The Quarterback_A New Adult Sports Romance ~ Landyn Page 4

  “Landyn, I’d like you to meet Rose. You’ll have to do everything she says. No exceptions.”

  I shot him my most professional smile and held out my hand.

  Landyn smirked.

  CHAPTER SIX

  LANDYN

  “You’re kidding!” Casper grunted and shoved two thirty-five-pound dumbbells above his head. He relaxed back down and did another rep before speaking again. “You have a…fixer? Making up stories about you?” A grin spread his cheeks and with a laugh he dropped the weights. “I can’t…” He bellowed loudly, clutching his stomach.

  Wide receiver Sammy Bordeau sat on a nearby bench and removed his headphones. “What’s Cas talking about, Lan?”

  “Not making up stories about me,” I growled out. I crossed an arm over my chest and held it with the opposite hand to stretch out my shoulder. It was still tight from yesterday’s practice. “Just…to make sure the stories that come out about me are spun into a positive.”

  Cas laughed harder. “How’s she supposed to do that? Have you seen your Instagram feed?”

  Of course I had. I’d posted the pics.

  Well, maybe a few of them shouldn’t have made it to the public. But I’d been drinking a little.

  “I thought you hated social media,” Sammy commented. “When did you get Insta?”

  I did hate it. Massive time-suck. I’d managed to resist Facebook, and no way in hell was I going to open a Twitter account. Even the name sounded stupid.

  Nico’s a bad influence. That damn kicker posted way more pics of himself in a five-minute period than I would all weekend.

  “And Snapchat is what everyone’s on,” Sammy added.

  I rolled my eyes. A bird and a ghost. “Yup. Got it.”

  “She’s got her work cut out for her,” Cas said. “I hope she’s getting paid. A lot. Oh, man, they must be paying her.”

  I shrugged. “Not coming out of my salary.”

  “You never know. There’s probably a good behavior clause in your contract that lets the team debit money from your salary.” He chuckled.

  “There’s plenty of it guaranteed, so it’s nothing to me.”

  Cas shook his head.

  “Really, Cas, it’s no big deal. Two weeks. We play in two weeks. After the season starts, nobody is going to care.”

  “Unless we lose.”

  “Which we won’t,” I said sternly. “I don’t lose.”

  “Except today.”

  I rolled my neck to look back at Sammy. He didn’t look the least bit intimidated by the murderous stare I thought I was giving him. His brows waggled and he grinned widely. He had been on the winning team during scrimmage.

  “If Sean had run the right route—”

  “You never would’ve been intercepted, and Mickey wouldn’t have run it all the way back from the ten to the end zone?” Sammy’s eyes blinked a few times, his lips fighting that smile I’d seen earlier. “You really going to blame your running back? That throw was wild, man. Went completely off the grid.”

  The look Coach had given me after I had jogged to the sideline…like I had grown an extra head or something.

  Or hand.

  “Nobody’s perfect,” I muttered. I yanked my towel up off the floor and snapped it at Sammy, who laughed in defense.

  Sammy was right; that throw wasn’t anywhere near an open receiver. It was like I’d just switched to autopilot without even reading the field. Coach had only advised that I remember my eyes—as though I’d had them shut the entire time. That pissed me off. I rarely threw interceptions—and they were always the fault of the receiver. Always. Not hubris; just fact.

  “You and Nico going back to Mira tonight?” Sammy asked. He traded places with Cas on the incline bench and began doing bicep curls.

  “Mira?” Cas’s strained voice came through while he stretched out his shoulders. “What time?”

  “Yeah, probably,” I answered Sammy. I avoided Cas’s stare.

  “I don’t know how he does it,” Sammy said. “Never seen a guy with so much game.”

  “Nico?” Cas asked.

  “Yeah. Girls all over him. All the time. Everywhere he goes. He says it’s his cologne.”

  “Landyn? Are you ready for your massage?”

