Chapter 42 "What the hell are you doing?" Vivian demands in her thick New York accent as soon as I walk up to her table in the hotel restaurant. "Trying to make me drop dead like Joe did?" "It's nice to see you, too, Vivian." I try sending my agent the slow smile Sloane can't resist. "You're looking lovely, as usual." "Fuck you," she answers, her heavily made-up eyes narrowing as she looks me over from head to toe. "My daughter has a cross-country meet today. But am I there? No, I'm here. After taking a red-eye. Because my number one client can't keep his dick in his pants. I know exactly how I look. Which, I have to say, is still better than you." "Wow. Thanks for the ego boost." I keep my smile fixed firmly in place, largely because I know it will drive her up a wall. In the three years she's been my agent-ever since she asked me to give her a chance when her husband, my former agent, died of a heart attack at forty-one-I've learned she not only appreciates curmudgeonly behavior but demands it. "You don't pay me to stroke your ego. You pay me to tell it like it is. And I'm here to tell you it looks like the Black Widow has taken a nice little bite out of your ass." She pats my back as I come around the table to hug her, then gestures to the chair across from her. "Now sit down, will you? I can't drink my coffee with you towering over me." "Has anyone ever told you you're getting grumpier by the minute?" I reach forward and fish a piece of pineapple out of the bowl of cut fruit in the center of the table. The second I bring it to my lips, it makes me think of Sloane, though I don't know why. Probably because everything makes me think of her this morning. "I'm grumpy because we're getting all these brand offers and you're going to fuck them all up if you go around missing team meetings and looking like shit." She waves the waiter over without pausing for so much as a breath. "When's the last time you slept?" "I sleep," I tell her, hoping to avoid another round of condemnation. But Vivian levels me with what her oldest daughter calls the death stare. She isn't my abuela, but I can't help squirming a little anyway. "I didn't ask if you sleep. I asked when was the last time you actually laid down in a bed for non-extracurricular activities." "This morning," I tell her, because I laid on my bed when I got back to the hotel this morning. That's not quite what she was going for, but it is technically the truth. "Yeah, right." She snorts. "I'm widowed, not dead." I start to reply, but she holds up a hand as she turns to the waiter hovering nearby. "I already gave the woman who brought the fruit my order. He'll have a cup of coffee, black, a vegetarian omelet, four strips of turkey bacon on the side, and three slices of whole wheat toast, no jam." "I want jam," I tell the waiter. "No jam," Vivian snarls, and the waiter scampers away before I can once again assert my right to grape jelly. "You've got to shoot that suit campaign next week." I glance down at my still-flat stomach. "I don't think a little jam is going to mess up the suit." "Hey, I'm just trying to keep you in the game here." She gives me her most innocent face, which isn't very innocent at all, before piling a bunch of fruit onto the plate in front of her. "From what I understand, Sloane likes pretty boys." "Sloane likes me just fine," I answer mildly. "Yeah, so I hear." She shoots me a dark look. "A fifty-thousand-dollar fine? Really? You couldn't hurry it up a little bit?" "First of all, most women appreciate a man who can take his time. And second of all, we were on a date." "You went on a date at one o'clock. I know that because I'm the one who negotiated the terms. The team meeting was at seven p.m. That's a hell of a long first date." She makes a point of checking the Cartier Tank watch I got her when we won the Super Bowl three years ago and Sanchez retired, making me starting QB. "What can I say?" It's my turn to give her an innocent look. "We hit it off." "Is that what we're going to call it? Hitting it off?" "Vivian-" "Can it, Sly. You wanna pop a pop star with a string of dead exes? Fine." She shrugs. "Personally, I don't see why you can't go for a nice, midlist model like the rest of the players, but whatever. Date her. Sleep with her. Do whatever you want to do. Rack up the brand deals." She points her fork at me, a lone grape stabbed through its tines. "But do not let her interfere with your career." "She's not interfering with anything," I tell her in the mild voice I normally reserve for sportscasters trying to get the best of me in interviews. Most of them take it as the warning it is, but Vivian just plunges ahead. "I can't believe you said that with a straight face. From the second that woman showed up, you-" "That's enough." Since she didn't pick up on the warning tone, I decide to just flat-out say what needs to be said. I don't raise my voice, but she still looks like she wants to stab me, rather than fruit, with that damn fork. "First of all, I'm giving you a lot of latitude here because you and Joe have always done right by me. But you need to stop talking shit about Sloane. And you definitely need to stop calling her that woman. The way you say it is disrespectful, and I'm not having it." To underscore my point, I lean forward, take the grape off her fork, and pop it into my mouth before she can object. "And secondly, she's not interfering with my career. I missed one meeting, which wasn't even about the game. It was about today's fundraiser. I apologized to Coach, and I'm paying the fine without a word." I break off when her phone rings. Three years as one of Vivian's clients has taught me that her staff knows never to patch calls through when she's in a meeting, so if they're doing it now, in the middle of her taking me to task, it's got to be important. She must think so, too, because her face goes blank as she swipes to answer, then holds the phone to her ear. "Are the kids okay?" she demands. She listens for a moment, and then her green eyes focus on me like a damn laser-intense and bent on absolute annihilation. "What?" I mouth across the table, but