Two

Jazmine

Favorite book: Becoming—because isn’t that what it’s all about?

I was ten years old when Oprah started her book club. My mother watched her show every day no matter what. Me, I just loved that Oprah! often had an exclamation point attached to her name and that she didn’t have to sing or be sexy to become a one-namer. Just smart and determined.

Determination is something I know something about. It’s why I’m walking through the double doors of the intentionally impressive offices of StarSports Advisors in Atlanta as its first and only female sports agent and not as the next Serena Williams I once hoped to be.

My eyes are on my phone as I nod to the receptionist at the front desk and head for my own glass-walled corner office. I slow as I approach my assistant’s desk and almost stumble when I see the stranger sitting at it.

“Good morning!” The voice is as bright and perky as the blonde who jumps up to hold out a small, slim hand. “I’m Erin. Erin Richmond. Louise had a family emergency, and Larry, er, Mr. Carpenter, asked me to fill in while she’s gone.”

My assistant, Louise Lloyd, is a formidable woman in her early sixties with a no-nonsense manner that no one, including the most arrogant athletes our firm represents, has ever attempted any nonsense with.

This tiny blonde with her bright-blue eyes and pale skin is the antithesis of Louise, who took me under her wing when I joined the firm three years ago. On a good day, Louise would no doubt fuss over the girl at her desk just like she fusses over me. On a bad one, she’d eat her for lunch.

“I was told to let you know that Louise will call you when she can. She’s on her way to Memphis because her mother fell and fractured her hip.”

I know how close Louise is to her mother, and I understand why she’s on her way to her side. What I don’t know is where this girl came from or why she ended up behind Louise’s desk.

“Would you like me to send flowers to the hospital? Or food to the house? Or . . . something? Her mother’s address is right here. And I have the name of the hospital.”

“I’ll give her a call, but flowers to the hospital would be good.” I study the girl more closely—she can’t be more than very early twenties. She looks like a bit of fluff. But she also looks familiar.

“How do you know Larry Carpenter?” Larry founded the firm twenty years ago, when he signed a good part of the Atlanta Braves pitching rotation. He’s built the agency into a powerhouse, with sixty-five clients and three hundred million in contracts spread throughout the NFL, the NBA, and MLB.

“My, um, fiancé, Josh Stevens, is a client of his, and I interned here over the summer.”

“Ahhh.” Mystery solved. Stevens has a 101 mph fastball and a wipeout slider. The Braves took him in the first round two years ago and have just called him up from Triple-A.

“So, you have experience in sports management?”

“Just the internship. But I do have a degree in sports management from UGA, and I’ve been shadowing Marc Sutton’s assistant for the last three months.” She takes a breath. “And I know sports, especially baseball. My three brothers played through college. And I’ve known Josh since we were kids.” It’s clear she’s nervous, but she holds my gaze. “And I’m super organized. Kind of borderline OCD according to my brothers.” Her chin lifts. “When I heard they were looking for someone to work for you, I went to Larry and asked for the opportunity.”

I don’t point out that it’s me and not Erin who should have been given the choice, but I wouldn’t leave any young female in Marc’s office—or at his mercy—under any circumstances. The man is the very sort of troglodyte who made the #MeToo movement necessary and who has not learned a single thing from it.

“Okay, then.” I look down at my phone and pull up the day’s schedule. “I’m going to be out most of the day. Do you have any questions?”

Her fingers fly over the keyboard in front of her, her eyes on Louise’s monitor. “It shows Ron Collier for lunch at Le Bilboquet at one. Then you have a call with John Prentiss in Detroit at two forty-five. Which you can take while you’re in the car on your way to drinks with Tyrone Browning at the InterContinental.” Erin looks up. “There’s a note from Louise reminding you not to let him have more than two drinks or you’ll never get out of there.”

