“I worked my ass off for years to get this country bumpkin sponsorships like he’s never dreamed of, and then as his career is winding down, he goes and blows it all up like this.” My father’s hand flicks over at the wall-mounted screen. “Do you have any idea how much money these guys make for being nuts enough to climb up on an angry two-thousand-pound bull, Summer?”
“Nope.” But I have a feeling he’s about to tell me. I hold my father’s dark eyes, the same shade as my own. Geoff, the other intern in the chair beside me, shrinks down in his seat.
“They make millions of dollars if they’re as good as this asshole.”
I never would have guessed this was such big business, but then they don’t cover that in law school. I know all about Rhett Eaton, heartthrob bull riding sensation and mainstay teenaged crush, but almost nothing about the actual industry or sport. One corner of my lips tugs up as I think back on how a decade ago, I’d lie in my bed and gaze at that photo of him.
Rhett stepped up on a fence, glancing back over his shoulder at the camera. Open land behind him, a warm setting sun. A flirty smirk on his lips, eyes partially obscured by a worn cowboy hat, and the pièce de résistance . . . Wrangler jeans that hugged all the best parts.
So yeah, I know little about bull riding. But I know I spent an awful lot of time staring at that photo. The land. The light. It drew me in. It wasn’t just the guy. It made me want to be there, watching that sunset for myself.
“George, do you know how much that milk sponsorship he just flushed down the toilet was worth? Not to mention all the other sponsors whose balls I’ll be fondling to smooth this shit over?”
I swear to God I almost snort. George. I know my dad well enough to know that he’s aware it’s the wrong name, but it’s also a test to see if Geoff has the cojones to say anything. From what I gather, it’s not always a walk in the park working with entitled athletes and celebrities. I can already tell the guy beside me is going to struggle.
“Um . . .” He flips through the binder on the boardroom table in front of him, and I let my gaze linger out the floor-to-ceiling windows. The ones that offer sweeping views out over the Alberta prairies. From the 30th floor of this building, the view over Calgary is unparalleled. The snow-capped Rocky Mountains off in the distance are like a painting—it never gets old.
“The answer is tens of millions, Greg.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from chuckling. I like Geoff, and my dad is being a total dick, but after years of being on the spot in this same way, it’s amusing to see someone else flounder the way I have in the past.
God knows my sister, Winter, was never on the receiving end of this kind of grilling. She and Kip have a different relationship than mine with our father. With me, he’s playful and shoots from the hip; with her, he stays almost professional. I think she likes that better anyway.
Geoff looks over at me with a flat smile.
I’ve seen that expression on people’s faces at work many times. It says, Must be nice to be the boss’s little girl. It says, How’s that nepotism treating ya? But I’m trained to take this kind of lashing. My skin is thicker. My give-a-fuck meter is less attuned. I know that in fifteen minutes, Kip Hamilton will crack jokes and be smiling. That perfect veneer he uses to suck up to clients will quickly slip back into place.
The man is a master, even if a bit of a weasel. But I think that comes with the territory of wheeling and dealing the contracts he does as a top-tier talent agent.
If I’m being honest, I’m still not so sure I’m cut out to be working here. Not sure I really want to. But it’s always seemed like the right thing to do. I owe my dad that much.
“So, the question is, kids—how does one go about fixing this? I’ve got the Dairy King milk sponsorship hanging by a thread. I mean, a fucking professional bull rider just slammed his entire base. Farmers? Dairy producers? It seems like it shouldn’t matter, but people are going to talk. They’re going to put him under a microscope, and I don’t think they’ll love what they see. This will dent the idiot’s bottom line more than you’d think. And his bottom line is my bottom line, because this nutjob makes us all a lot of money.”
“How did the first recording even get out?” I ask, forcing my brain back onto the task at hand.
“A local station left their camera running.” My dad scrubs a hand over his clean-shaven chin. “Caught the whole damn thing and then subtitled it and ran it on the evening news.”