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brEAKFAST OF LOSERS

Jack

“ T his is miserable, Jack. People are shouting at me. I’m either a drug-dealing low life or their hero. And the hero shit isn’t because of football—it’s because they think I’m a drug-dealing low life. It’s all about the scandal. There’s no in between, and the parade hasn’t even started yet. This was a mistake. I should’ve stayed in the country with the cows who don’t judge me.”

It’s a sea of people as far as I can see. The streets are packed, and most players are drunk, but it’s nothing compared to the crowd. They’ve been congregating since yesterday, and the police are everywhere. I badged my way into a VIP tent at the end of the parade route. It’s enclosed, heated, has a full buffet, and bar service.

“Eric Oliver demanded your presence. I’ll remind him of your loyalty when this is over and I’m negotiating your new contract. Don’t drink. Not even one beer. We need you to look the picture of who you said you were in the interview that aired last night.”

“I don’t need to look like anything or pretend I’m something I’m not,” he growls through the phone. “I know who I am. That doesn’t change the fact I feel like I have a target on my back. I was about to back out until you told me about Emma’s mystery caller. It’s my only hope at the moment. If there’s nothing to it, I don’t know what I’m going to do.”

I lift my chin when I see an agent from my old firm, Gary Acosta. He represents Mark Morse, the quarterback Brett replaced when he went down early in the year. Gary isn’t a dick by nature, per se, but he does roll over when the agency tells him to.

Which makes him a limp dick, just not an asshole dick.

The parade is about to kick off. The whole thing might be managed by the District, but it’s televised nationally.

I turn away from the crowd that’s growing by the moment and give my client my full attention. “You’re not going to do anything. No charges have been brought forward. It all seems worse because it’s not you or your brand, but there are some who wouldn’t blink an eye if this shit happened to them. All you have to do is wave for the next hour, stand on stage for fifteen minutes or so, and the whole thing will be over. Then you can go back to your new cow friends.”

“If my dumpster-fire career can’t be extinguished, I’m moving to the country.”

“One step at a time, Brett. Get through today and let me work on the rest,” I say as I look up when I sense someone by my side. Gary the limp dick is standing next to me sipping an amber-colored cocktail. “I’ve got to go. Find me after the party.”

“You bet your ass, I will,” Brett mutters.

I disconnect the call and turn to Gary. “Good morning.”

He takes a large sip of his whiskey. “Trouble in paradise, Hale?”

“My client is the Championship MVP and not a washed up half-broken quarterback. And my breakfast consisted of a spinach protein smoothie. I’m feeling like a winner, Gary.”

“Is that why your client is in hiding and only doing selective interviews?”

I could keep my expression bland, but I don’t bother. I can do that no problem for my clients or during negotiations, but with a limp dick like Gary?

Wasted energy.

“Are you drinking your problems away for breakfast since your client is washed up and being outperformed by his back up? Maybe you’re shopping around for a trade. That’s what I’d be doing if I were you.” I lean in and lower my voice. “Oh, wait. I forgot you’re still a puppet for the agency. You must not have been given the green light to think for yourself yet. You never know. It might still happen.”

He glares at me and throws back the last of his cocktail, the breakfast of losers.

I take a sip of my coffee.

He sticks a finger in my chest. “Morse will get back in the game. I’ve been talking to Eric Oliver over the last few days. He doesn’t like the drama Sullivan has brought on the team. Your boy is out next year. Morse is back on the field.”

I bat his hand away. “The only field Morse will see next year is during warmups. Sullivan is a free agent. And after the season he had and his performance in Vegas, there’s no amount of drama that overrides stats on the field. Maybe it’s time to grow a pair and do what’s best for your client and you—look for a trade. There are plenty of mediocre teams out there who would be drooling for your quarterback. If you’re lucky, a wild-card team will give him a sniff.”

Gary looks around at the A-list group surrounding us. Actors, singers, retired players. They’re all here for the party.

I’m never here for the party, which is ironic since prior to becoming an agent, I was the party. The fucking party didn’t even start until I said so.

Gary grasps the back of his neck, like he’s trying to ward away an early hangover. The stress is evident. Gary Acosta is not well.

I bring my hand up and slap him on the shoulder. “Don’t frown too deeply. Those lines will stick. If you need an aesthetician, let me know. No one wants to look prematurely old and washed up—you know, like your client.”

The creases between his eyes deepen. “Fuck you, Hale. And fuck your client. He dug his own grave. All I have to do is sit back and watch the system bury him in it.”

I smile and shake my head. “Grab another drink and keep dreaming. Your future is bleak, just like Mark Morse’s career outlook.”

I’ve had enough for more reasons than one. But the biggest is what catches my attention from across the enclosed tent. The enormous monitors televising the parade live flip to the crowd.

The weather has taken a turn in the last couple of days. The temps haven’t only dipped, they took a dive the day we arrived home from Vegas. The crowd is nothing but a sea of winter clothes in the Founders colors. The parade has started, and the open-air buses make their way through the Capitol streets.

The camera is focused on my client. Brett might be the only one not chugging beer, throwing back shots, or dressed in couture. He’s wearing a ski jacket, a ballcap with the logo of his foundation, and a generic smile. The only thing he’s sporting of any significance is a pair of shades from one of his endorsements.

He waves to the crowd while talking to one of his receivers.

The main sports anchor from Emma’s station, WDCN, is reporting the activities when he gains my complete attention.

“Let’s see what’s happening on the streets with the fans. Our own Emma Hollingsworth is doing what she does best—reporting from the sidelines.” I take a step closer to the big screen when the woman I’ve become more and more obsessed with as the days go by fills the screen.

