totally don’t have a plan for this, but marketing is nothing if not pivoting direction when the situation warrants. It actually is my job to keep him as occupied as possible when he’s not under the direct supervision of his coaches.
“Sure. Thank you.”
Several beats of silence pass by as he remains frozen outside my front door, avoiding eye contact.
“Is everything all right?”
He makes this weird sort of choking sound and gestures with his hand toward vaguely where I’m standing. “I don’t want to offend you again, but could you maybe, uh…cover up a little? I’m cool to wait here if you want to change.”
I know SpongeBob isn’t a business suit, but geez. What’s this guy’s problem? He’s the one who showed up on my doorstep after all. He could’ve just called or texted.
“Excuse me?”
“Side boob,” he coughs out, almost barely audible.
I glance down again, and sure enough. I am dangerously close to giving him a reason to think I’m a sex worker. My tank top is twisted so far to one side that I’m in a full-on wardrobe malfunction with a nip slip. “Oh my God! Please, come in! I’ll be right back!” I fling the front door open wide before hightailing it down the hallway to my bedroom. I call to him as I yank a hoodie from my closet, “I’m so sorry, Mr. Mitchell!”
“Please don’t call me Mr. Mitchell,” he yells back with a strained voice.
By the time I’m covered enough and already sweating in leggings and my old university hoodie, he’s sitting on my couch, one of my throw pillows strategically on his lap.
His eyes are squeezed tightly shut, and he swallows thickly. “We good?”
“I’m so sorry, Monk.” Every part of me feels as red as my hair. For so many reasons. The heat further short-circuits my brain. “I mean, Mr. Mitchell. I mean, Mike. If it makes you feel any better, the other day in the weight room was like live porn to me. It’s been years since I’ve had sex either.”
I’m going to throw up. Seriously. How bad can I possibly screw myself over? Why on earth did I think I could salvage this horrid assignment into a professionally beneficial launching pad?
His chest rumbles with a strange mix of sound that’s somewhere between a groan and a whimper. He thumps his head back against my couch. “You know about that stupid nickname?”
I cringe. “Yeah. I have it on my list of things to help you improve upon.”
He trains a suddenly sharp gaze on me. His gorgeous brown eyes are all business. “What else do you know about me?”
I gesture to the bean bag situated in the corner of my little living room—a relic from college I can neither afford nor bear to part with. I mouth silently, I’m just going to sit over here. Quickly, I turn off the TV before he can judge me for my choice of programming. Not that he shouldn’t be judging me. There’s plenty to judge tonight.
He nods but doesn’t break his forceful eye contact, obviously waiting on my answer.
I pull my laptop from the coffee table as I collapse into the soft, pink cushion. My file on him is already front and center on the screen. “Um, just the basics. Your position and number on the roster. Stats so far this season. Where you went to college and high school, and how you performed there. When you were selected in the draft. Since we’re already in the habit of not holding anything back…” My self-deprecating laugh does nothing to relieve my anxiety. Or his, by the looks of it. “It’s not a ton to work with, honestly.”
Honesty must be the best policy when dealing with Mike Mitchell because he finally relaxes, and the expression on his face turns into a bright smile. “Great! That’s why I’m here! To give you something to work with!”
He wouldn’t be so excited if he knew the Albany marketing team already has plenty of dirt to work with. This is just another chance to prove myself. To the team and to him. Then again, maybe he already knows I’m just his babysitter, and he wants to use that to his full advantage. A good marketing agent always runs an A/B test on any theory. I glance at the pillow still covering his crotch.
He follows my gaze then snaps me a wide-eyed stare. “I did not mean it that way.”
I have too much to lose to get smothered by this blanket of awkward sexual tension.