she just continues to glare. "Uh-huh," she says to whoever's on the other end of the line. "Absolutely, we need to do some damage control... Call Stacy... I don't care if you've already called her. Call her again and keep calling until she answers. I expect to hear from her in no more than fifteen minutes. We need to get ahead of this thing... Oh, believe me, he will... Tell her I want a full plan, not just to cover this, but for whatever ridiculous thing he does next... Oh, yeah, there'll be a next time... How do I know? I'm sitting across from him... Yeah, fine. Put her through as soon as she calls." She hangs up without saying goodbye, then points one French-manicured finger across the table at me. "Let me get this straight. In the space of one night, you blew off a team meeting and curfew for this woman? You? The guy who's never been so much as five minutes late to anything in his life?" "I didn't blow off curfew. It's not until eleven, and I was in my room by nine-" "Where you should have stayed." She gives me a steely-eyed glare. "But that's not what happened, is it?" "It's nobody's business what happened," I reply. "I've never missed a goddamn thing. That should give me at least a little credit-" "Maybe it would have, if you hadn't missed the meeting, gotten your ass chewed, gotten fined, and then turned around and headed right back out." "For the record, I didn't head right back out. I was in my room until a few hours before curfew ended-" "Yeah, well, that's not what ESPN plans to break in half an hour. They're going to lead with a story about how the Twisters' quarterback and biggest star-who also happened to be Super Bowl MVP three years ago when he took over for Sanchez in the middle of the game-blew off both a meeting and team curfew for the bad girl of pop." I grit my teeth in frustration at being treated like a recalcitrant teen. Yes, I hired Vivian to represent me and keep all my business shit in good standing, including my reputation. But that doesn't mean she gets to jump down my throat like I'm her kid who stayed out all night. I'm a grown-ass man, and if she thinks I didn't consider the consequences before I headed over to Sloane's, she's sadly...correct. The truth is, last night, I didn't give a shit about the consequences. And I still don't. "It's not game day," I remind her. "Staying out late isn't going to mess with my performance on the field. I can guarantee you a hell of a lot of guys were out of their rooms last night." "Yeah, well, a hell of a lot of guys didn't get caught sneaking out of Sloane Walker's hotel at 6 a.m.," Vivian shoots right back. "So their bad behavior isn't going to be the story. Yours is." I keep my voice relaxed and my body loose, but I refuse to be derailed by her interruption. "My being at Sloane's hotel isn't going to mess with my performance at the fundraiser today, either. I'll write a check. I'll be polite to the press. And I'll hang out with the kids, which is the only part of this I'm actually looking forward to. What the fuck else do they want from me?" "To get away and stay away from Sloane Walker," she answers. "The woman is poison, and the brand deals she's bringing you aren't going to last if your career goes to shit." For a second, I can't believe she's just put it that bluntly. It pisses me off all over again. "You don't get to tell me what to do," I snap. "Not about this." "I'm not telling you what to do," she retorts with a glare. "I'm telling you what the press-and your fans-want from you. That was your question, wasn't it?" When I don't immediately answer, she keeps going. "I assume I don't have to remind you that the last two men Sloane Walker dated are dead. So yeah, everyone, and I mean everyone, is watching to see what's going to happen between the two of you. And, more specifically, if you're about to become her next victim." "All that is bullshit, and you know it. She didn't kill either of those guys." "I'm not saying she did. I'm just saying they're dead and they shouldn't be." Her phone rings again, and she holds a hand up, telling me to wait. "None of us wants to see the same thing happen to you." But I'm fuming now. I'm so sick of people who don't have a clue what's going on making judgments about Sloane, and I'm past done with this conversation. So while Vivian's talking to Stacy, the publicist she keeps on tap, I stand up and throw down enough money for both our breakfasts. "Where are you going?" Vivian breaks off in the middle of a sentence to glare at me. "We're not done here." "Yeah, we are. I'm going to go talk to Coach before this shit explodes. Then I'm going to get ready for what's sure to be a fun press conference-" "Don't say anything until I tell you the message Stacy and I decide on. I'll call you in half an hour. I'm sure you'll be done getting your ass chewed by Branson by then." Oh, joy. I want to tell Vivian the message should be that I'm dating Sloane, full stop. But the last thing I want to do is make things harder for Sloane right now, so I just nod. And try to figure out what the hell I'm going to say to her when she calls. Because something tells me she'll have something to say about all this...and it's not going to be good. Title: A Tangle of Love (English-dubbed) In "A Tangle of Love," a captivating romance unfolds within a unique observation show where participants navigate intricate relationships, love triangles, and power dynamics. Set against the backdrop of modern-day complexities, this ongoing series delves into themes of reincarnation, revenge, and personal transformation. Follow the journey of diverse characters as they grapple with misunderstandings and emotional conflicts while vying for love and success. As the drama unfolds, one couple emerges from the chaos, showcasing a remarkable glow-up that defies expectations. What sets "A Tangle of Love" apart is its blend of billionaire lifestyles, contemporary romance dynamics, and the allure of second chances. Dive into this enthralling narrative available to read online at CrushReel for a compelling exploration of love's complexities in a world where power and passion collide.