“Too true.” I learned that one the hard way when I was first wooing the three-hundred-pound defensive lineman who’d had one too many lemon drop martinis. When he face-planted in a plate of ravioli, I had to figure out how to extract him without attracting undue attention.

“And your father called a few minutes ago to say that he’d pick up your daughter from school—her name’s Maya, right?”

At my nod she continues reading from the screen. “He said he can drop her off at tennis, but he won’t be able to stay and bring her home.” The girl—it’s hard to think of her as a “young woman,” whatever PC demands—drops her eyes to the schedule. “But I see your appointments take you north on Peachtree so that you won’t have far to go to get to the Chastain Park Tennis Center.”

“Yes.” I skim back over the timing of the day’s appointments. “I should have plenty of time to return calls and get over to the courts for pickup.”

“At six thirty. On the dot this time.” Erin winces. “Sorry. That’s a direct quote from your father.”

“I thought I recognized the tone.” I sigh because when you’re giving face time to an athlete you’re eager to sign or trying to keep happy, it’s hard to jump up and leave if they aren’t ready to go. “All right.”

“Please don’t worry about leaving me here. I promise I’m capable of keeping things going until Louise gets back. People have underestimated me my whole life—just because I’m short and blond. I think it’s unfair to make decisions about people just because of how they look.”

I flush as the point hits home. How many times have I been discounted just because I’m female and black? “Noted. Can you get me Matt Fein at the Hawks office? The numbers are already programmed in to . . .”

She’s already scrolling through the on-screen directory before I finish. “I’m on it. Should I buzz you when I have him on the line?”

I nod and walk to my office. When I drop into my desk chair the GM is already on hold.

The morning flies by without any noticeable missteps from my temporary assistant. By the time I head out to my lunch appointment, I’m no longer totally shocked not to see Louise behind the desk outside my office. Still, I slow for one last coaching session. “Just text or forward anything that feels serious or that you’re not sure what to do with. I’ll check in when I can. If you need help here in the office, your best bet’s probably Cameron. He’s Jake Winslow’s assistant.” I point toward the third desk to Erin’s right. Then I make myself leave.

One long lunch and a conference call later, I’m being shown to a prime table at the Bourbon Bar inside the InterContinental. Tyrone is already halfway through a very pink drink decorated with a striped straw and turquoise paper umbrella, and garnished with fat red cherries. The glass disappears completely in his ham-size hand as he lifts and drains it. The drink might be on the girly side, but Tyrone’s eyes are hard and angry.

I slide into the chair across from him and raise a hand to summon the waiter. When he arrives, Tyrone orders another drink that I hope is only his second. I order a Pellegrino and appetizers to help soak up the alcohol he’s consuming.

“What’s going on?” I ask, although I’m pretty sure I don’t really want to know.

“I thought you told me that endorsement deal with Verizon was as good as signed.”

“It is. I just spoke to them last week.”

“Well, somebody’s lyin’. And I don’t think it’s Sports Illustrated.”

“What?” It’s all I can do not to shout the word as he holds up a shiny, new copy of the magazine that won’t be on shelves for another ten days. A wide receiver named Luther Hemmings takes up most of the cover. His arm is slung around his agent’s shoulders. Both men are grinning.

“Luther got the damn deal.” Tyrone and Luther played together in college and hit the NFL draft at the same time. Their relationship teeters between love and hate, with a side of jealousy thrown in. “Five million dollars for five years.” He gestures wildly, sending the pink liquid sloshing and the turquoise umbrella flying. “That’s twenty-five million dollars. I told Lucy we were set. I told my friends it was a done deal. You made me look like a fool or a liar, and I’m not sure which one I hate worse.”

I had begged him not to say anything until the contracts were signed. But that wasn’t really the point.

I look at the agent on the cover. Rich Hanson is one of the most successful sports agents in the business and a prick of the first order. “I’ll give Dan at Verizon a call and see what’s going on.”

“You can read what’s goin’ on right here, girl.” He tosses the magazine at me. “And it ain’t me.”

