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“Strictly speaking, he isn’t aware of what you do. Or that you are going to offer to be his assistant. However, you don’t have to lie to him. Tell him who you are. You can even tell him what you are. The only thing you need to be vague about is the friend thing. He’ll be prickly if you tell him we asked you to be his friend.”
“Kelsey,” I whine. I’m not good at subterfuge.
“He needs someone to talk to,” she repeats. “That last game zapped his confidence.”
“I’m not good at instilling confidence.” All the couples who broke up after therapy with me flash through my mind. The kind of confidence I inspire is not what he needs.
“Pish. You’ve always given me confidence. You’re the best cheerleader I know.”
“Cheering for you has always been easy.”
“Lies. You thought I was crazy when I decided to pursue modeling. And you still managed to give me the confidence to go for it.”
“That’s sweet.” I wasn’t as supportive as she seems to think. In fact, I remember an unfortunate conversation where I told her she was wasting her potential. Turns out I was wrong. She’s wildly successful and happy.
“So, you’ll do it?”
“I don’t know.” If I’m being honest, I don’t know precisely how to be a fake friend. And I know nothing about being an assistant.
“Come on. I know how much you hate having nothing to do. This is perfect. Plus, Cam needs someone on the inside.” And the truth comes out.
“I’m not spying on one of Cam’s clients for him.”
Kelsey’s voice is tight. “He doesn’t want you to spy.” She lowers to a whisper. “Slater is taking this most recent loss hard. Cam’s worried about him. He thinks Slater is going to retire.”
“Maybe Slater wants to retire?” If the internet is correct, he’s having a bad week. If the television is correct, it isn’t his first.
“He’s twenty-six. He doesn’t want to retire. He’s just disappointed. He needs a friend.”
I mull over her request for another minute. It isn’t like I have anything else going on. And it isn’t like it would be a hardship to meet a handsome, rich athlete. “I suppose I can talk to him, but I’m not making any promises.”
Kelsey lets out a squeal. “I knew you’d help. Cam’s going to text you the details. Just remember, Slater needs to regain his confidence before they head into contract negotiations. Cam isn’t going to be able to find a team who will take him if he looks like a homeless vagabond.”
Slater’s face pops up on the television. He looks nothing like a homeless vagabond. He’s a quarterback. Isn’t there an unwritten rule that says quarterbacks must be ruggedly handsome? Chiseled jaws. Glittering eyes. Sculpted abs. You know the type.
Three hours after getting off the phone with Kelsey, I find myself entering a green certified building that is about four blocks north of the Capitol in DC. It’s nice, but not where I’d expect to find a famous athlete.
I breeze into the lobby and head for the elevators. The man at the front desk barely looks in my direction even though he’s the one who buzzed me in. At the very least, I expected he would call Slater and let him know I was on my way up. I can’t help wondering how Slater keeps out the crazy stalker types.
I take the elevator to the fifth floor, stop in front of a nondescript door, and give it a firm knock.
No one answers so I try again.
Still nothing.
I knock for the third time and try not to fidget. Even though a few hours ago, I had never heard of Slater Jones, I’m nervous. He’s famous. Forty million followers to my twenty-six. Plus, he’s an athlete, which means he’s all toned and fit, while I’m more of the cerebral type. Case in point: the last time I ran a mile was when I failed the fifth-grade presidential fitness test.
I raise my hand to knock again when the door swings open.
My eyes bulge. He looks nothing like he did on television this morning. On one side, his hair is matted to his head. On the other side, it’s sticking up in patches. His eyes are red and bloodshot. One of them is surrounded by the fading yellowish-brown of an old bruise, making him look like he survived a backyard brawl. His facial hair is scruffy. His shirt has an unidentified stain in the middle. He looks defeated. I feel a wave of something. Empathy? Concern? Horror? Maybe this isn’t going to be as easy as I thought.
“What?” he barks as I stare at him.
“Hello.” I adopt my most cheerful smile. “My name is Ellie West. And?—”
He doesn’t let me finish before he starts to shut the door.
“Wait.” I thrust my foot forward.
