“So did I.” Then she added what had really been eating her all these months. “You should have had my back.”
“I tried,” he implored, then visibly regrouped, sliding his gaze toward the window, straightening his posture.
He’d once told her that the greatest advantage in negotiation was not caring so much he couldn’t walk away at any moment. But it didn’t look like he was living by that rule of thumb now.
He slid his hands back into his pockets, and curves of tension bracketed his mouth. “I cut him—Phillips.”
“I heard he dropped you.”
“That’s what he’d like everyone to believe.” Drake’s gaze turned back to her, serious. “But I gave him a choice—publicly apologize or get off my roster.”
A sliver of gratitude opened in her chest, but she was reluctant to let him off that easily. “Really.”
“Really.” He shrugged. “That prick is a sociopath. What happened wasn’t right, and it gives the whole business a bad name, so I went to your boss. If Phillips is a fucktard, your former boss is the king of fucktards. The whole thing was one big goddamned waste of time.”
She lifted her brows. “You went to my boss?”
“How did you ever work for him?”
Maybe there was some of the Drake she’d once believed human inside him after all. She let her stress ebb and her gaze go distant as her mind traveled back over the years. “My job was autonomous. Until Phillips got his ego bruised, I rarely dealt with my boss.”
“Listen,” he said, voice quiet and sober. “This client only needs six weeks of serious, nonstop rehab to get ready for the Winter X Games in Aspen at the end of February. We’re talking about his entire career here. He needs the very best therapist, someone who knows the most advanced healing and strengthening techniques.” He paused, then added deliberately, “And there’s thirty grand in this for you.”
Her head jerked toward him again, a scowl snapping her brows together. “What the…?”
“The sponsor is fronting his rehab. He’s that valuable. And I told them you were that valuable as well.”
“Why me? There are other therapists…” Her words trailed off as reality trickled in. “Oh, I get it. No one else wants to touch him. Should have known. Who is it?”
Drake stalled by rubbing a hand over his jaw, then finally said, “Noah Hunt.”
The name was familiar, but no associations popped to mind. Her synapses buzzed and fizzled then—bam, his identity hit her—the rugged, hot, arrogant, smartass playboy whose talent had rivaled Shaun White’s for years.
Julia snorted. Actually snorted a very unladylike laugh. “That’s so not funny.”
Drake’s serious gaze never flickered. “I’m so not kidding.”
She lifted her arms. “Throwing one womanizer at me who killed my career wasn’t enough? You think I need another?” Her arms fell, her hands slapping her thighs. “What in the hell did I ever do to you to deserve this?”
“Hunt is not Phillips. That I guarantee.”
“Phillips might be a piece of shit personally, but professionally, there’s a reason he’s an NFL star—he thinks strategy and management, physiology and nutrition. Hunt… Jesus, it’s hard for me to even imagine Hunt thinks at all—at least not about anything more than getting smashed, grabbing ass, and streaking down the Alps kamikaze-style.”
Drake rolled back on his heels with a heavy sigh. “Have you ever even met him?”
“I don’t need to. He’s shown all I need to know on TV.” Julia’s mind pulled up random memories of Hunt from interviews, documentaries, and clips from the Games—his mess of too-long surfer-blonde hair that stuck up every direction when he pulled off his knit cap, his roguish lopsided grin, the sparkling blue eyes rimmed in gold lashes, a flirtatious, playful attitude with the media.
“I do not need the aggravation of trying to rehab a damn player.” She pushed to her feet. “I need to get back to work.”
“Really? You’re in a rush to get back to the queen of anal acoustics?”
“Shut. Up. That’s my patient you’re talking about.” But her protectiveness faded as she admitted to herself that he was right. She wasn’t anxious to get back to any of her patients. Working here just didn’t fit her. Yet she had rent, bills, plans, dreams…
“What if I could get them to ante up another ten grand?” Drake asked. “I’m stretching it, but I know I can convince them to go with it if you’re onboard. Come on, Jules, what are you gonna do, work here forever? This chance could give you a kick start on a new path. You’ve got an entrepreneur’s spirit. You have the knowledge, skill, and savvy to own a rehab center, not just work for one.”
The man had tapped directly into her dream, the bastard. A dream that had dimmed more with each day that passed without any new, exciting job listings that suited her.
Forty grand for six weeks? That was a little over what she’d made at her other job, and over twice what she made now. “Who’s the sponsor?”