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“Do your clients know how much disdain you have for them?” I all but snarl at him.
“I like my players just fine. I just don’t get emotionally attached to them. Maybe it’s a guy thing,” he goads, making sure to emphasize that my being a woman makes me an inferior sports agent in his view.
I drink what’s left of my champagne and place the glass on a nearby table.
“It’s not a guy thing. It’s an asshole thing, Ethan. If you don’t treat your clients right, then I’ll be all too happy to take them off your hands.”
“You think you could poach my clients?” he cackles disbelievingly since he thinks he’s the man and shit.
“I doubt it would be much work on my part if I did. If you talk like this behind their backs, they’ll get wind of it sooner or later. Though, I’m sure the smart ones already know you aren’t to be trusted. And guess what? Being an agent is all about trust and having our players’ best interests at heart. Something you made quite clear you have no intention of doing. If you aren’t man enough for the job, don’t worry. I’m more than qualified to do the job for you. Oh, and another thing—my players pay me five percent, not three. GuessI’mthe one doing something right.”
He throws me a pissed-off scowl as I strut away, knowing damn well the prick is staring daggers at me as he curses out my name, uncaring who’s listening.
That’s the other downside of attending these types of parties.
There’s always some jackass who ends up straining my patience.
Is it any wonder that, more times than not, I end up closing the night in search of a stiff drink and some goddamn solitude?
I know the instant I’ve mentally checked out of this party when my feet decide to walk towards one of the various open bars in this venue, choosing the one that looks most secluded, where my presence won’t be so easily detected by lingering eyes. In other words, Ethan’s. With a determined stride, I make my way towards the corner, seeking refuge in the comforting embrace of the warm, albeit dim-lit area. With my back turned to the crowd, my mask falls.
Fuck… my cheeks hurt from smiling so much.
There is only so much smiling a woman like me can do for one night.
Especially when there is very little to smile about.
Ethan might be a pretentious prick, but he’s not wrong in his assessment of my players. More importantly, one player in particular.
Ever since I signed Nathan to ESA a few years ago, he’s given me nothing but trouble.
And that’s saying something since I also represent Caleb Donovan, and that boy lives for mischief.
The only reason why I always go to bat for Nathan is because I know he’s got heart. And he puts that heart in the ice rink where it does him the most good. But most importantly, I know deep down he’s a good egg under his gruff demeanor and growled vocabulary. He’s just a little hot-tempered, that’s all.
And who am I to judge?
It’s like calling the kettle black if I passed judgment on him.
I’m not exactly mild-mannered, either.
I’ve just had more practice than him at camouflaging it.
All Nathan needs is time and patience.
Thankfully, I’ve got bucketloads of patience for my clients.
The rest of the world, not so much.
I give two taps on the marble countertop of the bar, eager to ask for something stronger than the champagne I’ve had to endure drinking for most of the night.
“Scotch. Neat.”
The pretty brunette behind the bar gives me a nod and rushes to fill my order. When she returns to me, she throws me a bright smile and slides the drink my way.
“Rough night?” she flirts, eyeing me up and down suggestively.
“It’s a little better now.” I wink, happy to play along.
