Home > Hooked(4)

Hooked(4)
Author: Brenda Rothert

I shake my head. “Still doesn’t ring a bell.”

“Hailey fucking Hampton!” Gene jumps up from his seat, his face red with anger. “As in, George Hampton’s daughter. Our team owner?”

I sit back in my seat as it sinks in. “Oh, shit.”

“Yeah, oh shit is right! She went crying to her father and he wants you…well, he wants you dead, Jake, but that’s not really feasible, so instead he wants you off his team at any cost.”

“But…it was no big deal. Just a drunken make-out session. Why is she so upset?”

“Apparently it was more than that to her.”

I rub my forehead. “Why didn’t she tell me she’s Hampton’s daughter?”

“Why do you think, genius?”

“Fuck.” I slam my palm on Gene’s desk. “She knew I wouldn’t go near her knowing that. She played me.”

“Oh, she’s only begun playing you, Jake. I had to stake my fucking job on you this morning. I told George there had to be some misunderstanding.”

I furrow my brow. “A misunderstanding?”

“Right. I told him you’d never deliberately get up his daughter’s hopes and then not call her. I told him you must’ve lost her number.”

“Lost her number?”

I hadn’t asked Hailey for her number. That was something I rarely did, and only if I really planned on calling a woman. She’d insisted I take it and I’d pitched it as soon as she was out of sight. Dick biting is an automatic three strikes, you’re out.

Gene slides a piece of paper across his desk. “Here’s her number. I suggest you use it.”

I just stare at him in disbelief. “You’re saying I have to…date this woman? Even though I don’t want to?”

“You want to stay on this team?”

“Hampton can’t just get rid of me like this. Not because I don’t want to date his daughter. I have a contract. I have rights.”

Gene nods. “I have a contract, too. And I’d like to keep it. So either play ball or that practice was just a taste of your new reality. And don’t expect any ice time.”

“Are you fucking serious?”

“Stop with the goddamn questions, Birch. Just pretend you’re a decent guy and call the girl.”

I sit back and narrow my eyes at him. “Pretend? What’s so wrong with not wanting to let a woman lead me around by the nuts? I tell women the truth about not wanting anything serious.”

“Just fix this,” he says through gritted teeth. “And keep your dick in your pants or so help me I will make you sorry. I put my neck on the line for you. No fucking around with other women when you’re dating Hailey.”

I cringe. “Dating her? This is fucking nuts.”

“I couldn’t agree more,” Gene mutters. “Now get the fuck out of my office, Birch.”

I glare at him and take the paper he slid across the desk. What a load of shit. I have to pretend I actually like George Hampton’s spoiled brat of a daughter.

When I walk back through the empty locker room I want to punch the wall so much my hand twitches a little. I close my eyes until the urge subsides. I’m so pissed I could explode. I can’t afford to injure my hand, though. I’ll just have to drown my sorrows this evening.

Or not. I remember on the drive from the gym to the Dupont that I’m having dinner tonight with my agent and the marketing team of a shoe manufacturer about possibly signing on as a spokesman. It’s a high-dollar deal so sloppy drunkenness is out.

The valet at the Dupont takes my car and I ride the elevator up to my penthouse suite. This is home for the next six weeks while my new downtown apartment is being renovated.

I watch SportsCenter in the shower, making a note to add a TV to the master bath shower in my new place. By the time I’m done I only have twenty minutes to get dressed and out the door for a pre-dinner meeting with my agent, Cal.

I left a white dress shirt over the back of a chair, but it’s not there now. I look under the chair, behind it…nothing.

Where’s my fucking shirt? Most of the clothes I’m bringing for my stay at the Dupont haven’t been delivered yet, but I made sure I had a suit, shoes, shirt and tie ready for this dinner.

“Damn it,” I mutter.

I search some more and come up with nothing. I grab my phone and text Cal.

Running late. Can’t find my shirt.

He writes back immediately.

Nice. We’re not showing up late for this dinner. Figure it out and get your ass over here.

I dig through my bag of clothes, tossing shirts and socks out on the floor. There isn’t a single dress shirt in this room and I’m down to ten minutes before I have to leave.

Quickly, I slide into a pair of sweats and put on a T-shirt. I take the elevator back down to the lobby and approach the concierge desk.

“Yes, sir?” the man behind the desk asks.

“Yeah…I need a dress shirt. Do you guys have any extras lying around?”

He lowers his brows in confusion. “Dress shirts? I’m sorry, sir, but we don’t.”

I rub my temple and sigh deeply, then mutter, “I know I brought a fucking dress shirt.”

“I’m sorry, sir?”

“Look, I’ve got an important meeting to get to. I have to get my hands on a dress shirt.” I look over his outfit, but it’s just a gray uniform. “Do any of the staff people here wear dress shirts?”

He clears his throat and looks at the front desk. “Just the managers, sir.”

“Where can I find one?”

“Anton is up there right now. He’s the tall gentleman on the end.”

I nod my thanks and walk over to the front desk, where I explain my dilemma to Anton. He’s about my height and kind of heavyset. His white dress shirt won’t be a perfect fit, but I’m short on options.

“Are you…asking me for my shirt?” he says.

“I’m asking you for your shirt right this minute. I’m in a penthouse suite for the next six weeks and I’ll tip you well.”

He looks from side to side. “Certainly, sir. I don’t have any other shirts here, but I’ll figure something out.”

“I’ll give you my T-shirt. Let’s go make the exchange in the bathroom.”

He follows me to the men’s room, where he takes off his jacket and tie and then his shirt. I can already see how much this is gonna suck. His shirt has wet, yellowish armpit stains.

   
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