Hard to Lose Page 2

  “That’s total bullshit.” I shove my pad of paper away from me. “What will that prove? That I’m not a spinster?”

  “You don’t have to get angry,” Brexton grumbles.

  “I’m not angry. I’m pissed,” I state, knowing they’re one and the same. “I love that we’re all a close part of each other’s lives, but you don’t get to tell me what to do in my love life. I’m not built like you . . . and while I respect you and your personal decisions, I’d like to think you’d do the same for me and mine.”

  We all stare at each other until our father sighs. “On that note . . .”

  “We weren’t ganging up on her, Dad. We just want to make sure she’s happy.”

  “Happiness is subjective.” I glare.

  “This meeting went way off the rails,” he says with an uncomfortable chuckle. “The last thing this father needs to hear about is the sex lives and booty calls of his daughters . . . so let’s call this meeting over and get back to work.”

  “You’ve heard worse,” Brexton says with a laugh.

  “Why are we talking about me and not Finn Sanderson?” I ask, pulling attention back to work, off me, and on to our rival agent—and my ex-boyfriend.

  “You actually want to talk about him? That’s a first.” Lennox snorts.

  “Not him per se, but did any of you see the coverage of him fulfilling the Make A Wish kid’s dream to be signed with an agent and an NBA team?” I ask.

  “How could we not?” Lennox says. “It’s been on every damn news station, sports channel, and newspaper. It’s maddening.”

  “Whoa. Have a heart,” Dekker says, which prompts a sigh from Brexton.

  “That came out wrong.” Lennox gives a quick shake of her head. “The story is awesome and heartbreaking all at the same time. It’s just more maddening that Finn is getting all this feel-good PR when we all know the only reason the man took on fulfilling the kid’s wish was for the press it would bring him.”

  “Typical Finn,” I say, not really wanting to think about my ex in any capacity.

  Brexton’s cell phone rings and she jumps up. “I’ve got to take this,” she says. She presses a kiss to the top of our dad’s head as she walks past him on the way out.

  “Twenty bucks that’s Drew calling for a lunchtime quickie,” Lennox says of Brexton’s fiancé.

  “I could have lived without knowing that,” our dad mumbles.

  “On that note,” Lennox says, “I might just go do the same.” Her laughter is all we hear as she waves to the camera and signs off.

  “I’ll be leaving too,” Dekker says and raps the corners of her papers on the desk, “but not for a quickie.” She rises from her seat and points her cell phone at me. “I’m serious about that goal, Chase. I want to see proof of dates with two different men,” she says in her best imitation of our father.

  My only response is a lift of my middle finger as she heads out of the conference room door.

  “Well, that was fun. Not,” I joke, then chuckle, as I lean back in my chair and close my eyes. “How did we get so sidetracked when I had ideas and things to talk about and . . . Christ.”

  “Ideas?” He looks like a gopher sticking his head up out of a hole, begging for a change in topic. “What ideas?”

  I laugh and ask, “How is business going?”

  “Meaning?” He sets his pen down to show I have his full attention.

  “Meaning we started this operation Screw Finn Sanderson,” I say referring to the undercutting and stealing of clients from my ex, “to save Kincade Sports Management. Have we been successful? Have we made a dent in recovering more clients? How is our bottom line and future looking?”

  He nods slowly. “This is a fickle business, Chase. What one client hates in the form of management, another might prefer. Every contract is a gamble. Every new client a chance to hang on a star.”

  “You’re talking in your fatherly metaphors.” I laugh. “Can you just say what you mean?”

  “KSM is doing better.” He lifts his eyebrows to make sure I hear him. “We’ve taken on more clients, more contracts . . . but I don’t know, kiddo, I feel like I’m stuck in the dark ages, and maybe I’m dragging down the agency with it.”

  “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.”

  How can he think that when he built this incredible business? This place, which has anchored our family since our mom died, is past its prime.

