The water sloshes over the edge of the tub, bubbles scattering onto the floor as I lean back against Derek’s chest.
“Mmm,” he moans. “Why…have we never done this before? It’s so good.”
I smile around my spoon. “You’d think we were doing the hanky-panky in here by all those sounds you’re making back there rather than just eating ice cream.”
It’s been two months since Derek played his last game—and he hasn’t seemed to regret it once. Believe me, I’ve been watching closely for any signs pointing toward disappointment. Instead, I’ve seen Derek come alive. He smiles wider, laughs louder. He’s still addicted to exercise, which I fully support because those muscles are too sexy to quit. But now he does things like eat ice cream topped with cereal with me in the bathtub on a Tuesday night.
His cold lips touch the side of my neck, making my back arch. “Who says we’re just eating ice cream in here?”
“Do you have other plans?”
“I have so many plans, rookie.”
“You can’t call me that anymore—I’m a business owner now.”
Derek sets his empty bowl on the floor and pushes lightly against my shoulders, signaling for me to sit forward. I do—cradling my bowl of melty ice cream and cereal against my bubble-coated chest as Derek’s thumbs knead into my lower back and glide all the way up my spine to my neck. “You’re right. Want me to call you boss?”
“Ooh, I like that,” I say even as I shiver in the warm water from how delicious his hands feel pressing into my sore muscles.
So much has changed over the last few months. One being I no longer work at Sports Representation Inc. It’s true that all the public gossip around Derek and me died down immediately once he announced his retirement, and his news overshadowed pretty much any other headline in sports that week—and who knows, maybe it would have died down even without his help. We’ll never know. But inside the office, no way. Marty was like a villain straight out of Disney Channel movies from the ’90s. I was never able to prove that he was the source behind the article—but there was no one else it could be. The man couldn’t let my relationship with Derek go.
One Tuesday afternoon, I had enough. Marty was talking with some co-workers in the break room about a client he was in talks with, and when I walked in, he said, “Actually, maybe I’ll just send Nora to sleep with him, so he’ll sign with me.”
Joseph was there…he heard the entire thing. And yet—he chose to say nothing to Marty. I would have been fired on the spot for a statement like that, but Marty just got a quiet chuckle from the men in the room.
So I quit then and there. I couldn’t work any longer for a company that doesn’t value me or women in this industry. And because I’m extra, I waited quietly until all eyes were on me, and then I went to the bowl of fun-size Skittles I had refilled earlier that morning, tucked it under my arm, and strode toward the door. “Consider this my official resignation,” I told Joseph. And then I looked right in Marty’s beady eyes. “And since my contract lacked a noncompete clause, please know it will be an absolute pleasure stealing every single one of your clients, Marty Vallar.” And then I dropped my gaze to his nose and flared my nostrils before grimacing. He swatted at the nonexistent booger and I took that as my cue to leave for good.
In the most epic turn of events, later that night as Derek and I were sitting in my living room discussing my next steps, the security guard at the front of the community called, saying a Nicole Hart was asking to be let in. I assumed she was there to tell me I was making a big mistake and should come back. Boy, was I wrong. She burst into the house carrying her leather laptop case and the name plate that used to live on her desk. She set it on the coffee table in front of us and simply said, “We’re going to need an office space.”
Yes—Nicole left the company and that’s how the two of us started our own agency, one founded by women and ready to provide a safe, affirming atmosphere for female athletes. Of course, men are welcome too, and when told our mission statement, Nathan was all too happy to stay on with Nicole and help promote the cause. As were each of my clients. It was so lucky that Nicole was badass enough in her early days to demand that all noncompete clauses be removed from her contract before signing with Sports Representation Inc. and taught me to do the same.
And since I no longer need my apartment, it’s been converted into a makeshift office space until we find an official location we like more. Needless to say, it’s been a busy few months.
Derek leans forward now, and I glance over my shoulder to look at him, my husband, as his dark damp hair falls over one of his brows.
His lips graze the shell of my ear. “You’ve been working so hard. What can I do to help you relax?” I love that seductive voice of his. It’s smooth like honey on fire.
I also love his hand as it emerges from the bubbles to rest on the top of my bent knee—unmoving. Taunting.
I grin at that hand. “You’re the one with the early morning tomorrow, Coach.”
That’s the other big change. Derek accepted a position at our college alma mater (USC) as an offensive line coach. A job that he’s very excited about and I have no doubt he’ll excel in. It’s perfect for him. He’s also made the brave decision to talk openly about his journey with dyslexia and being diagnosed as an adult—hoping to bring awareness to more parents and teachers, as well as the athletes that he coaches on the field.
We’ve had many late nights together recently, his playbooks scattered around his side of the bed and my contracts taking up the other. We work in tandem until one of us eventually pushes all of it aside and jumps the other. It’s a good system—10/10. Highly recommend.
But these moments…these quiet moments where work is far away and I’m alone with my husband, best friend, and yes, client (because I also represent coaches, for anyone wondering)—they’re my favorites. As it turns out, celebrating our successes in the bathtub with a bowl of ice cream and wandering hands is the best way to spend an evening.
Speaking of wandering hands, Derek’s hand trails oh-so-slowly up my thigh as his teeth nip at my neck. “Hey, remember that rule book we made?”
“Yes,” I say, and it accidentally comes out like a purr. I can’t help it, though, when Derek’s muscled body is wrapped around mine, his breath caressing my heated skin and his hand headed to caress another favorite location.
“I thought of a new rule we should add to it…”
“You realize we broke every rule on that list, right?” I lay my head back against his shoulder as his lips press against my throat, dragging up and down like he’s obsessed with me.
“Mm-hm. And now that I know how much you love to break those rules…I’d like to add one.”
“And what would that be?”
Those fingers. That mouth. His grin. “No sex in the bathtub.”
I laugh—happiness fizzing in my heart. “And here I thought you’d say something romantic like ‘No loving Derek for the rest of your life.’ ”
He leisurely kisses the bubbles off my shoulder and neck and chest like he has all night—like he’s perfectly content to shut out the world and soak in this tub with me forever. “Sure—we can add that one too.”
