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"I usually don't give a fck, but you bother me, and I hate that you do."
"What do you plan to do about it, then?"
"What can I do about it?"
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When a devastating injury threatens the career of Terence Ti...
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Work, sleep, workout, repeat.
It's a steady rhythm, one I have built for the past few years. No friends, one family who I want to bury some times; some would say I am the beautiful epitome of loneliness, others would argue that I am just plain rude and distant.
Like I care.
"Hit me again, Martins." Bennett says, bringing my head back in the game. Where were we again? Right, kickboxing. We do this to stay grounded, focused and disciplined. And I've spent the past week training my players. I'm a contract worker and I can choose to terminate my contract, whenever and wherever. Or not, I can work with the Rangers and with the Krakens-Terence Tiles.
"You like being kissed here?"
I shake him off. Not here, not now.
"You're off your game." Bennett pants. I shoot him a snide look, the gesture is followed by a kick to his chest. He saunters, almost losing his balance but gaining it last minute. "Okay, you're definitely on your game."
A couple of minutes more and today's training is over. I leave the Rangers to their actual trainer and I hit the showers.
Back to Apex Pro Sports, I make my way to Donovan's office to discuss David Palmer and Terence Tiles. According to Nadia, the Krakens have a home game next so she'll be in Seattle since most of her clients are there, football and hockey wise.
Donovan sits busy as ever, the last game playing on his TV screen and his eyes fixed wholeheartedly on his laptop. His busy eyes meet mine through his glasses and he turns the volume down.
"Thought you hated my office." He smiles, it's a somewhat satisfied smile.
"Ever wondered why I never sit?" I smirk and he chuckles.
"You've earned my curiosity, mind you most people would kill for this opportunity, Miss Martins."
"Terence Tiles, what do I get out of it?" I get straight to it, no time to fool around.
"And the Business Woman in her rears it's ugly head." He snorts, his eyes fixed on mine, it's almost like he's trying to see through them. Problem is, he won't find anything.
"I know a lot of people who'd prefer her head to yours." I tell him.
"You get what you choose to get out of it," he says. Now he's definitely playing them games with me.
"What in the world is that supposed to mean?"
"You'll figure it out on your flight." He states matter-of-factly.
"Don't fuck with me."
"And the bitch rears her pretty head." He says and I shoot him a glare.
