“I have a couple of guys who, if they sneeze too hard, could be out on their asses. The league is watching them like a hawk. Think you and your girls could keep an eye out?”
“What exactly are we watching out for?” Tanya asks, her precisely plucked brows lifting.
“Not just being at a party. They can have their fun. I mean drugs or something that could get them in real trouble. I don’t want it on Instagram or TMZ if we can help it.”
“It wouldn’t be exactly professional,” Tanya says, a glint in her eye. “And I can’t make any promises, but tell me who I’m looking for.”
“Oh, I got a list.”
The three of us laugh. Many of my duties representing clients, especially young players in the NBA, which has become somewhat of a specialty of mine, are written in invisible fine print.
“Between tail, weed, and fights in the club,” I add as our laughter dies off, “I need all the help I can get keeping these guys in line and under contracts.”
“We’ll be on the lookout.” Tanya grabs her tote from the floor and heads toward the exit. “In the meantime, try to make one of my pole dancing classes.”
I nod and laugh, starting to stretch before Quinn tells me to.
“Is that the new model AesThetic sent?” I ask, nodding to the prosthetic lower leg I haven’t seen her wear before.
“Yeah.” Quinn extends it for me to see. “Pretty cool actually.”
“Cool enough for you to put your name behind it?” I lean into an abductor stretch. AesThetic has been after her for a year to endorse their line of prosthetics.
“We’ll see.” She puts on her drill sergeant face. “I’m more concerned about your legs than theirs right now. Come on, gimme some squats. Ass to grass, lady.”
We’re both incredibly focused people, so we go through the motions of my workout with almost no chatter for the first twenty minutes, other than the orders she barks to guide me. We’re starting battle ropes before she delves into her juicy gossip phase.
“So about last night,” she says, lips pressed into a sneaky grin.
I pause to look at her warily, a rope in each hand.
“What about last night?”
“I just thought I picked up on something.” She pretends to search for a word, but I know how calculating my friend is when she “senses” a tidbit. She probably practiced this conversation in the mirror this morning. “Interesting.”
“Oh?” I start the workout, snapping the ropes, alternating left and right. “What was so interesting?”
“You and Jared Foster.”
One rope slips from my hands, throwing the rhythm off. I ignore her raised brows and pick up the fallen rope. Our two names even linked casually stands the hair up on my neck. I don’t have feelings for him anymore, but I would never presume to be safe around Jared. The man is his own danger zone.
“There is no me and Jared Foster.” I fix all my concentration on the forceful undulation of the ropes in my hands.
“Really?” Quinn takes a sip of her berry-infused water. “Then what was that my Spidey senses picked up between you two?”
“Disdain? Revulsion? Nausea?” I ask with false pleasantness. “I think you got your webs crossed, Spidey.”
“You forget I can sniff out sexual tension like a bloodhound.”
“I didn’t forget. I never knew.” I drop the ropes and walk away to grab a towel and wipe my face.
“Well I can,” she asserts, hands on slim hips. “And there was something there. Fess up.”
“There’s nothing to fess.”
“I won’t judge, you know,” she says softly. “I mean if you’re worried about Zo or whatever.”
I freeze with a bottle of water midway to my mouth and glance Quinn’s way. Her expression is the patience of a saint and the obstinancy of the Devil.