  I saw Siobhan behind me in the mirror. She looked cute as always, her red hair in a ponytail, her signature dark leggings paired with the white organizational polo shirt. I opened his mouth and heard Cas’s voice.

  “I’m ready.” He massaged his pecs. “Everything is hard today.”

  Siobhan cut a sharp gaze in Cas’s direction. “That can’t possibly work on…anyone.” She refocused her annoyed gaze on me.

  Great. This was going to be an angry massage.

  “No…I…I didn’t…” Cas stuttered, hand outstretched.

  “I’ll see in there when you’re ready,” Siobhan said to me.

  Her ponytail whipped around her shoulder as she about-faced and marched out of the weight room.

  I looked from Siobhan’s rapidly retreating form to Cas. “You need to brush up on your Tinder game.”

  Cas groaned and picked up another dumbbell. He blew out a breath, looking at himself in the mirror with determination. “I’m not worried. I know she likes me.”

  I balked. “Did you not see the look she gave you? Sliced you in two.”

  Cas started reps again and answered with a groan. “Didn’t feel a thing.”

  “You’re delusional.”

  “I think the one who’s got issues is you”—Cas growled while pushing through his final rep before dropping the weights and heaving a sigh—“if you think you’re going to clean up your image in two weeks when literally every sports commentator is firmly against you playing your best on game night.”

  “Thanks, buddy. You had to bring that up.”

  “I like knowing the odds.”

  “I never said anything about me cleaning up my image. That’s Rose’s job. And I could give a damn what the commentators think. How I play speaks for itself.”

  Cas had a curious expression on his face, like he wasn’t even listening to me. “Rose? That’s a sweet name.”

  I smirked, remembering the cute way her mouth had hung open when she’d looked at me, and how much she’d blushed. Hadn’t taken long. Fake confidence, though. She had to have rubbed her thigh raw the way her hand kept scraping it when her skirt was perfectly fine, if too long. I liked her firm handshake, but her trembling in the waiting room told me everything I needed to know. “She looks like she’d need a lot of teaching. Not my type.”

  “Don’t want to work for it, huh?”

  I angled my head toward the door from the weight room to the hall where the sports therapists had an office. “The way you do?” I barked in laughter.

  “I’m in it for the long game.”

  “Long game, right.” I took a swig from my water bottle.

  “Really long, Cas,” Sammy added, nodding.

  “And since when did you get back in the game?” When Cas only glanced at me and continued with his reps, I added, “I’m just going to tell you this now, because we’re friends and I feel bad for you…you have no chance.”

  Cas jumped up from the bench and walked up to me. “And I’m going to tell you this now, because we’re friends and I know you’re acting like a dick—I don’t care what you think.” He slapped me on the sore shoulder and then turned to sit at a lat pulldown machine.

  I chuckled and headed toward the door. “I have a feeling she hates our kind anyway.”

  “Not for much longer,” Cas yelled out as I exited the room.

  I shook my head. Siobhan was older than him, and Cas wasn’t experienced enough. Wasted college years.

  “Landyn!”

  I turned and saw Nico jogging up. “Mira’s tonight?”

  “Yeah, man.” We gripped hands.

  “Good, good. A few of the cheerleaders will be there too.” He winked and entered the gym.

  The organization had a str
ict no-frat policy.

  Too many rules.

  Time to break a few.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  ROSE

  “You better be working hard.”

  Helena’s voice drove my anxiety level up a notch. She leaned over my shoulder, her red hair slipping into view, lighting a tiny flame of rage I could only pray would grow into the force of will I needed to make this work. Yes, I knew what I had better be doing. The only problem was, I didn’t know if what I was doing was going to be enough. I had arrived at the office before anyone else and begun second-guessing the list of activities I’d lined up for Landyn to do to reinvent his public image—a list I had worked hard on all day yesterday.

