Total pages in book: 84
Estimated words: 80153 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 80153 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 401(@200wpm)___ 321(@250wpm)___ 267(@300wpm)
Especially when it comes to enjoying the soft, sweet flesh of a woman. A touch here, a touch there, and I can have her melting beneath me. They’re a multi-purpose asset, and these hands—and other parts—have come out to score quite often after hours. There’s no better way to enjoy a career as a pro baller, as far as I’m concerned.
Except when it comes time to clean up my act.
Turn over a new leaf. Start fresh. Remake myself into a good, upstanding citizen and kick those party-boy ways to the curb. Fine, I can do that. I can absolutely do that.
And hell, do I ever need to after some of the shit I’ve had to deal with in the last few years.
But a little help would be nice, and there’s only one person I can turn to. One luscious, delicious, fantastic person. None other than the woman I’ve been lusting after for years.
Damn shame we’re going to be spending so much time in close quarters in the next few weeks, especially since everything needs to remain hands-off.
That is, until it doesn’t . . .
9
JONES
The ball arcs majestically, curving through the blue sky then landing with a soft thunk on the green, five feet away from the flag for the eighth hole. I pump a fist and head to the little white orb that tortures me most days on the links. My dirty little secret? I suck at golf. But I love it. Just fucking love it.
“You get this hole-in-two, and I’m landing you a job on the PGA tour,” Ford says.
I roll my eyes. “If you can land me a job playing golf, then you should find a gig for one of your golf pros running pass routes.”
“And maybe you can nab me a job as the closer for the San Francisco Cougars,” Trevor chimes in.
Ford brandishes his golf club at my brother like a magic wand. “Abracadabra. You now have a hundred-mile-per-hour wicked curveball.” He turns and shoots me a serious stare. “For the record, all my magic tricks are legal. Everything is one hundred percent above board in my business.”
“As it better be.” I head to the ball, lining up the shot.
My previous agent, and the money manager he worked with, are in prison now for embezzlement. Turned out my agent wasn’t actually investing the money from my contract like I hired him to do. Nope. The bastard furnished false financial statements to make it only look like my money was turning into more money.
In reality, he gambled it. Then gambled some more. Then used more to pay those gambling debts. The manager helped him cover it all up.
Poof. Millions of dollars up in smoke.
That’s a bitter pill to swallow.
I was wary of signing with any agent again, but my buddy Cooper convinced me, since he’s worked with Ford his whole career. I need someone who is above board, without question. But we’re still learning how to work together, and I’m not sure I trust him, or anyone, for that matter, who isn’t related to me.
“All I want is to know that the money I earn goes to me and to my family. That’s all I need,” I tell him, since I’m well aware of what it’s like to not have it. When I was growing up, my dad worked as a truck driver and my mom was a nurse. With four kids to feed and a house that was mortgaged to the hilt, money was stretched thin in those years, but they made it all work somehow and still made sure the four of us went to college, thanks to loan after loan after loan.
Fortunately, I nabbed a scholarship, so my school was paid for. After graduation, when I was drafted in the fourth round, I didn’t earn the highest signing bonus or the fattest contract, but it was more than enough to pay off the loans for my brothers and my sister.
And my parents’ mortgage.
And then to buy a new home for them.
That’s just what you do. When you get that kind of jack at age twenty-three and your parents worked their asses off your whole life, you buy them a new home.
Despite what happened with my agent, none of the Becketts are suffering. We’re all doing just fine, thank you very much. But still, I don’t like that a whole heap of my hard-earned dough was siphoned off.
I want to protect what I earn so my family is taken care of, and so I’m taken care of when I can no longer play. One wrong step, one illegal hit, and you can be toast.
You need to sock your money away while it’s coming in, because the gravy train can end on any given Sunday.
Ford swings his club like a pendulum. The man is a torrent of energy; stillness is anathema to him. “I hear you loud and clear. You know that’s what I’m already doing on your behalf. But I want to turn things around for you. I’m talking to some brands. It’s high time we start getting you some marquee sponsorships to match your star power.”