“Let’s just have a bite and talk this through.”

“Ain’t nothin’ to talk about. I signed with you cuz of the way you went after things for Mo Morgan when he didn’t get signed. I knew you got yourself a law degree. And I heard good things.” He drains the last of the pink concoction and slams the glass down on the table. “But I don’t have no time for people who don’t deliver.”

His accent gets increasingly and belligerently Southern. He has conveniently forgotten the position I helped him hold on to after an altercation with a teammate. The false paternity suit I saved him from and which he told me saved his marriage.

The waiter arrives with the appetizers and places them on the table. For the first time since I’ve met him, Tyrone ignores the food completely. He scrapes back his chair and gets to his feet, intentionally towering over me and the table.

I stand to face him. I’m five-eleven barefoot. Today’s kitten heels take me to six-two, and I still have to look up to meet his eyes. “I’ll find out what happened. And I’ll make it right.”

He snorts.

“Have I ever broken a promise to you?”

He loses some of the glare. “No. Least not that I know of. But this whole thing sucks.”

“It does. But I am going to find out how this happened. And then I’m going to get you an endorsement deal that will put this one to shame.”

A small, grim smile appears on his lips. “You do that. Or I’m gonna be exercising that escape clause from our contract faster than you can say, ‘Where’d he go?’”

I continue to stand as everyone in the place watches him storm out. Then, although I’m not a particularly heavy drinker, I order a Tito’s on the rocks and sip it while I read the article in the magazine Tyrone left behind.

These deals don’t happen overnight. Which means while I was negotiating in good faith, Rich Hanson somehow snuck in and claimed the prize for his wide receiver. This is not the first time Hanson has appropriated something that was meant for one of my clients. What I don’t know and clearly need to find out is whether I’m his only target or just one of many.

I’ve completely lost my appetite, but I sip the drink, hoping it will calm me down. When I feel able to speak without the heat of anger, I start making calls, beginning with the fringe of people who might be involved in Rich Hanson’s schemes and working my way toward the epicenter of the deception. I know from experience that it pays to be thorough. I didn’t make it to where I am now because I’m more talented than others but because I consistently outwork the competition.

My fury builds as I realize how deftly Hanson has outmaneuvered me. I drain the last of the drink I’ve been nursing and glance down at my Apple Watch, which is telling me to breathe and suggesting I stand up. It also tells me it’s 6:25 p.m. Shit. Chastain Park isn’t far, but there’s no way I could get there in five minutes even if it weren’t rush hour.

I fire off a text to Maya that I’m on my way, but by the time I pay the tab and the valet hands over my car, it’s 6:40. When I screech to a halt in the tennis complex parking lot, the temperature has dropped. My daughter and her instructor stand beneath a streetlight, bathed in its glow. It’s 7:05.

Maya, who just turned thirteen and is already closing in on six feet, doesn’t even try to hide her irritation. One size 11 tennis shoe taps impatiently. Her high cheekbones, honey skin tone, and wide-set brown eyes are duplicates of mine, but at the moment those eyes are angry. The wide, mobile mouth, a near replica of her father’s, twists into a frown. With a flip of a box braid over one broad shoulder, she glares at me. If looks could kill, I’d be a chalk outline on the concrete right now.

Kyle Anderson, with whom Maya has been working for close to a year, appears more resigned than angry. This is not the first time I’ve been late, and no matter how often or sincerely I promise to do better, we all know it’s unlikely to be the last.

I’m out of the car and striding toward them before the engine comes to a full stop. “I’m so sorry. I had a work emergency.”

Anderson, tall and lanky with sun-streaked blond hair, a perennial tan, and the requisite zinc oxide–covered nose, nods a greeting.

“It’s sports, Mom, not brain surgery,” Maya snaps. “Your clients are always having emergencies.” She air quotes the last word. “You’d think they’d be old enough to take care of themselves.”

