“Don’t you mean foot?”
I cut a disgusted glance up at him. Men are essentially boys. Just boys whose penises kept growing . . . some more than others. That’s what I’ve come to realize being the only girl in the room most of the time. Their sophomoric humor and crude jokes turn racist or sexist as soon as they forget a Hispanic woman is in their midst. Add in the fact that I’m overweight, and I’m basically a piece of furniture to them within five minutes.
But this sofa still has ears, and a heart, which is more than I can say for guys like Mitch.
“I’m sorry,” he mumbles when I stare at him with silent censure. “That was in bad taste.”
“I should be used to it by now,” I say, hoping I didn’t disguise the insult in the words so well that he doesn’t feel it. “But you guys continue to surprise me with your insensitivity.”
“Sensitivity won’t get you paid,” Mitch returns flatly. “Go ahead and waste your time crying over an amputee who wouldn’t clock one commission. I’m going after a fish I can actually fry.”
“Which fish?” I stuff down my outrage and school my face into fewer fucks.
“Alonzo Vidale,” Mitch preens. “Cal’s meeting with him today.”
Alonzo Vidale is one of the most promising international players poised for this summer’s NBA Draft. A definite first-rounder.
“And you think Cal will bring you into the meeting?” I ask. “A lowly intern?”
“He hasn’t said it in so many words,” Mitch says, wearing a smug expression, “but I’m becoming pretty much indispensable around here.”
“In your two months of fetching coffee and making copies? Yeah, where would we be without you?”
His smile dissolves into a sneer.
“At least Bagley knows I’m alive.”
“Just because my lips aren’t permanently puckered to kiss his ass doesn’t mean my good work goes overlooked.”
I hope.
It’s no secret Cal Bagley has a group of guys he takes under his wing. Under his wing means drinks after work, “special parties” fully stocked with strippers and any manner of “dick tricks” in which I have no interest. Mitch is definitely in that group. Come to think of it, I’m pretty sure Mitch’s father is one of Cal’s best friends, too. Probably another Pride connection.
“A little pucker goes a long way.” He tilts his head and his eyes wander from my face and over my body in the shapeless dress I put on this morning. “You know, Morales, with a little effort, you might not be half bad.”
“And with a little effort you might evolve into a homo sapien.”
“Jokes.” A tight smile plays around his weak mouth. “Keep making them when I land Vidale or someone else from this next crop.”
“You know you can’t actually sign anyone,” I remind him. “We technically don’t have our degrees yet and haven’t taken the agent’s exam.”
“We’re only months away from graduation and that exam’ll be a breeze.” Mitch picks invisible lint from the shoulder of his suit. “It’s open book, and you get to take in notes. How hard can it be?”
“Maybe, but I’m still studying my ass off. I need to make sure I’m up to speed on the intricacies of the collective bargaining agreement.”
“Yeah, okay. You do that.” Mitch rolls his eyes and picks up the photo of my family from my cubicle desk and replaces it quickly. “Meanwhile I get to meet Vidale.”
“I’m kind of surprised he’s ready for this process already.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Um, because his entire family was just killed in a car accident last month?”
I swear these guys have their feelings surgically removed before they enter this field.
“Ahhh, yeah.” Mitch nods, scrunching his face into what he probably thinks passes for sympathy. “Real men move on. He knows he’s gotta strike while the iron is hot. With the draft coming up, he needs to get his shit settled. Sign with an agent who can start scoping endorsements and talking to executives, getting him workouts with teams. The whole nine.”
“We need to scope a good grief counselor,” I mumble, looking under my desk for the Tupperware containing my lunch. I’m so hungry it’s hard to focus on what Mitch is saying.
As if that struggle wasn’t real enough already.
I’ve been doing much better without the demands of a heavy college course load. Eating more regularly and paying attention to what I eat, down five pounds. I’m still tuning out the drone of Mitch’s voice and looking for string cheese in the oversized bag under my desk when Cal’s booming voice startles me.
I jerk up, banging my head on the desk above. I slide out, rubbing the sore spot and blinking back tears.
“You okay?” Cal demands, his gaze zeroing in on my tears.
“Yeah. Just, um, hit my head.”
Out of habit, I go to push hair behind my ear, forgetting that it’s up today. I have no idea what to do with my hands right now, so they just hang in the air for a few seconds before I drop them.
I’m such a goober, and by the look Cal is giving me, he knows it.
“Yeah, well, I need you,” he says brusquely and starts walking away. “Conference room. Now, Morales.”
Mitch and I exchange wide-eyed looks.
“What’d you do to piss him off?” Mitch asks, barely suppressed glee brimming from his eyes.
“I have no idea.” I scurry after Cal, mentally running through my latest assignments. I thought I’d thoroughly completed every task.
Cal, wearing an impatient look, stands in front of the closed conference room door.
“You speak a lot of languages, right?” he asks abruptly.
“Uh, not a lot. Just Spanish, Russian, some Italian and Mandarin Chinese.” A nervous laugh trips and falls from my mouth. “Oh, and English. I speak English.”
“I need your Spanish.” He looks over his shoulder at the closed conference room door. “Got Alonzo Vidale in there.”
“Oh.” My stomach turns over at the prospect of helping with such a huge potential client.
“Apparently he doesn’t speak much English.”