Her panic snaps me out of my own. I have to ask myself what in the world is this! Shakily, I fight to get in control of myself. My hands slip on the armrests when I try to grip them to sit up.
“I’m okay.” I try moving my heavy tongue around my dry mouth. “Let’s cancel it.” I try for casual.
“Why?”
“Because Thomas canceled. That’s unprofessional.”
“I was told it’s for health reasons. He’s an older man, Tori.” Elle’s face is still tight from concern.
“Yeah, but I got some pride to myself. This is last-minute.”
“Not really. You’re due to start in two weeks.”
My eyes go wild. I can feel it. “And for how long?”
She shrugs. “It’s by word-count. From my experience, how long depends on how particular the writer is. If they feel they’re getting enough material from the subject to carve out a story, it shouldn’t be more than a couple of weeks.”
“But I travel for training soon.” I remind her. “I don’t need a reporter in my head while I’m preparing for a fight, Elle. Especially not this one.”
Elle’s head swings back and body holds tense. “You know him.”
I can’t help my crazy blinking. “Who?”
“You know who!” Her neck rolls. “The Spence guy.”
Spencer…
My eyes shift away.
“How?”
“How what?” I jump in my seat, my nerves fucking fried already.
Her mouth drops. “You’re yelling at me.”
“I’m not!” My eyes roll closed and my face falls into my palms, but when I feel my lashes being pushed back, I let up. “Elle…” I call her through my hands.
“Yeah.”
“We’re not girlfriends,” I mumble.
“I know. We’re strictly client/management.”
I cringe at that definition of our friendship. It’s bullshit: Elle’s been so much more. Her shrewd business savvy has cultivated my brand and made me a millionaire before the age of thirty. To do that, you must spend crazy hours together and have slip-ups in sharing or exposing personal details of yourselves. We’ve cried together after mutual losses. We share the same social circle. But every once in a while—when I need a girlfriend, and she’s conveniently around—I snap at her by reminding her we’re only business associates.
I lift my head and nod. “Exactly. But as a woman, I’m sure you have dudes in your past you want to stay there.”
“Oh, shit.” This time, her lashes smack together as her face goes toward the ceiling. “You’ve fucked him?”
“It was a long time ago. I was a kid.” Why I feel the need to backpedal now, I don’t know.
But the topic of this guy—man—is crazy personal. And painful.
“What type of kid?” One of her chestnut brows lifts higher than the other.
“Blakewood.”
“Oh!” she whispers, mouth won’t close. “I forgot you went to Blakewood State!” So do I. Often. “Do you think he can’t be objective? Is there bad blood?”
I shake my head. “I don’t know.” Sadness washes over me like a waterfall. “I don’t know him.” Anymore. “Haven’t in…years.”
“How long has it been?”
I can’t concentrate to do the math. Frustrated, I can’t stop shaking my head. “Ten…maybe more.”
“Oh!” She goes back behind her desk. “That is hella long ago. You likely don’t remember what his dick feels like, much less harbor emotions too heavy to get the feature done.” She sits in her chair and leans back. That one brow plucking again. “Right?”
Elle’s flexing. Yes, I’m the high-profiled client with much of the advantage and, therefore, leverage. But Elle’s reputation is solid in the entertainment industry, whether it’s corporate, music, or sports. And from what I hear, the Hunters are now moving into Hollywood. She’s built a concrete career in just a few short years and has used her powerful connections to make me a household name, something she’s done in almost no time at all.
“I guess you have a point about that being forever ago,” I finally answer. “I don’t know him.”
She shrugs, tossing her chin in the air. “Then we should be fine. Tyler Thomas may not be doing the interview, but his name will be on it alongside Spence’s.”
“Spencer.” I can’t help but to correct her this time.
She taps to wake up her computer, then repeats, “Spencer. Ashton Spencer. And I don’t want to fuck up an opportunity with Mr. Thomas. He’s Black journalism’s elite.”
I nod firmly. “I got you.” My eyes zoom into hers to convince her of my assurance.
Assurance that isn’t there.
“Okay. The last thing on the agenda,” she breathes out. “We have a new nutritionist on board for you.”
My forehead lifts. “Really? What happened to Dhar?”
“Dhar was good, but he’s too traditional; doesn’t leave room for modern research. You know that’s always bothered me. And this last fight with the WBA questioning if you weighed enough for middle weight class... Like what the fuck else would you be?”
My eyes fall to the ring on my left hand. She’s right, but they weren’t totally wrong. I barely made my weight requirements, thanks to stress. I trained hard for it, as usual, but didn’t refuel as much as Dhar advised. The source of my distraction rewarded me with a ring two weeks after my last fight. I’m now engaged, but can’t shake the risk it cost my career to get this.
“Who’s the newbie?”
“Dr. Shaquana Wilson.”
“A sister?”
“You damn right.” Elle’s head bobs up and down. “She’s been in the field for over twenty years and uses the empirical technology we need to make sure you’re in your best shape. She’s already prepared a meal plan.”
Half of my mouth lifts, annoyed. “Plant-based?”
“Mostly, but no.” Elle winks. “I think you’re going to like this one.”
My chuckle is dry. “I don’t think I’ve ever liked nutritionists.” I toss a few air punch combos. “It’s my trainers who I gotta love.”
She laughs while rolling her eyes. “Are you mentally preparing for the fight?”
“Always.” I’ve been watching Monica “Four Clover” O’Connor’s fight tapes and had strategy meetings. The third level trainings have begun. “My prep begins after I consent. You know that.”
With tight lips, she nods. “I do.” Her eyes are below again.
“I need to get out of here.” I grab my bag. “I’m gonna grab some pizza. Need to eat something before this meeting with O.P.I. Right after that is one with M·A·C Cosmetics.” And digest this shit with Ashton Spencer. I grab the doorknob.
“Tori,” she calls from behind me. I turn to face her. “How’s the wedding planning coming along?” Her eyes fall again and she reaches for the remote. This is too much for Elle. She’s an in-your-face type of broad. She’s skirting around a lot today and I don’t like it. I feel winded, totally opposite of how I did when I walked in. “You get in contact with Pam Hewl yet? I told her I gave you her info. She did a great job on my wedding.” When Elle finally looks my way, it’s brief.