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With a laugh, we enter the restaurant to find Cliff and Chickman already sitting at a table in the corner, exchanging words over a glass of Scotch. Their conversation looks too heated to be casual. As we approach, they stop arguing abruptly. My agent pastes on a wide smile that reeks of bullshit.
My nerves torque up. Sweat breaks out between my shoulder blades. This could go sour really fast.
“Hi, Noah.” Cliff and I shake hands before he nods in my wife’s direction. “Harlow. Good to see you again.”
“Likewise.” She gives him a gracious smile.
Then Cliff makes the introductions.
I’ve met Gus Chickman once or twice in passing over the years. He’s a football fan himself and he’s cheered me through a couple of Super Bowls, I’m told. I’ve got that working in my favor. Instead of focusing on everything that’s gone wrong with the Mercedes Fleet situation, I have to remember that the man who wants to hire me actually likes me.
Or he once did.
The network executive and I exchange a few pleasantries before I help Harlow into her chair. Chickman isn’t smiling, but he isn’t glowering either. Maybe the situation is still salvageable…if I can keep my shit together.
After the waiter comes to take our drink orders, the television bigwig leans across the table and stares at me. “I asked for this meeting because as charming as your agent is, I need to hear from you, Weston. Do you want this job or not?”
Cliff pats him on the back. “Gus… Gus, we’ve talked about this. Of course Noah does. Most likely, he’ll say yes. He’s just been—”
“I want to hear from Weston.”
When the older man drills me with his blue eyes, I nod. “I’m very seriously considering your offer. I hope you’ll appreciate that the last few months for me have been hectic. Getting married isn’t something that happens without a lot of consideration and planning, so—”
“Agreed, but we don’t make this sort of substantial offer to everyone before we’ve actually heard them perform in a booth. Your last couple of press conferences weren’t your best, but I’ve listened to you speak many times over the last dozen years. With your knowledge of the game and your insight, I think you can do this job better than anyone.”
“Thank you. I understand I’ve kept you waiting longer than you anticipated. You’ve made me a lucrative offer, and I grasp the gravity of that. Because I’ve had big things going on in my personal life, I wanted to be one hundred percent sure I could deliver on everything you expect before I agreed to anything.”
“What does that mean? I just expect you to talk.” The old man glares, his forehead gleaming with a thin sheen of perspiration. “Are you really considering walking away from football altogether? Or is there some other reason to think you can’t do the job?” He leans in with narrowed eyes. “Did that last concussion mess you up more than you’re letting on?”
“Um…” I start sweating, too. Profusely. The need to swallow makes me shut my mouth. My stomach feels as if I took it apart with a chainsaw and tried to hold it together with a rubber band. A million words zoom through my head, but I can’t seem to speak a single one. So I shake my head and hope he believes me.
But really, if I can’t muster an eloquent defense, why would he?
Harlow understands my predicament and reaches under the crisp white tablecloth to wrap her fingers around my knee and give me a comforting squeeze.
“Then what’s the damn problem?”
I still can’t answer. I try to pass off an expression that says I’m attempting to put my thoughts into words, but I’m sure he can see a drop of sweat rolling from my temple.
“Out with it, Weston,” he insists. “Is your personal life too much to keep up with your job responsibilities? Because we should talk about that. The executives in my sports division aren’t happy with all your splashy news lately. You had a reputation as a man whore early in your career. I decided to offer you this job at this pay because you’d seemed to clean your act up in recent seasons. But since your antics with Mercedes Fleet came to light, I’ve had a very nervous board of directors. Say something that will help me put them at ease.”
I could. Normally, I’d love to. Right now, I can’t say anything at all.
Clenching my fists, it’s all I can do not to pound them on the table in frustration. Since I have to keep my shit together, I turn to look at Harlow. She’s been holding back, letting me run things unless I needed her.
Now, more than ever, I do.
She squeezes my knee again, then turns her most charming smile on Chickman. “Other than being worn out after an eventful weekend, Noah is fine. We’d planned to take at least this week for a honeymoon, so the fact that he’s having dinner with you tonight instead of keeping his promise to his new wife ought to tell you he’s very serious about your offer. But he wants to give it its due consideration. It’s a long-term commitment. The fact that he wants a few weeks without a media spectacle distracting him so that he can be entirely sure is not something that should make anyone nervous. Your board of directors should be relieved he’s being so serious and cautious. If he says yes, they can be completely certain he means it.”
God, she’s wonderful. Perfect. She both scolded and reassured Chickman in the same speech. No wonder I love her so much.
“Furthermore, if I thought for one moment that Ms. Fleet’s claims were true, I would not have married Noah. Maybe you saw the YouTube video of my last attempt at marriage? If you did, you know I won’t accept my fiancé knocking up some other woman. Ms. Fleet is an attention seeker, and you’re giving her far too much validity by even listening to her claims. You’re a smart man. Haven’t you ever dealt with someone trying to get their fifteen minutes of fame by climbing on your back and riding your coattails for all they’re worth?”
When he flushes a guilty red, I drag in a deep breath.Score, Harlow! The woman should have been a trial attorney. This performance tells me that if we ever get into a gnarly fight, I’m likely to lose.
“Thank you, Mrs. Weston,” Cliff cuts in, jaw clenched. He’s annoyed that Harlow is doing his job for him right now—and doing it better. “But I’ve got it from here.”
I glare at my longtime agent. Where the fuck does he get the idea that Harlow doesn’t have a voice at this table? That she can’t speak for me if I want her to, if I can’t do it myself?
