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“Excuse me, miss.” The flight attendant snaps her fingers at me.
I ignore her for the third time and continue to scroll on my iPad, not completely shocked but definitely appalled by the ESPN newsfeed on my screen.
She taps her heel hard on the floor, but I don’t bother to look over.
Irritated, she clears her throat and speaks with an angry tone, “The captain announced that we were making our descent five minutes ago. You need to turn off all electronic devices, move your seat back into the upright position, and stow your bag in the overhead compartment or under the seat in front of you.”
“Fine,” I huff, blowing a chunk of my long caramel hair away from my face, “keep your bra on. I’m turning it off now.”
The junior agent sitting in the first-class seat next to me chuckles. He tries to cover it with a cough that turns into choking.
I hand Chuck the bottle of water from the cup holder, and he chugs it down, some of it spilling from the corner of his mouth and down his cheek.
“Thanks, Coach,” he croaks, his eyes filled with tears, as he crushes the plastic in his hand.
Then, he looks up at the flight attendant, whose lips part expectantly when he winks. His mouth pulls into a crooked smile as he waits for her to take the bottle from his hand. A blush spreads to her cheeks when she takes the bottle, and then she makes her way toward the front of the plane.
In the short time we’ve known each other, I’ve learned that all Chuck has to do is wink or smile at women, and they will do as he commands. It’s as if they can smell the money on him. I see it all the time with the professional athletes I represent. That part of my job gets old, but it will always remain the same.
The woman returns a few seconds later with a glass of water that Chuck takes from her. They eye-fuck each other while he sips his drink.
I can’t wait to get off this damn airplane. After five hours of breathing recycled air, the stench of so many bodies crammed together in such a small space is starting to make my nostrils burn.
We started off with a crying baby for the first hour, followed by the old man behind us who wouldn’t stop farting in his sleep, and now, I’m stuck watching these two mentally grope each other. Not to mention, I’ll be walking into a shitstorm when I get to the office. Alex Parker—my boss, Mickey’s, favorite client, all-around pain in the ass, and one of the best NHL defensemen—had to go and screw up my day even further.
“We’ll be landing in ten minutes,” the stewardess mumbles to Chuck. She hands him a piece of paper, whispers something in his ear, and then sets off to take her seat.
“Barf,” I say to my skanky companion, keeping in my mind the waitress and front desk manager at our hotel that he banged in Los Angeles. “You’re such a whore.”
He leans over, his bulky frame invading my personal space, and he plants his elbow down on the armrest between us. “It’s better to be the player than the one getting played.”
I snicker. “Sounds like you’re just afraid of getting hurt. I get it. Always the player…”
He’s fresh out of college, still mentally living in a fraternity house, but he has the build and jawline of someone in his late twenties, which seems to help him with the older ladies. The flight attendant has to be at least five years older than me, so she must be in her early thirties, give or take a few years.
If you like the preppy, self-entitled rich kids who wear polo shirts, khakis, and freaking cardigans around their necks, then Chuck is your man. I’m more into the ruggedly handsome, rough-around-the-edges type. Break me off a piece of Tom Hardy or Charlie Hunnam, and now, we’re talking.
But it’s not like I have any time for a personal life, not even a booty call. My sex life downright sucks. I spend most of my time around athletes who have overinflated egos they want to boost by having their way with a young and determined agent like myself. And, since I don’t date clients—the one rule I strictly enforce—the pickings are slim.
“So,” Chuck says, moving back to his side of the row, “what are we going to do about Alex Parker?”
I fold my arms across my chest and look out the window as the stadiums off Broad Street come into focus. Philadelphia is so close, I can practically taste my next cheesesteak. “We’re not going to do anything.”
“Mickey expects us to do some damage control,” he challenges, his voice stern.
I turn my head so that we are facing. “That’s where you’re wrong. You will not be speaking with anyone about Alex, not even to him, understand?”
Confusion scrolls across his face. I don’t elaborate, shutting down the conversation with a look that says, Don’t start with me. Then, I return my gaze to the tarmac as we touch down at Philadelphia International Airport.
My boss forced me to take Chuck to Los Angeles with me to meet with the general manager for the Dodgers, for what he was hoping would be a “training exercise” for Chuck. It was more of a hassle than it was worth.
The dude doesn’t know shit about baseball, and he made a fool of DMG with his silly questions. When the GM used the word tater—a slang term for a home run—Chuck thought that he was talking about tater tots. Um…no, he wasn’t talking about a damn potato.
Then, to make matters worse, he opened his stupid mouth during our tour of Dodger Stadium and asked about a player who, one, never played for their team, and two, didn’t even play the position he asked about. Then, he followed up the awkward silence by asking him what kind of grass they used on the field. That was the most embarrassing business meeting I’d had in the past four years of working for Mickey.
I’m a lone wolf. And I sure as hell don’t need a man at my side to close a deal. Hiring Chuck was a favor for one of Mickey’s fraternity brothers from Princeton. Apparently, Daddy needed a job for Little Chucky.
Because what does a twenty-two-year-old who barely graduated from college do with himself when he’s not interested in working for his father? Chuck thought Jerry Maguire was an awesome movie and decided that becoming a sports agent was what he wanted to be when he grew up.
