The Dating Playbook Page 5

  “I’m not most people, Taylor. You can work out with your other clients at a local gym and no one would bat an eye. If people see me working out with you—especially with the type of intense workout my training will require—that’s when the speculation starts.”

  He fidgeted with the buckle on his watchband as he grappled with how much he should divulge. She hadn’t agreed to work with him yet, but he couldn’t make this kind of demand without giving her at least some explanation.

  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.

  “Does nine a.m. work for you?” she asked.

  “If you say nine a.m., I’ll be ready at nine a.m. You’re the boss.”

  Her mouth curled up in a smile. “I like the sound of that.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Taylor pulled to the side of the narrow asphalt road, convinced the GPS had guided her in the wrong direction. There was no way Jamar Dixon lived in this wooded area, which was better suited for a scene in a B-rated horror flick than the h
ome of a former NFL player. She understood wanting peace and quiet, but this was tiptoeing into recluse territory.

  Samiah and London had made her promise to text when she arrived at his house and once every hour that she was there. They really were as bad as her mother at times, except they didn’t give her side-eye when she had more than one alcoholic beverage at dinner.

  Taylor tossed the phone onto the passenger seat and rubbed her hands together.

  “Okay, Taylor Renee. Time to earn that money.”

  Capturing the braids she’d had done last night—thank God for a stylist willing to take her at the last minute and work past midnight—she gathered them in a scrunchie, then pulled back onto the road. After another mile and several winding turns, she rounded a bend and a gorgeous, sprawling mansion with two-story windows and a curved cobblestone driveway came into view. A four-car garage flanked one side of it, while a smaller structure—probably a pool house—occupied the other. Towering cedars cocooned the area, enclosing the massive home in its own little oasis.

  “Well, damn,” she muttered.

  She drove underneath the portico and pulled to a stop behind a mocha-colored Range Rover. A deep orange Audi was parked about five yards ahead of the SUV.

  Why have a four-car garage if you’re going to keep your cars parked outside? Unless he had six cars…

  Taylor grabbed her duffel from the passenger side floorboard, got out of the car, and started for the front door. It was gorgeous: the beveled glass, iron, and wood materials were typical of what was found on other homes in this part of Texas, but the design was more elaborate. A dark figure, distorted by the glass’s myriad angles, appeared on the other side of the door. A moment later, it opened and Jamar stepped outside wearing gray sweatpants and a white Texas Longhorns T-shirt.

  She had to stop herself from releasing a low whistle. That smile and those broad shoulders were pretty devastating on their own, but the gray sweatpants transformed him into a living, breathing thirst trap. She would take a minute to appreciate the view, but now that he was her client, she could not think of Jamar and his fantasy-worthy body as anything other than what he was—her ticket out of debt.

  Besides, Taylor had learned the hard way that mixing business with pleasure was insanely foolish, and she’d vowed never to do it again. Once you crossed that line, guys no longer considered you their paid trainer. You became the chick they’re sleeping with who gives them free fitness advice.

  She was not going there with Jamar Dixon. She was here to earn that sixteen-thousand-dollar fee and to secure his future endorsement for Taylor’d Conditioning. That was it. Nothing else.

  “Did you have any issue on your way out here?” he asked as she approached the base of the steps he’d descended.

  “You mean other than wondering if I was still in the state of Texas?”

  His megawatt grin beamed bright against his rich dark skin. Yeah, she could appreciate that smile.

  “So does this place have its own zip code?” Taylor asked.

  “No, I share it with the family on the other side of the San Gabriel River.” After a moment, he said, “That was a joke.” And then he chuckled, probably at the stunned look on her face.

  She rolled her eyes. “You need to work on your delivery. Dave Chappelle you are not.”

  He only laughed harder. “C’mon,” he said, tilting his head toward the door.

  Taylor followed him into the house and, for the first time in her life, knew what it felt like to have her jaw literally drop.

  Holy. Shit.

  Polished marble floors spanned the massive foyer, a large round table with an intricate, wrought-iron pedestal base occupying its center. It was topped by a lush floral arrangement that emitted a soft, soothing fragrance. If she closed her eyes, she would swear she was standing in a field of fresh flowers. The curved staircase to her immediate right ascended to a second-story interior balcony that branched out on both sides of the entrance.

  Who lives like this?

  Even as she told herself to shut up and keep walking, Taylor heard herself say, “Okay, hold on a minute.”

  Jamar turned. “What’s wrong?”

  Just stop talking.

  “Before we go any farther, I need to ask a very rude question.” She really needed to work on her impulse control.

  He grimaced, his brow dipping with his wary frown. “This is going to be about money, isn’t it?”