  “Finn’s the king of public stunts. He gets people talking. Maybe I’m old because I think they’re all stupid, but they do seem to reel in athletes fresh from college. They like flashy and he’s definitely flashy.”

  “Umm, I’m younger than Finn, Dad. Are you telling me I’m not doing my job?”

  “No. Not at all . . . but I’ve been thinking a lot about the Make A Wish thing he did too. It was great publicity for him. It put him in a great light, and he was all over social media getting praise from athletes. It’s like they all know his name now, so guess who they’re going to call when they need a new agent?”

  “Our name is still known, Dad. KSM is still a desirable agency.”

  “I know, but it doesn’t feel like it anymore to me. I don’t know. Maybe instead of the ridiculous goal your sisters gave you to date someone, what about guiding KSM toward using more current trends and strategies? Consider new branding with a business strategist. Have someone analyze our use of social media and tell us how we can target more efficiently. Maybe look into if we could benefit from using a PR firm. On paper, our portfolio is strong, but I don’t feel we have a presence. I want you to figure out how to make our presence stronger.” His sigh is heavy, and I hate that he suddenly feels irrelevant. Yet at the same time, my heart is full that he’d look to me to take something like this on.

  I love knowing he can depend on me.

  “I’m flattered you’d ask me, and I’d love to take that on. You know I’m always up for a challenge. What if I—” And just as the words pass over my lips, the thought hits me. “Oh,” I murmur, as I try to wrap my head around my unexpected idea.

  “I know what that sound means.” He chuckles and lifts his eyebrows. “You have my attention.”

  “What if we generate some positive press ourselves? What if we’re part of—or perhaps manufacture—a feel-good story that would give us some attention not only with potential clients, but with the sports world and public in general? As Finn’s demonstrated, a little love goes a long way these days.”

  “Go on.” He nods, his lips twisted in thought as he does when he’s pondering the validity of something.

  I motion to the letter. “What if I found him?”

  “Who?”

  “This Ryan Camden guy.”

  “I’m listening,” he says and steeples his hands in front of him.

  “This letter has been lost in the mail vortex for five years, Dad. Aren’t you the least bit curious about what happened to him? I mean, it could be a great PR story for us. The ace baseball pitcher who had all the talent in the world including a one-hundred-mile-per-hour fastball, but who decided to serve his country instead. A letter he sent you, thanking you, on his way to war, which has been MIA until now. What has happened to him since then? What if he still has a killer arm? He’d be in his late twenties, but I think with our connections we could get him an audience with a major league team.”

  “We both know a team would never pick him up and sign him after all this time—”

  “But think of the spin we could put on it. Helping a selfless veteran realize his dream he thought was dead and gone. It’s something heartwarming—a dream come true even after all these years type of thing. We could even set up a veterans’ All-Star game—a thank you for your service PR opportunity with press and the whole nine yards. The sports world needs some good in it. Something beyond its overinflated egos and ridiculous salaries, and this could be it.”

  “Salaries, I might add, that you profit handsomely from.”

  “I never said I didn’t, but . . . don’t you just need to feel like you’re doing something good? Don’t you ever get burned out from it all and crave the humanity in this business?”

  “Yes, but let’s be clear. A manufactured PR stunt is not humanity.”

  His words feel like a scold when they’re merely being honest. “I know.” The words come out as a sigh and sound like defeat.

  His nod is slow and deliberate, his eyes serious as they hold mine. “What’s going on with you, honey?”

  I purse my lips and shrug. “I don’t know. I need a new challenge? I guess you just gave me one, but maybe it’s more than that. Maybe I’m curious about this man who’s close to me in age and who felt so strongly about his duty, that he gave up his dream to fulfill it. That kind of selflessness is rare. Maybe . . .” Maybe I feel a connection to a man I’ve never met—someone who, like me, didn’t conform to predictable expectations—and have to figure out why. “There has to be a reason this letter was delivered now.”

  “I never thought you were one who adhered to the notion or romanticism of fate.”

