Other than Taylor, he wasn’t planning to tell anybody about his plans. Even the people he trusted most. Especially the people he trusted most. Because those were the people he was most afraid of disappointing if this attempt to reenter the League didn’t work out.
No! He wouldn’t let his mind go there. He refused to even entertain thoughts that his plan wouldn’t work. It would work. It had to.
He owed it to Silas.
Jamar’s football career had ceased being solely his own the moment his best friend’s motorcycle collided with a pickup truck on a rain-slicked stretch of Highway 99 their senior year of high school. From the moment they’d put Silas in the ground, fulfilling the dream he and Silas had held since elementary school—to one day make it into the NFL—had become Jamar’s singular goal.
“When I got hurt last year, there was endless chatter over whether I’d play football again. Every blogger had an opinion, and not a single one gave me a chance. I want to prove them all wrong.”
“Which is why you should want them to see that you’re working with a trainer.”
“No.” He shook his head. “Look, if I go through months of conditioning and I’m still unable to get back into the League, then it will prove them right.”
“Don’t do that,” she said. “You’re setting yourself up for failure if you’re thinking that you may not succeed before we even get started. When it comes to physical fitness, it’s ninety percent mental.”
“I know all about mental toughness, Taylor. I’ve played through sore muscles, the flu, just about every injury that didn’t need hospitalization, and it was all because of mental toughness.”
“Okay, explain this to me,” she said. “How are we supposed to train without anyone knowing?”
“My personal home gym has the same equipment you’d find in a regular gym.”
“Your personal home gym? Really? You expect me—a woman who met you for the first time yesterday—to now work with you at your home? Alone? And I can’t let anyone know I’m there?” She snorted. “Yeah, that’s not happening.”
Well, damn. When she put it that way . . .
To use one of his mom’s favorite sayings, Taylor didn’t know him from Adam. Why did he think she would feel comfortable training him alone at his private gym?
Shit. He pressed his lips together, trying to come up with a solution that would work for both of them.
“How about this? I’m okay with you confiding in a couple of trusted family members or friends, but only a couple. And they have to promise not to say anything.”
“Do you want them to sign an NDA or something?” She said it as a joke, but he wouldn’t be opposed to it. “Oh, c’mon,” she said. “Is it really that serious?”
“It is to me. Look, Taylor, your friends don’t have to sign an NDA, but you have to understand how important it is that this doesn’t get out. I know it sounds over the top, but I’ve put up with a lot this past year. If this doesn’t work out . . . ” He shook his head. “I don’t want to face any more ridicule. Honestly, I can’t.”
He could feel heat rising up the back of his neck as he sat there under her silent scrutiny. After several torturous moments, she slapped her hands on the table and said, “Okay, enough with this defeatist attitude. I do not tolerate that shit from my clients.”
Jamar’s muscles went weak as pent-up tension ebbed from his body. He wasn’t a big fan of hyperbole, so it wasn’t an exaggeration to say that his career hinged on her answer. He’d tried going at this alone for months, but his discipline level was at an all-time low. He needed someone like Taylor to break through whatever was holding him back.
“So your answer is yes?” he asked. He had to make sure he hadn’t misinterpreted her response.
“Yes.” She nodded. “I would be a fool to pass up this kind of money and the opportunity to work with a potential NFL star.” She held up both hands. “However, I have my own caveat.”
Jamar braced himself. “Go on.”
“If—No, when,” she corrected. “When you make it back to the NFL, you have to agree to endorse Taylor’d Conditioning. And you have to recommend me to your footballer buddies.”
He huffed out a laugh. “Footballer buddies, huh?”
“The NFL is like one big fraternity, isn’t it?”
“Close to it,” he answered.
“I figured it was like the military in that way. So yes, that’s my requirement. Once you’re playing again, I expect you to sing my praises to all your teammates.” She arched her eyebrows. “So do we have a deal?”
Jamar held out his palm. “Deal,” he said when she clasped his proffered hand.
“Okay, so if I’m going to get you in tip-top shape in just two months, we have to get started right away.”
“I’m ready right now,” he said.
“Whoa, whoa. Slow your roll, Twenty-Three. I didn’t mean this very minute. I don’t have any gear, and I will not go to your house without first letting my friends know where I am.”
Before he knew what she was doing, she lifted his phone from his hand and held it up to his face, unlocking it.
“Hold on. What are you—”
“Just give me a minute,” she said. Her fingers moved swiftly across the screen. Then she smiled, snapped a selfie, and handed the phone back to him. A second later, her phone rang. She turned it to face him and Jamar saw his name on her phone. “I added my number to your contacts and now I have yours. Smile,” she said, then snapped a picture of him. She frowned. “Ugh. No. There are way better pics of you online. I’ll just download one of those.”
She set her phone down. “Okay, so we meet tomorrow. What time do you want to get started?”
“I’m up at six every morning.”
“No amount of money is getting me out of bed before the Today Show theme music starts playing.” She wrapped the uneaten portion of her burrito back in the foil and pushed it to the side. “And speaking of money, that’s another discussion we need to have before we leave this restaurant.” She folded her hands on the table. “Now, my clients usually pay me per session, but as you pointed out, you’re not like my other clients.”
Jamar couldn’t help but laugh at the way she’d used his words against him. It was such a boss move.
“That’s true. I guess we need to come up with some sort of payment schedule.” He did the math in his head. “I’ll pay you eighteen hundred per week, for the next eight weeks.”
“Wait a minute.” She held up a finger before grabbing her phone. She tapped on the screen a few times before she said, “That’s only fourteen thousand four hundred. You’ll still owe me another six hundred dollars. And if I’m driving to your home every day, I’ll need compensation for gas and mileage.”
She had a point.
“Okay, I’ll pay you two thousand a week for the next eight weeks.”
“Deal,” Taylor said.
The way she’d finessed that extra grand from him was pretty impressive. Maybe his agent, Micah Hill, should talk to her about joining Hill Sports Management.