  “Well, I did say it was rude,” Taylor pointed out. “I just…I mean…look at this place! According to Wikipedia, you’re only twenty-five years old, and you only played one year of professional football. How much do they pay football players if you can afford a house like this after playing for only one year?”

  “You really don’t know much about football, do you?”

  “Other than the fact that it always causes an argument between my dad and brother on Thanksgiving? No, I don’t know jack.”

  “I have a very good agent who managed to secure me a nice amount of guaranteed money. It’s a good thing, too, because I was injured before I could earn any of the performance incentives.”

  “Performance incentives?”

  “Yeah. I could have earned another six hundred grand my rookie season if I’d gotten more than ten touchdowns and rushed for more than twelve hundred yards.”

  “Hmm, maybe we should add performance incentives to my contract.”

  A quick grin flashed across his face. “Too late. You know, I think you missed your calling. You’ve got mad negotiation skills.”

  “If that was the case, I would be earning a performance incentive,” she returned with an eye roll.

  He gestured to her duffel bag. “Do you need somewhere to change?”

  “Eventually. First, we should discuss the workout regimen I came up with for you. We need to make sure it’s targeting everything you think we need to target.” She looked around. “Let’s walk and talk. You can give me the grand tour of this palace you live in.”

  “Twenty bedrooms are required in order to qualify as a palace. This house only has seven.”

  She looked at him. “Another joke?”

  “Was that one better than the last one?”

  “No.”

  His eyes crinkled at the corners, and Taylor had to stop herself from laughing. She was enjoying his smile way too much.

  They passed underneath the staircase and entered an open-concept kitchen/den/breakfast area that was the size of the entire house she and her family lived in back when they’d been on base in Germany.

  Natural sunlight glinted off the veins of gold streaking throughout the pearly white marble countertop, and the Sub-Zero refrigerator and range were worthy of a high-end restaurant. She hoped to God he used it for more than cooking ramen.

  “Okay, never mind about the tour,” Taylor said as she plunked her duffel bag on a kitchen island at least twice as big as her bathroom.

  “You sure?” he asked. “I don’t mind.”

  She shook her head. “Jealousy has never been a good look on me, and I will not be able to hide it if I see any more of this house.”

  “If it makes you feel any better, I bought it as more of an investment than anything else,” he explained, a hint of embarrassment tinging his voice. “I only use about a third of it.”

  “Well, damn. Now I feel bad,” Taylor said. “I didn’t mean to wealth-shame.”

  “Is wealth-shaming a real thing?”

  “You’re the one trying to justify your house to someone you just met.”

  “Point taken.”

  “I’m sorry,” she said, and she really did mean it. She’d heard stories of athletes who blew through the millions they earned and had to get jobs selling insurance or bagging groceries once their sports careers were over. Hell, she was only three years older than he was, but if she’d had access to the kind of money he did when she was twenty-five, investing in real estate would have been the last thing on her mind. She would have probably spent it all on Disney Vin
ylmation figurines.

  “You have every right to be proud of this gorgeous house,” Taylor added. “And I reserve the right to that tour at a later date. For now, let’s talk strategy.”

  Jamar pulled out a high-back stool and motioned for her to take a seat at the kitchen island. “What am I getting myself into over these next two months?” he asked, taking the seat next to hers.

  She unzipped her duffel and pulled out a poly folder with the Taylor’d Conditioning logo imprinted on the front. From the folder, she slid the chart she’d created and set it between them so they could both look over it.

  “I usually call this the plan of attack, but you can think of it as your playbook or game plan, or whatever they call it in football.”

  “I like plan of attack better,” he said. “It makes it feel as if I’m about to do battle, which I am.”

  “I like that attitude, Twenty-Three.”

  “Are you planning to call me Twenty-Three for the next two months?”

  “It’s that or Chicago Bears. Pick one.”

  “Why would I choose either of those when Jamar is so much easier?”

  “I never take the easy way. Let that be a warning,” she said with a wink.

  He grinned. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

  Apparently the flutter that swept through her belly had not gotten the memo that this was a no belly-fluttering situation. She cleared her throat. “Let’s go over what I came up with.”

  After a few minutes of reviewing the various cardio drills she’d designed, he got up and asked, “Can I get you something to drink? Water? Orange juice?”

  “Water is fine.”

  He pulled two bottles of water out of the refrigerator; then he went into a walk-in pantry and came out with a bag of potato chips.

  Potato chips? Was he serious?

  He reclaimed his seat and unfurled the top of the bag. Taylor took it out of his hand before he could reach for a chip.

  “If you’re going to get back in tip-top form, you’ll have to say goodbye to these,” she said. She slid off the barstool and looked around for a garbage can. There was none. “You’re ruining my dramatic effect here. I wanted to toss the chips in the trash and slam the lid closed for emphasis.”