  “I don’t. I do.” I throw my hands up. “I don’t know what I think anymore.”

  “Look. I get it. It’s okay to feel a little lost sometimes. Dekker’s about to start a family with Hunter. Lennox just got married to Rush. Brexton is deliriously happy with Drew. You’re feeling lost.”

  “No. That’s not it.” I raise my voice to him. “I’m feeling frustrated. Trapped. Like that is what’s expected of me next when I don’t want it to be me. That’s the last thing on my radar, and today’s stunt by my sisters just proves my point.”

  He chews over my comment as his eyes hold mine. “No one wants you to feel trapped, Chase. I certainly don’t. All I want for you is to find your own path, find w
hat makes you happy, and run with it.”

  I hear his words, know he means them, but have a hard time accepting them.

  “Thank you.” My voice is soft as I look back down at the letter and the unknown story behind it. “Do you remember anything about him?”

  “Vaguely. He was a wild child with one hell of an arm.”

  “Was he nice?”

  He gives me a half-smile. “You’re testing my memory here. Can I say he was cocky? Will you accept that as an answer?” He laughs. We both know most twenty-year-olds good enough to be recruited by any professional sports team are cocky. It’s part of their MO.

  “You’re no help,” I joke. “What else do you remember about him, if anything?”

  “Believe it or not, when we received the letter in the mail, I pulled up my old recruiting logs. I only had a few notes on him. It was his junior college coach who reached out to us, trying to drum up interest for a player who wouldn’t naturally be on our radar.”

  “The kid had a one-hundred-mile-per-hour arm. How was he not on everyone’s radar?”

  My father gets a far-off look in his eyes and then gives a quick shake of his head. “I guess that’s the question, isn’t it?”

  I nod, understanding what he means as I pull the letter from the envelope and unfold the worn, lined paper.

  Dear KSM,

  I just recently learned of your interest in me as an athlete and wanted to thank you. However, my dream to play in the major league is over. I’ve been advised to let old dreams go. To accept that life has changed forever.

  -Ryan Camden

  “This letter makes no sense. Why would his dream to play be over if he had genuine interest from clubs and agents?” I ask, hating that every time I read the letter, I’m overcome with a sadness I can’t shake.

  Giving up a dream is like saying you’ve run out of hope.

  “I don’t know, honey. The only other comment I had in my notes was about Ryan’s father. I wrote ‘gatekeeper’ beside his name. In fact, I don’t have any records of ever talking to Ryan himself. Something was weird with the whole setup from my vague memory. The dad said Ryan wasn’t good enough, said he was a troublemaker. Just shit you don’t say about your kid who’s trying to win over an agent.”

  “Ugh.” I reread the letter again. I just recently learned of your interest in me. . . “You think his dad never told him, don’t you?” I ask, knowing my father’s expressions well enough to read his thoughts.

  “At the time I couldn’t put my finger on it, but now? Now that I’ve read that letter . . . I don’t think he did.”

  “Who would do that to a kid? Steal their dream?” I ask, my heart hurting for Ryan.

  “People do a lot of shitty things that make no sense,” he muses.

  “See? That’s why I need to track him down and tell him the truth. Tell him that you were interested.”

  “In the name of good PR?” He lifts his brows, and I hate that I feel like I’m flatfooted in answering.

  Because yes, it’s in the name of good press for KSM . . . but it’s also because I’m inexplicably drawn to this letter, and I feel more than ridiculous admitting that. “Anything for the company, Dad,” I finally say and know he can see right through me.

  “There are a million things that could go wrong with this scenario, Chase,” my dad warns, ever the cautious one.

  “Like?”

  “Like he was injured or God forbid, he died in combat.” He grimaces at the thought. “Like he’s angry at you for hunting him down over a dream that came and went that he’s no longer interested in. Like he resents you for using him for your own benefit.”

  “He wouldn’t know I was using him for our benefit.”