She’s wearing the heavy winter coat, hat, and gloves I bought her when we hit Nordstrom last night. It was too late to make an appointment with my personal shopper, but Emma didn’t need one. She knew exactly what she wanted. Even in a thick coat and furry hat, her long dark hair billows down her shoulders and her dark eyes shine bright in the cold, morning sun. Her cheeks are pink, and it has nothing to do with her makeup. The wind bites like a bitch today.

The crowd is in rare form, even for this city. Some are playing off the team name, dressed up like founders of our country to other crazies who are in full-on body paint, even in these temps.

But the weather doesn’t tamp down her bright smile as she interviews fans in the crowd. I’m not sure which they’re more excited about—being on TV or talking to her.

She has a way of putting you in a trance, making you forget about everything else. I might as well be Exhibit A. She’s been doing it to me since I tracked her down at Nebula.

A group of guys who look like they’ve been partying for way too long come up behind her to get in the camera. They’re rowdy, cheering, and crowding her.

Her smile is big and fucking bright as she continues to do her thing.

And I don’t like any of it.

She’s doing her job, and the idiot drunk fans are doing what they always do. It’s nothing I haven’t seen before. Hell, it’s nothing the world hasn’t seen. And she’s handling it like a pro.

But something simmering inside me drowns out the surrounding chaos. The cheers, the jeers, and even the back and forth between Emma and her interviewee turn into white noise.

It’s not jealousy. Hell, I’m me. I’ve never been jealous a day in my life.

Fuck.

But possessiveness…

That’s something new for me.

This woman is not mine.

I mean, I sure as hell made her mine the last few days. But that doesn’t make her mine. And it sure as hell doesn’t put me in a position to demand that she doesn’t do shit like this when it’s her job, which is exactly what I want to do right now. I want to run out there and punch the assholes in the face who are too close to her. Especially the ones who are touching her.

But she keeps on while I’m here in the VIP tent. I need to focus on networking and other things, like piecing Brett’s reputation back together and saving my career.

“Here they come.” Gary breaks into my possessive haze and mutters, “Let the drunk speeches begin. I just want this day to be over so I can get back to business.”

My attention is pulled away from the screen where Emma continues to report the celebrations on the street. I look out the windows of the heated tent where I’m protected not only from the weather, but the crazed fans. The beginning of the parade is inching its way around the corner.

Finally, one thing Gary and I can agree on.

I can’t wait for this fucking thing to be over.

But my reasons are more than saving Brett Sullivan from whoever framed him and the mainstream media.

“Here they come.” Emma’s voice resonates through the space where she’s only a block or two away from where we stand. “The team is coming around the corner.”

The drunks hear what she says and move on. I start to release my tense breath until another group moves in.

The idiots who are stripped from the waist up and risk frostbite to decorate their bodies in team colors.

A glass landing on the banquet table next to me pulls my attention from Emma. Gary Acosta wipes his bottom lip with the back of his hand and slurs, “I’m headed to the back of the stage to corner Oliver when this shit wraps up.”

“Good luck with that.” I cross my arms and turn to him. “But do what you need to do. It must suck that the general manager of your bread-and-butter client’s team won’t take your call. A bit of advice—don’t breathe on him. He already doesn’t take you seriously.”

Gary’s eyes blink nice and slow. “And how would you know that?”

I tip my head to the side and tell him the truth. “Because no one takes you seriously.”

His face reddens with anger, but he doesn’t waste any time. He pops a mint in his whiskey-marinated mouth and turns to exit the tent, stumbling down the stairs.

Mark Morse has more problems than he can count, and what’s sad is his shitty agent isn’t even at the top of the list.

All thoughts of Gary and Mark disintegrate when I turn back to the screen.

Fuck.

If I thought the drunk bastards were a lot, they’re nothing compared to the body-painted crew.

But there’s one in particular who makes the hair on the back of my neck stand straight.

He’s close to her.

Too close.

And he’s angled away from the camera. Not that I could see his features through body paint if I wanted to. He might be painted from the waist up like the rest of them, but he’s wearing a ski mask.

A ski mask in this weather wouldn’t be weird if he weren’t bare from the waist up.

Emma’s attention is on the camera as she continues to do her job. She puts her hand to her ear, and you can tell she’s listening to her producer give directions. “The fans are electric today and are about to get what they have waited long hours in this weather for. The team is right in front of us.”

I take a step closer to the screen. For the first time this morning, my attention isn’t on Emma.

I can’t take my eyes off the masked man.

He’s not like the rest. He’s not cheering or watching the parade. His focus never wavers from her.

As the open-air busses round the corner, the crowd pushes toward the street. But they have nothing to do with the proximity of him to Emma.

That’s all him.

And he’s fucking close.

She does her best to stay focused on the camera as she continues to talk, but when she senses him, she tries to shift away.

But there’s nowhere to go.

That’s when it happens.

My coffee hits the table in front of the big screen, as I feel the word vibrate on my breath. “No.”

I feel pathetic and helpless as I watch panic form on Emma’s face.

Then she’s gone.

The feed shifts back to the anchor in the booth. It’s clear to see that he saw what I saw. Tension lines his face when he says, “Thanks, Emma. We’ll check back soon.”

I don’t bother to see what he says next. I’m out of the tent and down the stairs with my phone to my ear.

As I push through the gate and move out of the secured area, I enter the general population. With the team making the turn, fans are crushing the barriers at the edges of the streets. I’m going against the grain and barely hear her voice come across voicemail.

“Hey, this is Emma. Leave me a message, and I’ll get back with you as soon as I can. Be kind and have a fab day.”

“Dammit,” I growl and don’t bother leaving a message.

“Watch it, dude,” a guy yells as I push past him.

I ignore everyone and everything.

I’m on a mission for Emma.

Even though I have no fucking idea where that might be.