Page 11 of The Romance Line
THE LIKEABILITY QUOTIENT
Max
What do you wear to an execution? I want to make a good lasting impression and go out with a bang, so I trot back upstairs and grab my best dress shirt from the closet—a light blue one along with a pair of black slacks. I change quickly, trying my best not to obsess on what might happen in my agent’s office.
Dun dun dun…
With my best ready-for-the-guillotine attire on, I head downstairs again and stop in the hallway with a groan. A little silver tabby with white paws is hanging from the blinds on the window overlooking Pacific Street but trying to hoist herself higher. She’s determined to reach the ceiling for fuck-all-knows-what reason. I hustle over to Athena and do my best to untangle the kitten from the blinds without losing an eye.
Not sure that’s likely, since she is stronger than ten men. “How are you four pounds and a hellion already?” Iask, extricating her from the wood slats, then setting her on the floor, where she shoots me a look of utter disdain, then jumps right back up on the blinds, hurling her way up like a ninja warrior.
“Let’s do this again,” I say, then remove her once more. “Try to be a good girl and not climb to the ceiling for the rest of the day,” I tell the kitten I’ve been fostering for three whole hours.
The rescue volunteer dropped her off bright and early.
As I set her down on the floor, Athena attacks my forearm, wrapping her little ones around me. Carefully, so the she-devil won’t scratch me, I unwrap her from my wrist. “Fine, have it your way. Climb the blinds,” I tell her because cats are going to be cats.
They’re going to do whatever the hell they want and fuck you.
I get it. I really do.
But instead she scurries down the hall, done with the find-the-ceiling plan. With the terror off to terrorize a lampshade or a mug, I head to the garage and hop into my car, where I tune back into the online course. Something I’m taking to keep my brain sharp, but it also keeps my mind off the blade that’s coming down on my neckany minute.
Fifteen minutes later, I arrive at Garrett’s agency just off the Embarcadero, a prime location since it’s near both one of the city’s baseball parks and a football stadium. I nab a spot in the underground lot easily. That’ll probably be the last thing that goes my way today. Maybe I’m a pessimist but I like to think I’m a realist. The world is a dumpster fire, so it’s best to meet the world on its own terms. Bonus? With my attitude, I won’t get blindsided. Been there, done that. Don’t want to get blindsided again.
I go to the parking garage elevator, then I hit the button for my agent’s office. When the elevator dings open on the seventh floor, I turn down the hall, making my way to the corner suite. The Garrett Emerson Sports Management Agency is a force. My agent left one of the big agencies a few years ago to branch out on his own, and the dude can pull. His client list is impressive across the major pro sports, as well as the Olympic ones.
I push open the sleek, modern doors. Glass walls reflect the sunlight on this October day in San Francisco, polished wooden floors gleam underfoot, and sports memorabilia is tastefully displayed around the waiting room.
The air is filled with a faint scent of leather and success.
The second the receptionist sees me, he flashes a courteous smile. He doesn’t look a day over twenty-one. “So glad you could make it on short notice, Mr. Lambert,” he says, ready and eager to help. “I’ll let Mr. Emerson know you’re here.”
“Thanks,” I say, but before he can even dial the boss, Garrett’s already here in the lobby, a warm smile on his face as he strides over to me and extends a hand in greeting. “I see you dressed like you’re meeting with the team owner,” he says wryly, knowing me too well.
“I can read subtext,” I say.
He claps me on the back. “Let’s head to the conference room and talk business.”
And he doesn’t deny that I’m reading his text tone correctly. I follow Garrett down a corridor lined with framed jerseys and signed tennis rackets and golf clubs. There’s even a volleyball in a glass case from one of his gold medalists in that sport.
Are these other clients as difficult as I am? But I dismiss the thought. I brought him a cup a few years back. Doesn’t get much better than that. We pass by offices bustling with other agents making deals over the phone. The conference room we enter is just as swank as the rest of the office—a long mahogany table surrounded by comfortable leather chairs.
I stop in the doorway though, tilting my head. We’re not alone. A young woman I don’t know is here. She shoots me a cheerful smile that lights up her curious green eyes. She’s with my financial advisor too—John Saito. He played baseball in Japan, where he’s from, for a brief stint. Love the straight shooter and his investment strategies, but I’m not sure what to make of him showing up. Plus, there’s a whiteboard in the corner, with a sheet of paper covering it.
What the hell have I just walked into?
Garrett gestures to the woman. “This is Rosario Valdez, who’s in our branding division. And you know John.”
“Nice to meet you, Rosario,” I say warily as I shake her hand. I’m not used to meeting with the whole crew, but then again, it’s been a long-ass while since Garrett called me to his office. Come to think of it, has he ever?
A sense of foreboding wraps tighter around me as I take a seat. I’m beginning to wish I hadn’t skipped the team yoga class for this meeting, since I bet I’ll be needing something to chill the fuck out after this meet-and-greet is over.
“Good to see you, Max,” John says, but I’m wondering—is it?“Do you want water, coffee, tea?”
He doesn’t offer me an energy drink. It feels like a purposeful omission. “I’m good,” I say, and the tension inthe room is obvious in their smiles and their graciousness.
Not one to mince words, I sit back in the chair and say heavily, “Just get it over with. Thrive dropped me. I’ve put that together already.”