“Ruuun!” I shouted at the TV.

I dropped my legs from the ottoman and moved to the edge of the couch while I watched Tennessee’s running back make a fucking beeline for the end zone.

It was the divisional round playoffs, and they were up against San Diego, down by two touchdowns with nine minutes left in the fourth.

Tennessee’s coach had been calling the wrong plays the whole game. I didn’t know what the fuck was wrong with him. But, finally, he had called something the players could work with and they looked like they were gaining some momentum.

“That’s it,” I said to the TV. “Twenty more yards. You’ve got this.”

My star tight end, Shawn Cole, had tweaked his hamstring a few days ago during practice, and he wasn’t in tonight’s game. Even though Tennessee’s offense was strong without him, I could feel Shawn’s absence, and I was sure San Diego could feel it, too.

“Ten more yards,” Brett said from the other side of the couch. “He needs to run faster; they’re right on his fucking tail.”

I agreed.

I reached for my beer and held it to my lips, swallowing until it was gone.

“Jesus,” Max said from the cushion next to mine. “It’s about time their offense woke up.”

The running back reached the end zone, and I put my beer down and clapped my goddamn hands together. “Down by one. Now, we need an interception.”

Max took a bite of his pizza and said, “If San Diego scores on the next drive, it’s going to take some aggressive offense to even this shit out, and Tennessee hasn’t been playing aggressively at all.”

“We’ve seen teams score with less than ten seconds left,” Scarlett said, sitting between Brett and Max. “We have plenty of time to win this.”

Brett, Max, and Scarlett, my best friends and business partners, were as invested in this game as I was. That was because, the further Tennessee advanced in the playoffs, the larger Shawn’s bonus would be. As his agent, I would get a piece of that, and so would The Agency, the company the four of us had opened six years ago.

Even though I represented some of the top athletes in the world, Shawn was ranked one of the highest, and he’d never made it to the Super Bowl. He deserved the championship, and this year, he was so fucking close to playing in it.

“Tennessee’s defense is finally stepping it up,” Brett said after the first play. “We need to keep them from getting in field goal range.”

“You think they’ll go for three and not seven?” Max asked.

“They have one of the best kickers in the league,” Brett replied.

Scarlett held open the pizza box and said, “Who needs a slice?”

Brett took one, but I shook my head. “I just need beer.”

“I’m empty, too,” Max said. “I’ll grab us some.” He walked over to the bar that I’d had built in my living room, opened the fridge, and handed me one.

I screwed off the cap and brought it up to my lips just as a flag was thrown. “What kind of fucking call was that?”

“Fifteen yard penalty and automatic first down,” the ref said.

“I can’t fucking watch this.” I got up from the couch and moved into the kitchen, pacing around the goddamn island, hearing the TV but not turning toward it.

Had Miami not played this afternoon, I probably would have gone to Tennessee to see Shawn and to watch the game. But the Dolphins quarterback was looking for a new agent now that his contract with his current one was almost up. Agents from all over the country had been pitching him this week. And, after his game today, I had as well, bringing my partners with me so that he could meet the whole team and get a feel for us.

The Dolphins were having an after-party in South Beach tonight, and the quarterback had invited us to go. As a company, we had decided it was important for all of us to be there. That was the only reason I hadn’t taken The Agency’s private jet to Tennessee to watch the game. And, since Shawn was sitting this one out, I knew it was all right that I missed it.

“Third and six,” Scarlett announced, like I couldn’t fucking hear the TV.

If Tennessee lost to San Diego, Shawn would blame himself. He was so competitive, so dedicated; he gave everything to that team.

And, when he’d tweaked his hamstring, I knew it would cause him to have to sit this one out. Shawn didn’t believe that. He thought he could fight through the pain and convince the team doctor to clear him for the game.

Minutes before the players had gone out on the field, Shawn had called me to see if there was anything I could do to change the doctor’s mind. He knew damn well he could injure himself even worse. I didn’t care if he was willing to take that risk. I wasn’t, and his coaches weren’t either.

“Interception.”

I stopped circling the kitchen and faced the living room. “What?”

“Interception,” Max called out again. “Tennessee’s ball.”

“You’re shitting me.”

But I could tell he wasn’t because the announcers were shouting, and the crowd was roaring. And, now, the commentators were explaining how it had happened, at what yard line, and who had caught the ball.

“You have to come in here and watch this,” Brett said.

I circled around the rest of the island and moved into the living room. “We have a chance,” I sighed, sitting in the same seat as before. “We finally have a fucking chance.”