  “Of course, he wouldn’t, but you know what they say about best-laid plans . . .”

  “Dad.” The word is a frustrated sigh.

  “I’m just trying to cover all the angles.”

  “Clearly.” I snort and try a different one. “If you walked away from something you truly loved, wouldn’t at some point you want to know that others thought you were good too? Sure, it might be too late to fulfill the dream, but wouldn’t you still want to know?”

  He nods, his lips pursed. “I suppose. It would sting at first, but then there would be pride.”

  “Exactly,” I say with a resolute nod. “By finding him, I’ll be helping him and us.” I clap my hands together. “Problem solved.”

  We stare at each other for a beat. “So you’re going to go traipsing off to find this Camden guy in the name of publicity for KSM? Is that what you’re telling me?” His smile is soft, knowing, before I say a word about my intentions.

  He knows me too well.

  “I need a break, some space from all the love and baby talk going on around here.” It doesn’t help that we’re nearing the anniversary of my mother’s death. I always get antsy this time of year, but for some reason, the letter has just added to it.

  “Okay.” He draws the word out.

  “I know you probably don’t agree with me, and I can take my vacation time if need be, but I want to pursue this. I want to find Ryan Camden and see for myself what became of him. See how maybe I can use the opportunity for KSM.” And I pray that I don’t find a headstone in a cemetery instead of a living, breathing man.

  He simply stares at me when he could say so many things—all of which would be some form of you’re crazy and this is so not like you, but he doesn’t. He must see that I need this somehow.

  Some freedom from the everyday role I fulfill in this office. The i-dotter, t-crosser, and stickler on rules.

  “I’ll continue to do my work, of course, as well as finding the right people to help give KSM a stronger visual presence. I won’t drop any balls, nor will I—”

  “You don’t have to ask for permission, Chase. I know your work ethic. I trust you and hope that you’ll get what you need out of this.”

  “Who said I needed anything?” I ask, but know that I do.

  The big question though is: what exactly is it that I need?

  Chase

  THE DOWDY WOMAN ON THE other side of the reception desk peers at me above the bifocals perched atop her nose. Her blue eyes are sharp and critical as they take me in. “Ryan Camden?” she asks.

  “Yes. I was hoping to talk to someone who might know where to find him,” I say with a warm smile, attempting to butter her up.

  “And you are?”

  “He sent a letter some time ago while he was in the military. Strangely, it just got to me, and I wanted to speak to him about it. I’m a sports agent interested in seeing if he still plays baseball. Still pitches.”

  She studies me for a moment. “He doesn’t go here.” Her voice is flat, the corners of her lips so stiff it would require a crane to lift them up as she clicks away on her keyboard.

  “I’m aware he doesn’t go here—”

  “Hasn’t been here for a good six or seven years if I recall.” Another tight smile. “And the records here on my screen say the same.”

  “Like I said, I’m aware he no longer goes here. I’ve asked around and no one in town has a beat on him so I thought maybe if I could talk to Coach Bassett, he might know where I could find him.”

  There’s another prolonged stare from the apparent keeper of Downship Junior College followed by a huff. “Please, wait here.” It’s all she says before she strides away, her nylons swishing and her shoes squeaking on the linoleum floor.

  Only a few moments pass before she can be heard swishing and squeaking her way back down the hallway toward me.

  “Exit out of this door,” she says, motioning with her hand, “and then take a right down to the locker rooms. Coach Bassett will be waiting for you outside. He’ll be the one wearing all the muscles and the baseball hat.”

  “Okay.” Odd way to put it, but she’s kooky in her own right so I let it go and follow her directions toward the locker room. The school is on the outskirts of Charleston. It’s small but it sprawls across lush green grass, and a grove of trees supplies its picturesque backdrop. The school’s colors of blue and gold adorn the walls in murals and posters . . . and even the coach as he stands waiting for me with his arms crossed over his chest.

  “Coach Bassett?” I ask and receive a curt nod in response.