  I had definitely settled on the first one: a day at a summer camp for kids. I’d called the administrator and confirmed our appearance for the day after tomorrow. She’d been so excited to hear Landyn Gallagher would be at their camp—for free. She couldn’t say yes fast nor often enough. Underprivileged youth and even special needs children would have an opportunity meet and learn from an NFL quarterback.

  Great. A whole two days to freak out about the many ways this could all go wrong.

  “I got it, Helena,” I ground out. Actually, I really didn’t have a choice in the matter. Either I had it or I’d be out of a job.

  “Well, the bosses are going to want to see your plan before you leave for the day.”

  The bosses. A trio that could represent the heads of the Cerberus: the dog that guarded Hades, ruler of the underworld. They had earned that nickname—and rightly so—with their canine instincts, their ferocious bite when dealing with the media, and the serpentine way they spun stories for situations that needed fixing, just like a snake would wind its way around unsuspecting prey. They could command the highest salaries in the business because they were good at their jobs—and hired the best people.

  How in the hell had I passed the interview?

  It had been one of the scariest situations in my life. It was probably the only time I’d gone to that mystical level of performance that you’d often see athletes do when they were playing those superior in their level of competitiveness—like unranked players or teams playing against champions…and beating them. Where the underdog would suddenly play free; free of fear and able to take risks and follow through like they’d never done before in practice. Hearing my own answers during the interview had been like an out-of-body experience. And when it had been over and done with and I had exited the conference room, I’d returned to reality, not knowing who or what had possessed me.

  I let out a massive sigh and leaned back in my chair. I passed a sheet of paper to Helena, who had taken a seat beside me. “Would you take a look at this and see what you think?”

  “Absolutely.” A few tense moments of silence later, she said, “Okay, you’ve established the client’s issue well enough. Even though Cerebrus already knows exactly who he is, you’ll still need to be able to articulate your understanding of who he is and his needs. Good.”

  I wouldn’t release another breath until Helena had finished her assessment.

  “The activities are perfectly acceptable.”

  Acceptable. That’s all I could hope for with Helena.

  “You’ll have him interacting with various demographics…connecting with charities…”

  “But do you think it’s enough?”

  “You have two weeks, right?”

  “Yes,” I groaned.

  “What’s the matter?”

  “You’ve seen the write-up on this guy. Do you really think anything substantial can be accomplished in two weeks?”

  Helena gave me a stoic look. I was convinced nothing bothered the woman—ever. “Of course I do.”

  “I don’t know how—”

  “Rose, where are you?”

  “Uh…at work?”

  “Rose, where are you? Who do you work for?”

  “MacCallister, Wembly, and Poach.” Like a law firm, only they weren’t lawyers—but they could probably make you believe they were.

  “And what do we do here?”

  “We write the narrative.”

  “And?”

  “We make you believe what we want you to believe.” Like a secret government agency à la X-Files.

  “Exactly. And what don’t we do?”

  “Fail.”

  “You’re a fast learner.”

  I smirked. “It’s what I want you to believe,” I mumbled.

  “Still exactly what we do here,” Helena responded with a laugh. “Neither the client, nor the time, nor the issue factors in. We only know success because that’s all we focus on. The second you lose sight of the goal, you get off track, understand?”

  Basic strategy for high achievers. Only, I had yet to believe that I was one. Oh, I’d gotten the grades in school, and all my previous employer assessments had been stellar. Landing this job had been my dream. It was all in my hands—everything—and I felt like the ball was slipping through my fingers.

  “Understood,” I said with a nod. This was all Rochelle’s fault.

  “You just have to go into the meeting with the agenda of getting Cerebrus to believe that you have this under control. Be confident in your plan and how you’re going to execute it.”

  I loved Helena. The perfect mentor: both passionate in encouragement and impassioned in criticism. The woman had worked for Cerebrus for three years before making it to midlevel associate, with more responsibility, including mentoring junior fixers. Helena had been the first one to impress upon me the level of trust—and liability—the company was placing on my shoulders with a client possessing this much fame. The number one collegiate quarterback in the game; touted as the new Johnny Football, supplanting some guy named Johnny in every category from total touchdowns per year to winning percentage…and he had won the Heisman trophy—three times.

