Seeming to notice her dismay, he said, "Don't get me wrong, honey, you've been doing a great job. You're a top-notch associate. All the guys think so."
He was talking to her as if she were a little girl, which, she now understood, was exactly how he viewed her. They all did: his players, the other agents, his secretary.
"Thank you for your time," she said coldly, then walked across the room and closed the door behind her with a soft click. She held her head high as she walked past Angie's desk.
As she quickly navigated the hallway, Melissa's brain spun with plans. She wasn't going to waste a single minute sitting in her cubicle feeling sorry for herself. She wanted to be an agent, and if she couldn't be a McKnight agent, she'd do it someplace else. And she knew exactly where to start.
Barnum's. The secret bar for San Francisco Bay Area professional athletes. It was the only place where the very rich, very sought-after men could shoot some pool without groupies hanging all over them. Rumor had it not one single female fan had crossed the threshold in thirty years.
But she had no doubt she'd get inside. She'd made a whole lot of guys a whole lot of money. They owed her.
Ignoring the forty new emails in her in-box, she picked up her bag and headed for the elevator. On the street, she hailed a cab and gave the driver her best guess at Barnum's address. It was a widely guarded secret, but she'd been privy to enough drunken conversations to pick up a couple of clues to its location.
On a street corner a block from the water in a rather seedy part of town, Melissa paid the driver and stepped into the fading sunlight. She was beginning to wonder if this was such a good idea, just as the sound of laughter drew her attention to a door opening halfway down a dark alley. A rookie defensive lineman stepped out into the daylight.
Bingo! Now all she had to do was figure out a way to get inside.
She strode to the door and pounded on it with both fists. It was rather cathartic to beat the crap out of a metal door, even if the edges of her hands were starting to throb.
A man opened the door just wide enough for her to see his gold tooth. "Members only."
He closed the door in her face, but rage made her strong. She shoved it open an inch. "These guys know me. Let me in."
He opened the door a foot this time and checked her out from head to toe. He grinned lecherously. "I'm sure they do, babe. Go home. Find a nice boy to marry and make babies with."
She peered over his shoulder into the dark room. Jones Wilson was leaning over the pool table. She'd just made him a bucket of money, more than double the original offer he'd been made to hock tennis shoes. He owed her.
"Jones!" she shrieked over the throbbing rap music.
The bouncer recoiled and covered his ears, giving her the chance to push the door open and lunge past him. She was halfway inside by the time he grabbed her.
"Not so fast," he growled, and she had a feeling she was moments away from being literally tossed out on her ass.
Just in time, Wilson laid down his pool stick. "Melissa McKnight? What are you doing here, girl?"
The bouncer said, "Sorry, man. I told her 'no groupies.' I'll get her out of here."
"She's no groupie, man. She's my agent's kid. Let her go."
"What's up?" Wilson asked when the bouncer headed back behind the bar. "Some problem with the new contract?"
She shook her head. "No, your contract is fine. Let me get a drink and then you can introduce me to your friends."
He frowned. "Seriously? You're staying?"
"You bet I am." He looked shell-shocked, so she decided to give him a few minutes to get used to the idea of her being in the top-secret players' haunt. "Go back to your pool game. I'll let you know when I'm ready for your help."
He looked over his shoulder at the rest of the players in the club, then shook his head. "I don't think this is such a great idea, you being here."
She shrugged and looked around the joint. "Not much of a vibe, but I suppose it grows on you."
Waving him back toward the pool table, she headed over to the empty bar. At least a dozen pairs of eyes were on her. Football, hockey, and baseball players relaxed with beers and video games and pool. There were even a few pro golfers in the mix. She knew their names and teams, but apart from Wilson she didn't know any of them personally. Yet.
There wasn't another bar in the city where she would have felt as at home. She'd grown up around professional athletes, traveled with them, watched games with them, hung out with their families. Football meant family to her.
"Gin and tonic, please," she said to the beefy bouncer/bartender. "Make it a double."
Looking none too happy about serving her, he grabbed a tall glass.