Scarlett laughed. “I’m pretty sure I already told you this.”

Max looked at Scarlett and me and said, “There’s still seven minutes left. Let’s just hope they’ve found their rhythm.”

“It only took them three and a half quarters,” Brett mocked.

“Listen,” Scarlett said, “they’ve found it, and that’s all that matters right now.”

“They need—”

I was cut off when Max stood from the couch and shouted at the tight end, “Run! Run that fucking ball!”

“Forty yards,” I said, counting each white line he passed. “Thirty-seven.”

“He’s going to make it,” Scarlett cheered.

“How are you so sure?” Brett asked her.

“Look at how fast he’s going.” She pointed at the screen. “There isn’t a single person on that field who has that kind of speed.”

There was a player gaining traction on our tight end, and it worried the hell out of me.

“He needs to watch out for number fifty-four,” I said. “He’s about to be right on his ass.”

“Twenty yards,” Max said.

“Trust me,” Scarlett told us all, “he’s got this.”

“If Tennessee scores, I’m skipping the Dolphins party, and I’m taking Scarlett to the casino,” Max said.

“You’re not skipping the party,” Scarlett snapped. “That’s the whole reason we’re not in Tennessee right now.”

“Ten yards,” I said.

“You know, I really should have bet the three of you that Tennessee would win this game. It would have made the next few minutes so much more interesting,” Scarlett said.

“Touchdown,” the announcer said.

I could finally take a goddamn breath.

But I only had time for one. There was still six and a half minutes left in the game. That gave San Diego plenty of time to take the lead again.

When the TV switched to a commercial, Scarlett asked Brett, “When is James flying back?”

James Ryne, an Oscar-winning actress and one of the coolest girls I knew, was Brett’s fiancée. She was also his client—something that hadn’t changed and wouldn’t now that they were engaged. She split her time between Miami and wherever she was filming, and that meant Brett spent more time on the road, so he could see her.

“Tomorrow,” Brett replied.

“And Eve?” Scarlett asked Max.

“Not sure,” he said. “Not for at least a few more weeks.”

Eve Kennedy was James’s best friend, a celebrity stylist, and Max’s girlfriend. She lived in LA and traveled all over the world for her clients. Max didn’t see her as often as he’d like, and I knew that was becoming tough for him.

Scarlett and I didn’t have to worry about any of that shit because we were both single.

Most of that was due to me working so damn much. It was almost impossible to date women outside my industry. None of them understood the time I dedicated to my clients or the schedule I had to maintain to make sure they were successful.

Unlike Brett, who ran our acting division, and Max, who managed the music department, I worked with mostly men. Therefore, I didn’t have the luxury of being around beautiful women who were sympathetic because they put in as many hours as me. And no amount of time was ever enough for the ladies I’d been with in the past. So, I kept things casual, I focused on my athletes, and I built The Agency’s sports division to the highest-grossing in the country.

For now, that was enough.

When the commercial break ended, the screen now showing the field again, the teams were getting in their positions for the kickoff. San Diego was on the receiving end and ran it to the thirty-yard line. Just as our defense was getting the play called, I felt my phone vibrate.

I yanked it out of my pocket and quickly checked the screen, seeing that it was the quarterback from Miami.

“Fuck,” I hissed. “I have to take this call.”

“Want me to pause the game?” Max asked.

I ground my teeth together. “No. Hopefully, this won’t take too long.”

I got up from the couch and went into my bedroom, connecting the call before it went to voice mail. “Jack Hunt here.”

“I just heard Rolex is shopping for a new face. I want that face to be mine. If you can get me that contract by tonight’s party, then you’ll be my agent.”

I checked my watch and did the math in my head. It was almost four in the morning in Geneva where Rolex’s headquarters was located.

“I need twenty-four hours,” I told him.

“You have three. I’ll see you at the party.”

He hung up, and I stared at the home screen, thinking of whom I could call. Brett and Max had the same connections as me, and Scarlett was our CFO, so I was positive none of them would be able to help.

I needed someone with European contacts.

Someone who would pick up the goddamn phone.

And then it came to me.

I scrolled through my numbers until I found the one for Phillip.

He answered after the second ring. “Do you have any idea what time it is?” he said in a groggy British accent.

Geneva was one hour ahead of London, so I knew exactly what time it was there.

“Sorry, man. I know it’s early, but I need your help.”

“At this hour?”

“I have a potential client who wants the Rolex contract. Do you know anyone there?”

Phillip was the highest-earning sports agent in the UK. He had his own agency and represented athletes in Europe, Asia, and South Africa. When he needed a contact in the States, he called me.

