“Oh.” Great, so I was supposed to know this was sports-related. How had this failed to come up? “I guess I’m oblivious.”
“Having awareness of pop culture and the world is generally a good requirement for anyone wanting to work with a celebrity.”
And to that, I had absolutely no response. It was a good point, but his subtle homophobia and slimy attitude prevented me from giving a sweet goddamn. Heat rose to my face, and I scrambled for a defense.
“Look at it this way, the fact that I’m not a fan of the Barons should make me an ideal candidate, since I have no vested interest in Gavin Brawley. Hiring a fan would be more troublesome, wouldn’t it?” I was arguing my case despite not even wanting the job. Joe was clearly an asshole and potentially a homophobe, and Gavin was a cocky fuckboy. If this interview was a literal nightmare, working with Gavin would literally be a night terror if he was anything like his manager plus a hundred pounds of muscle. But I couldn’t back down for some reason. I wouldn’t let a guy like Joe Carmichael watch me slink away with a face full of defeat.
Joe started to speak, one eyebrow cocked, but his phone rang. At first annoyance crossed his expression, but relief replaced it. With a puckered brow and a hasty “hold on” gesture, he took the call and excused himself from the room.
Which left me alone with Gavin. Who was now on his feet. Jesus, he was big.
I had always known that football players had to be strong, but seeing one in person, instead of as a miniature human darting around on a television screen, was totally different. This man was made of muscle. He appeared to have been carved out of a huge golden boulder. It was too bad about the way he flattened his generous mouth into a slash, and about the barely concealed dislike twisting his striking features.
“Sports are all some people have,” he said after a moment of intense staring. “But I wouldn’t expect a privileged college kid to get that.”
“You’re calling me privileged?” I was incredulous now. Maybe he didn’t know what the word meant. “You’re worth millions just for running around on fake grass while clutching a ball.”
“Less than two percent of college football players go pro,” Gavin said. “There’s no just about it. And I get paid millions because I destroy my body for the amusement of spectators.”
“It’s a game,” I said stubbornly. “I know it’s important to some people, but not everyone.”
“Important doesn’t begin to cover it.” That low voice rumbled even more when Gavin was mad. He stepped closer, getting way into my personal space and not even seeming to realize it. With his bunched brow and frown, he looked genuinely upset by my dismissive attitude. “If you’re poor, sports are the equivalent of religion.”
“You get paid to play a game,” I repeated. “You’re not a savior of the people. You’re an overpaid jock.”
“And yet you’re over here trying to get a job running errands for this overpaid jock.”
Again, he was right. They were both right. But I couldn’t see past my own anger, or the fact that Joe was one more person who’d made me feel like my sexuality was a joke. Or a hurdle some employers weren’t willing to overcome. Or something to exploit. Like Jamie Gallagher.
I crossed my arms over my chest and raised my chin. “Well, money is my religion, and I don’t have any of it.”
Those molten eyes flicked over me slowly before settling on my face. We stared at each other, standing off for a long, tense moment, before Joe came back in the room. It was only then that Gavin spoke.
“Are we done here, Joe? He doesn’t really want the job. This was a waste of everyone’s time.”
The dismissal should have sent me sliding to the floor in a puddle of humiliation, but the easily embarrassed and flustered Noah belonged in the past. That Noah had been stepped on and taken advantage of at every turn. This Noah would walk away on his own.
I was out the door before Joe could reply.
Chapter Two
Gavin
“You’re being an idiot.”
It wasn’t anything I hadn’t heard before, but it went down easier when said with Simeon Boudreaux’s New Orleans accent. The quarterback was sprawled on the wraparound couch in my game room next to Marcus Hendricks—a running back for the Barons and the only other person I enjoyed speaking to besides Simeon. They had the résumés of my failed PA candidates spread out across a table.
I tossed a dart at the board across the room. “I already told you it’s a wrap. It’s not going to work. Besides, I don’t want some stranger living in my house for six months.”
“True. You’ll be too busy taking up all the space.” Marcus smirked. “This place is only eight thousand square feet, right?”
“Nine.”
“Shit, no wonder you worried,” Simeon chimed in. “A personal assistant would be all down your neck!”
I glared. It was hard to maintain in the face of their knowing grins, but I managed. Simeon and Marcus were the most charismatic players on the Barons. With their easy smiles, quick senses of humor, and awesome social media presences, fans loved them. It didn’t hurt that Simeon’s combination of light brown skin, freckles, and curly reddish hair, and Marcus’ big dark eyes, blinding smile and long dreads, had gained them a ton of endorsements. Apparently, the camera didn’t like me. The marketing people said my blank stare screamed serial killer.
“You of all people should know why I don’t want anyone all up in my business, Simeon.”
At that, some of the humor fled Simeon’s face. He slumped down and Marcus snorted. He was the only player on the Barons who Simeon and I had trusted enough to come out to. He was also the only person besides Simeon’s and my management teams to know what had happened the night the video had been shot.
“Technically, you didn’t have to hit that guy,” Marcus said to me. “And before you say it—I know he hit you first. A few times. But you take more damage on the field and don’t wild out the way you did that night. You could have just gotten his phone and walked away even if there were ten thousand social media comments the next day talking about Gavin Alpha Asshole Brawley got his ass whupped by some college baller from Stony Brook.”
“Is that the consensus on the squad? That I got my ass whupped?”
Marcus cocked his head and tapped his lower lip. “Yes. Well. Nah. Special teams dudes think you’re pretty cool.”
“Yeah, because they’re like twelve,” I said with a scoff. “What about Bill or Henry?” I asked, referring to the head coach and offensive coordinator.
“I don’t really have in-depth talks with them, man.” Marcus shrugged. “Crosby apparently whines about needing you at every meeting, though.”
That was unsurprising. The tight end coach loved me since I was, according to stats, the best one in the league. He’d already begun texting me multiple times a week to make sure I was staying in shape. But at the end of the day, he wasn’t the one I needed to keep on my side.