore me down to the point of complete exhaustion. She should have been a lawyer.”

At my sister’s name Jagger’s eyes lit up. “Is this the hot one?”

“He only has one sister, dumbass.” Slade laughed. “And she’s really pretty, don’t you think, Matt?”

I shook my head in dismay. Damn it, Slade had thrown me under the bus. I couldn’t not compliment my own sister, but commenting on her just drew more attention to the fact that the woman could be a supermodel if she wanted. She wasn’t even here and already I was breaking out in a cold sweat thinking about all the testosterone she’d be around on a daily basis. I had two female clients, the rest were men.