  “Thanks, Helena.”

  Helena patted my shoulder. A gesture of nurture I’d rarely seen the cool-headed woman give. Sure, she’d offer all the encouragement I could ever want, but only because it supported the agenda of MacCallister, Wembly, and Poach. The only thing that mattered was winning. Helena couldn’t afford for her mentee to lose.

  I carried that extra layer of trepidation when I entered the dreaded conference room—which I all but avoided since my interview, except for team meetings. And I had some form of PTSD every time I went in there.

  Cerberus.

  Three regal-looking women who were ruthless to the power of three. Normally one of them—or a high-level associate—would be handling this type of client, but no…it rested with a junior associate.

  Me.

  This was all Rochelle’s fault.

  I calmly handed each of the women a prospectus and then took my seat. With shaky fingers, I opened my own folder and turned past the title page to the introduction. Only mine had notes scribbled into the margins, as though what I had produced hadn’t really been the final draft. Helena had approved the version I’d given to Cerberus, yet I couldn’t stop myself from writing notes all the way up until I opened the door to the conference room.

  I cleared my throat and began my carefully prepared speech.

  “Never read the introduction word for word. They will be doing that in silence while they listen to your verbal interpretation of the written word.” Helena’s instruction during our last practice session just thirty minutes prior.

  “I anticipate after the last planned engagement, Mr. Gallagher’s image will be permanently reversed, meeting the client’s fixed deadline.” I closed my mouth quickly to halt any verbal diarrhea that might proceed due to nerves. Amazingly, I hadn’t vocalized a single audible pause and had delivered my speech perfectly—and again, I’d only written this last draft in the last half an hour.

  “This is your first assignment, Miss Mackleby.”

  I looked toward the raven-haired woman whose sharply angled cheekbones reminded me of Angela Bassett. I’d almost thought she was Angela, when I’d e
ntered the conference room for the interview—until I’d caught a look from one of the employees, who’d furiously shaken his head no. Guess there were plenty who had asked. He’d saved me from blurting out the question and looking like a complete idiot. “Yes, ma’am, it is.”

  “And have you followed each and every step outlined in Helena’s plan?”

  “I have. It was—is, incredibly thorough. I’m grateful she’s my mentor.”

  “And whatever you do, don’t come across as a brown-noser. They hate that.”

  Oh, crap.

  “Just stick to answering the questions as completely yet succinctly as possible. You don’t want to be in there longer than ten minutes. They usually know within two whether or not they’ll need to recommend revisions and will have them outlined in the next eight minutes.”

  I moved her hands to my lap so I could discreetly look at my watch. Three minutes in. I bit my lip and then immediately pressed my lips together so I wouldn’t appear anxious. Angela Bassett didn’t respond to my comment about Helena. Not a good sign.

  Angela Bassett looked to the woman on her right, who reminded me of Meryl Streep’s The Devil Wears Prada character, only her hair was platinum blond. Her hawklike beak of a nose rose in the air as her eyes hooded over the prospectus. “Over half of your options are related to children.”

  “Yes, they are,” I began. “As a recent college graduate, he’ll likely be able to relate to the generation after him and even younger more so than the elderly, although I do have at least one visit to an organization that’s been operating here in Richmond and catering to seniors for over a hundred years. Will be visiting mostly residents with Alzheimer’s.”

  “Yes…” Meryl Streep said slowly, her head dipping as she read down the page. Then she shook her head no.

  No, no, no, no, no. What did that mean? Why was she shaking her head? I quickly scanned the page for any typos and saw none. Helena was a bird of prey when it came to finding spelling errors or missing words. She had been the senior editor for a paper published by some Ivy League school she’d tell me wasn’t important to remember right now.