It was time for him to return the favor.

“Aren’t you just a lucky motherfucker, mate? I happen to know their head of marketing. We go on holiday together.”

“I knew I was reaching out to the right guy. Can you set up a three-way call?”

“Right now?”

“Yes, Phillip, right now.”

“Give me a second.” I heard what sounded like him walking across a hard surface and then a slow flow of running water. When it shut off, he said, “I’m going to put you on hold while I try him.”

I paced my bedroom and went as far as the bathroom, circling the side of the tub and passing the large walk-in shower, steam room, and both sets of sinks. By the time I made it to the entrance of my closet, I heard Phillip come back on the line.

“Jack?” Phillip said.

“I’m here.”

“I have Elias Schmid on the phone. Elias is the head of marketing for Rolex and a dear friend of mine.” He paused for a second. “Elias, like I briefly mentioned, Jack Hunt is the US version of me.”

“Mr. Hunt,” Elias said.

“Call me Jack, please,” I said, and I stopped in the middle of my room. “I apologize for my timing. I know how early it is in Geneva, but I wouldn’t have called if it wasn’t a pressing matter. News has reached the States that you’re looking to rebrand Rolex, and you think a new face will help you do that.”

“You’ve heard correctly, Jack.”

I wanted to know why a player had heard this bit of information before me. My team should have been all over this. If their connections hadn’t alerted them, then they needed stronger fucking roots. And that was what I’d tell them during our meeting tomorrow.

“I have a potential client who’s about to ink a deal with Breitling. In fact, the contract is in his hands as I speak, and he’ll be signing with the watch company within the next hour. Before his signature is permanently on that contract, I wanted to see if you were interested in stealing him from Breitling.”

“Who’s the client?”

“Vince Hedman.”

I heard him take in a deep breath. “As in the quarterback for the Miami Dolphins?”

“The same one.”

“I’m glad you reached out.” He paused. “Would Mr. Hedman be interested in a full international advertising campaign? Attending several industry events in the States and abroad? Being seen with only a Rolex during the entire commitment of his contract?”

Now that I was getting somewhere, I sat on the bench at the foot of my bed. “Vince is extremely particular about what jewelry he wears. Most of his pieces are custom-made. But, if you’d like him to wear your brand exclusively, I’m sure we could discuss that during contract negotiations.”

“I need to speak to my team.”

“Of course,” I said.

“But, on behalf of Rolex, I would like to say that we’re extremely interested in Mr. Hedman, and I would like him to hold off on signing with Breitling.”

“Unfortunately, Elias, I can put things on hold for only so long. Vince’s signature is due by midnight, Eastern Standard Time.”

“Jack, please give me your number. I’ll reach out to my team, and I’ll phone you right back.”

While I gave him what he’d asked for, I walked over to the doorway of my bedroom to try to hear the TV. The guys had turned it down, so I couldn’t make out anything the commentators were saying.

“I’ll be in touch,” Elias said and hung up.

I stayed on the line and said to Phillip, “Are you still there?”

“You owe me, motherfucker.”

“We’ll call it even for the Ford and Nike contracts I helped you land.”

“And the Gatorade contact you’re going to give me once I get to the office.”

I laughed. “We’ll see about that. Thanks for your help, Phillip.”

I disconnected the call, and as I walked out of my room, I kept my phone in my hand in case Elias called back.

“What’s the score?” I asked, rounding the corner to the main living space.

The TV was showing a soda commercial.

“The game is over,” Brett said.

“What was the fucking score?” I repeated.

The three of them looked at me, smiles slowly spreading across their faces.

“Shawn is going to the next round,” Max said.

“Fuuuck yeah,” I said as I joined them on the couch. “Shawn must be so goddamn happy right now.”

In an hour, once things settled down in the locker room, I’d call him to congratulate him. First, he needed some time to celebrate with his team. Besides, I was positive all he’d want to talk about was his eligibility for the next game and to make sure he’d get the doctor’s clearance.

“Everything all right with the call you got?” Brett asked.

I nodded. “It was Vince. He wants a deal with Rolex before he signs with me.”

“And?” Scarlett said.

“I’m pretty sure I just got him one.”

“Sounds like it was a good fucking day,” Max announced, going over to the bar to grab everyone a beer.

“It’s going to be even better when we go to the party and tell Vince the news.” I took the beer Max handed to me and held it up in the air, waiting for the other three to join me. “Tonight, we’re going to fucking celebrate.”

“Cheers to that,” they all said.