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The water cooled against my back, and I let Ni down slowly. She looked up at me, eyes almost beggin’ me to say somethin’, but I ain’t have shit for her. This was what it was between us. Nothin’ more, nothin’ less.

By the time we got out of the shower, whatever tension between us was quieter, but it wasn’t dead. Ni dried off, got dressed, and went back to actin’ like shit was normal. The chef was already here, so we just grabbed our plates. We sat outside on the patio with our laptops open, eatin’ breakfast. Ni sat across from me with her legs crossed, like she wasn’t just beggin’ me to fuck her.

An email popped up from Luke. I opened it and looked at the subject line. Big, bold ass letters: Baltimore Blackhawks—Official Contract.

I leaned back in my seat, mouse hoverin’ over it. To think these mufuckas were really sendin’ me home was fuckin’ wit’ me. What were they tryna prove? I clicked the email, and the contract filled the screen. All the numbers and money spread out. None of that shit mattered.

“What is it?” she asked.

I ain’t even look up. “Nothin’.”

I scrolled through the first few pages, then closed my laptop. Luke sent a text right after.

Luke: Start packing. Blackhawks want you there ASAP.

The only good thing ’bout this whole situation was bein’ close to my family. Fifteen years later, I was finally goin’ home.

I stepped off the elevator, juggling my coffee in one hand, with my phone glued to my ear, laying into Tion’s hard-headed ass. For the third time this week, he was late to a meeting with a very important sponsor, and I was sick of his shit.

“Tion, I already told your cousin that if you were late to one more meeting, I was dropping your ass as a client. I don’t do lateness, I don’t tolerate playing with my time, and I for damn sure don’t work for free. I’m doing all this negotiating, and you’re playing games. Help me help you or find a new agent!” I spat before hanging up in his ear.

“The nerve of these entitled ass niggas,” I muttered, walking toward the door to my suite.

Mercer Sports Management & Co. was printed in a soft rose gold color on the door. Floor-to-ceiling windows lined the suite behind my desk with DC’s skyline stacked up like proof that I built my way out of somebody else’s shadow. This was my pride and joy. My name, my hard work and dedication—I put everything I had into making this dream a reality. No one was above me; this was my shit. I swung open the door, and my assistant, Jela, stood up with her tablet in hand, following me.

“Good morning, Ms. Mercer. You have a 10:30 with Mike Rhodes from the Chicago Breeze. It’s a thirty-minute video conference with him and Nike. They want to finalize the apparel line. You also have an 11:30 with Jevan Guillory from the Miami Gators. He could be dropped from his team due to a failed drug test. He tested positive for narcotics.”

I stopped walking and turned around slowly. “Excuse me? What did you just say?”

“Uh, yeah. Narcotics. If I’m reading his file correctly, this is his second offense,” Jela explained, scrolling through her notes.

Jevan had a fuckin’ problem. I told him he had one more time to mess up, and I was out. I arranged for him to go to rehab, got the best PR team I could find, and cleaned up his image, all for him to fuck up again.

“Jela, draw up the termination paperwork for Jevan and have it on my desk asap. Remove him from my roster, and if he calls, block him. We’re no longer representing him.”

“Of course. Do you need anything?” she asked.

“No. Just hold my calls for the first half hour so I can get through my emails. Thank you, Jela.”

I turned around, walked into my office, and slamming the door. Two stupid people before 9:00 a.m. was insane, but I had other clients who listened to me—ones I valued. I powered on my laptop, opened the blinds, and clicked on my TV. It was time to get to work.

The first email was an inquiry for representation. Morgan Levy, twenty-nine, NBA team: Detroit Diamonds. Clean record, no scandals, married with three young kids. He was the perfect client.

“Oh, thank God,” I muttered.

This was a breath of fresh air. I turned the volume up a little on the TV to listen to Apex Sports Network. There was one MLB player I wanted on my roster. I couldn’t remember his name, but his face was clear as day. He was being traded, so I knew they would announce it soon, and I didn’t want to miss it. I glanced at the TV every few seconds while I finished responding to emails until the anchor’s voice jumped three octaves.

“Breaking news! JuMarion Ross is headed to Baltimore. The Blackhawks have secured one of the league’s most impressive athletes with a $425 million guarantee and a $60 million signing bonus. The former LA Viper shortstop contributed to five of the team’s nine total championships in his ten-year career. Makes me wonder what the Vipers were thinking. Congratulations to the Blackhawks.”

I kept working, sending new endorsement proposals to clients. Then his picture popped up on the screen. He was in a dark grey suit, sitting at a conference table, smiling for the cameras. For somebody who had just landed a contract that impressive, he didn’t look happy. The woman standing beside him was beaming. Juvie fuckin’ Ross, in the flesh. Older, bigger, with more money than he probably knew what to do with. And he was back home, in his city, after fifteen years.

My phone buzzed on my desk, taking my attention off the TV screen. Emery’s name popped up, and I was already smiling. I answered, pressing the phone to my ear.

“What’s good, baby?” His smooth, deep voice floated through the phone.

“Nothing. I’m working… Wishing you were here.”

“You shoulda came wit’ me. You ain’t got no boss, Vannah. I be missin’ you.”