Of course, she has a client on each team. Kenan on the Waves and Zo on the Vancouver Titans.
“So, you and Vidale, huh?”
I didn’t mean to ask that question. I usually exercise more control over the space between what I think and what I say.
“Excuse me?” Her voice is imperiously chilly when she turns to look me in the eye.
“I heard you were dating your client,” I say, hoping it makes her uncomfortable because what the hell? I thought she was smarter than that. “I thought you were smarter than that.”
So much for controlling what comes out of my mouth.
“And I thought you were better at minding your own damn business,” she snaps, eyes pinched at the corners. “There is nothing unethical about my relationship, business or personal, with Zo.”
“Then why are you defensive?”
“Why are you prying?”
“I’m not,” I say, my own tone icing over. “The question isn’t is it ethical. The better question may be: is it wise?”
“And maybe an even better question is why do you care?”
“Hey.” I twist my lips and shrug. “Just trying to help a friend.”
“I’ve seen your idea of ‘friendship,’ Jared,” she says stiffly. “I’ll take my chances.”
Before I can address those fighting words, Mitch Sanderson approaches with a tall young man in tow. Sanderson is such a waste of space. He’s an awful negotiator and a shit agent. He wouldn’t know a good deal if it sucked his dick under the table. How he’s still at Bagley, I have no idea. Actually, I do know how. The Pride. The same way he got there in the first place.
“Banner, I want you to meet someone,” he says, stopping in front of Banner and Quinn. “This is Lamont Christopher.”
“Very nice to meet you, Lamont,” Banner says, smiling warmly and shaking the kid’s hand. “I hope Mitch is taking good care of you.”
“Yes, ma’am,” he answers with a hint of a southern drawl.
“Enjoying the game?” Banner asks.
“We have been,” Sanderson replies before Lamont can. “But we’re gonna head out to beat the traffic.”
You gotta be kidding me. Banner is letting Sanderson handle the presumptive overall number one draft pick? I assumed she was handling discussions with Christopher since she is known around the league as The Rookie Whisperer. Setting up rookies to succeed in their finances, performance, and general well-being is her MO. Her rookies are notorious for keeping clean noses and full bank accounts even post-ball.
She basically babies them into stellar careers.
But if she’s trusting such a prize to Sanderson’s ineptitude, blocking this shot will be like taking candy from a baby.
“Good to see you again, Lamont,” I interject since neither Banner nor Sanderson seem inclined to introduce him to the “enemy.” Smart. Well, Banner’s smart. I won’t make assumptions about Sanderson.
“Mr. Foster.” Lamont’s eyes light with recognition. “Good to see you, too.”
I visited a few of his college games, but he got into some trouble near the end of his freshman year. His on-court abilities make him a hot commodity, but his off-court a
ntics make him a possible liability. I had decided he wasn’t worth the trouble, but now that I know Bagley’s after him, I may change my mind. If I’m recalling correctly, he likes strip clubs. Of course, he does. Pigs love slop. It’s self-evident. He’s a red-blooded male. It’s tits, ass, and lots of cash floating around—an unholy trinity few men can resist.
Sanderson and Lamont exit the arena, and Banner resumes conversation with Quinn, studiously ignoring me for the rest of the game and not revisiting our budding argument from before, which disappoints me. There are few things more arousing than Banner on a warpath.
She stands as the final buzzer sounds and would probably leave without another word to me if not for Quinn’s manners.
“It was nice meeting you, Jared,” Quinn says, her friendly smile determinedly in place, even though her friend’s glare must be burning a hole in the side of her face. “Don’t forget, I’ll leave the guest pass at the Titanium front desk for you.”
“Thanks. That’s really sweet,” I say and mean it. Quinn seems like a genuinely kind person, an endangered species in LA.