KICK IT | JENLISA

6

Lisa

My car's reflection in the car next to it caught my eye. "What the fuck..."

"Lisa, do I need to use slow words again?"

I frowned at a keyed line on the passenger's side. Fuck, my Maserati MC20 was two weeks old. Kendall got her implants, and I spent another year with my rusty pickup truck and her A-cups before pulling the spending trigger. Sleek as fuck, the nero enigma colour gave it a liquid appearance. Correction: it had that look. Fucking local punks. It still had the new car smell. Also, like Kendall's tits, I hadn't given it a test drive. Yet.

"Lisa, you're a PR nightmare." My agent poured on his schmooze, the cool, even tone he normally reserved for securing arrangements that worked in my favour, not against it. "We're all behind you. I'm committed, Bambam's committed, Nancy's committed. Mina's even on board with your image makeover."

"Because I fucking pay you all to be behind me." I trailed the pad of my thumb over the scorching hot key mark. It was impressively straight. "And I don't need an image makeover!"

"Let's see." Rustling paper sounds crinkled in my ear. "Lisa Manoban, Houston's golden quarterback, found..."

"Shut up, Jackson." I dragged a hand through my damp hair and got in my car with a grunt. "Shut the fuck up."

"What should Nancy lead the media with, you blowing three hundred grand on a car and breast implants?" Jackson's unusual forwardness continued as my phone synced to my car. "Do I need to remind you about the accident parts that Nancy ensured weren't reported?"

I liked him better when he kissed my ass, except, again, he was right. One mistake could cost my entire NFL future. Blue ball irritation and unwanted pokes in my personal life aside, they bailed my ass out of an even worse PR situation. I was also lucky that Kendall stayed with me, another reason for me to get home and fuck her brains out. The ache in my dick agreed.

"Lisa." His exhale crackled static in my car's interior. "I want what's best for you, which is not the direction that you're headed. Take a good, and long look in the mirror. You'll know that I'm right."

Following Jackson's suggestion, my eyes flipped up to the rear-view mirror. Lowering my glasses down the bridge of my nose, a nine-figure, athletic, gorgeous devil smirked back.

"What we all need is you, on the field, drawing attention to how much you deserve a contract extension. Houston's draft..."

"I know who they drafted." I smashed the remote start. "My benchwarmer."

"Your backup!" he snapped. "And potential replacement, with a sparkling reputation that the entire franchise is embracing to cover up your piss poor judgment."

Where was his tough-love approach coming from? I didn't know, but I didn't like it and hit the wheel. "It's my fucking franchise!"

"It's yours to lose, along with your endorsements." Jackson clipped in a tight voice. "Which you will, if you don't get your shit together this off-season. Bambam pitched some alternatives, but I think a change will give you some... mental clarity."

Mental clarity? What the fuck, Jackson? I palmed the shoulder in question. "Bam says I'm almost there."

After a long pause, hesitation soaked Jackson's voice more than the shirt clinging to my torso. "You're not there yet, Lisa."

I removed my suit coat and tossed it onto the seat. The number of non-arguments I had seeped under my skin, festering discomfort.

"The numbers don't lie, Lisa." his voice turned as serious as during our post-accident call. "Bam's four-week assessment says your supraspinatus mobility isn't what it used to be. And that's with physical therapy."

"I'm trying!" I snapped harder than I meant to, but I dove through every hoop those two placed in front of me with no hesitation or second-guessing. "What else am I supposed to do!?"

A glance down proved Bambam's conditioning cut me in the best shape of my twenty-six years. My suit, custom for my height, strained to split around my muscles. My six-pack was now eight, and my thighs deserved a zip code. For a person who was four weeks into post-shoulder surgery, I was ripped. I earned it. Along with alcohol and carbs, I gave up all my usual weightlifting in favour of Bambam's plyometrics. It was horrible. One box jump at a time, he popped sweat out of pores I didn't know existed. A sweat moustache was as gross as it sounded, but I was hellbent on proving every fucking person who doubted my recovery wrong.

"You're making great progress." Jackson cooed as if I was a baby. "And we don't want to derail that progress, more like balance it out. Consider it a personal favour."

If it was anyone else, I would've ended this lecture ten minutes ago. His dad was my idol, but Jackson acted in my best interests before I became a household name at Baylor. Houston drafted me first overall, but he secured my four-year contract, structured with signing and performance bonuses. Securing seven other sponsor deals, working for two percent lower than any other agent offered me, my net worth was nine digits because of him.

Jackson was available 24/7 for whatever shit I hurled at him. Admittedly, my recent Super Bowl celebration threw a lot of PR stress at his team. Not my best decision going into the last contract year.

Before I asked what 'balance' he referred to, Jackson sighed. "I've scheduled a contract negotiation meeting with them before pre-season camp. You focus on rehabbing that shoulder. Consider all alternatives so that I can bring it to the table with no doubt in their minds."

"Makes sense." I grumbled and peeled out of the parking lot. Noticing the time, I could catch Kendall before her girl's lunch.

"Taking your silence as agreement, I'll text you the details. Get another fitness test with Bam on Friday, and we'll discuss it after."

Relief in his voice drew my eyebrows together, and a scoff tickled my throat. "Friday!? No fucking way, Jackson. Kendall and I have..."

"I have a feeling that you'll be free on Friday." was all he said and hung up, leaving me blinking at my phone screen.