If only. “I get paid to take care of those emergencies. It’s what I do. And you know it’s never been a nine-to-five job.” And certainly not a career path I ever planned on.

I’d been nearing the end of my senior year at Georgia Tech, where I’d gone on a tennis scholarship, only months away from graduation, the sports media already referring to me as the “next Serena Williams” even though Serena Williams was still very much a force. I was poised to join the women’s pro tour and madly in love with Xavier Wright, point guard for the Atlanta Hawks. My entire life, everything I’d dreamed of and worked so hard for was within my grasp.

All of it was blown to pieces when a rusted-out Mustang spun out of control and slammed into us.

When I awoke in the hospital with a career-ending crushed pelvis and a broken kneecap, Xavier was dead. The blood test I’d been given before treatment could commence revealed a pregnancy so early I hadn’t even been aware of it.

“I’m really sorry,” I say to the instructor. “Thank you so much for waiting.”

“Couldn’t leave her standing here on her own in the dark, now could I?” He looks so all-American that the British accent always takes me by surprise. He’s smiling, and his voice betrays no disrespect, but the set of his jaw telegraphs his disapproval.

But then Anderson is single and, as far as I know, has no children. It’s easy to disapprove of others when the only person you have to look out for is yourself. And how stressful could teaching tennis be? I shake my head. God, what I wouldn’t give to smack the hell out of a tennis ball right now, ace a serve at ninety-five miles an hour, drop a shot over the net that my opponent can’t get to. What I’d really like to do is wipe the court with this guy. But although I can still hit a tennis ball pretty much wherever I aim it, I can’t move fast or well enough to play the game.

“As I said, I am truly sorry. It won’t happen again.”

If he notices how tight my voice is or how much I wish I could show him up on the court, he gives no indication. “See you next time, Maya. Don’t forget to work on those drills.” He turns and heads for the only other car in the lot, a low, sporty, penis-shaped convertible.

“You promised you were going to do better,” Maya says as she slams the passenger door of my more practical and less phallic BMW. “It’s humiliating to always be the last one standing here. Poppy is never late.”

“Your grandfather is retired. He has all the time in the world. And thank God for that.” It’s my father who first took me out on the public courts near our house when I was five. He did the same for his granddaughter.

“I hate how everything else is always more important to you than me.”

“That’s not true. And it isn’t fair.”

“Ha! Aren’t you the one who’s always telling me that life isn’t fair and that I’d better get used to it?” My daughter unerringly chooses to hurl at me the one thing that I should never have said.

I take a deep breath, searching for the calm adult tone I know the situation calls for. But I’ve been jangling since Tyrone Browning dropped that damned SI on the table. My heart’s still pounding from the race to get here. So is my head.

Maya shoots off a text—no doubt a complaint about me—then turns to stare out the passenger window.

Fine. Even without a reminder from my Apple Watch, I breathe for a full minute, both hands gripping the wheel, my eyes straight ahead. As my thoughts begin to clear, it comes to me that this moment calls not only for deep breathing but for acknowledging the positive.

Traffic has thinned, so I take Wieuca over to Peachtree. Ignoring Maya’s huff of impatience when I fail to make the light, I acknowledge the top three in my head. One—I have a healthy, and clearly uncowed, daughter. Two—I have a successful, if stressful, career. All working mothers, especially the single ones, have to juggle way too many balls for comfort. Three—My parents. Having them nearby and a part of our lives is about as positive as it gets.

At Peachtree I head north to Dresden, then sneak a peek at Maya, who’s staring out her window as if she’s never seen the Brookhaven MARTA station before.

“I hope you’re hungry,” I say to the back of her head. “I’ve got a whole bunch of appetizers from the InterContinental for dinner.”

There’s no response. And no sign of thawing.

I’m about to reprimand her for ignoring me when I realize that my daughter’s silence is a great big positive at the moment. So is the fact that I’m not going to have to make dinner. There. How’s that for determined, positive thinking?