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She glowers at me.
"I wouldn't punch you," I offer, meaning it. Hitting chicks is fucked up. I'd never do something like that. Besides, even if this is all Kelsey's fault, I like her. She may be bossy, but she cares about the team and tries to make decisions that are best for us. Plus, she represents Weston individually.
"Good to know," she snorts. "But I still can't represent you."
"Why not? This is all your fault," I remind her, which is obviously the wrong thing to say because she throws a pencil at my head. I grab it before it cracks me in the forehead. "You really can't judge me for resorting to violence with Cal when you do it to us all the time."
"That's different," she scoffs, wiping invisible lint off her suit. "Violence is the only thing that keeps you guys alive. If I couldn't throw things at you, I'd have to murder you. Do you know how much work it takes to hide a body?"
"Uh, no?"
"A lot. I looked into it once."
Wes was right. She is a merciless savage. And way more terrifying than I gave her credit for.
"Maybe you shouldn't represent me," I mutter, leaning back in my chair.
"I knew you'd see it my way," she says, batting her lashes at me. Which gets her nowhere. Kelsey is beautiful in the same wayannoying little sisters are beautiful. They're adorable gifts from God who make your dick shrivel and your soul quiver. Besides, I may not date, but I'm not a complete idiot. I've seen the way our captain, Kristján Jónsson, looks at her. He's in love with her.
But that's none of my business, so I don't get involved.
"In all seriousness, I can't represent you because I don't have time to take on anyone else. I barely have time to deal with Wes right now. Which is why I have a publicist coming to meet you in fifteen minutes."
"Wait. What?"
She beams at me, her green eyes twinkling with satisfaction. "Camila Gomes is perfect for you. She's smart, she's trustworthy, and she knows a lot about sports. Her biggest client is Adrian Kane. He used to play for the Titans."
"Isn't he the one who writes chick books?"
"Chick books?" Kelsey arches a brow at me, her expression turning downright frosty. "Don't you read picture books?"
"Comics aren't picture books."
"And romance novels aren't chick books."
"Touche," I say. I didn't mean it in a negative way. I just meant that he writes books for women. There's nothing wrong with that. "My point was…he doesn't play football anymore."
"No, he doesn't," Kelsey says. And I can tell by the way she picks up a stack of papers and pretends to sort them that she knows exactly where I'm going with this and is trying to avoid the subject.
"So does she represent athletes or authors?"
She ignores me.
"Kelsey."
Instead of answering, she starts whistling. And honestly, she can't hold a tune for shit.
"Kelsey!" I snap my fingers, which gets her attention.
"I'm not a dog, Gray," she growls.
"Does she represent athletes or authors?" I growl right back at her.
She glares at me for a minute and then huffs, dropping the stack of papers back to her desk. "So, here's the thing," she says, crossing her arms. "You've been blackballed."
"Blackballed?"
"Blackballed. Rejected. Blacklisted. Shut out. Prevented from scoring a goal, or a publicist in this case."
