Goodbye, My Superstar

"Sign the clearance forms by noon," I told the assistant coach, handing over the tablet.

"Got it, Barbara," he said, rushing off toward the locker rooms.

The stadium corridor smelled of fresh paint and floor wax. I pulled a pen from my pocket and checked off the final box on the pre-game itinerary.

Anson walked down the tunnel. Max hung off his arm, wearing a custom jersey with his number plastered across her chest.

"He doesn't have time for a press gaggle at twelve-thirty," Max announced, stepping directly in front of my path.

I kept my eyes on my clipboard. "The network requires a ten-minute interview. It's in his contract."

"I don't care," Max said. She snatched the clipboard out of my hands. "I scheduled a joint Instagram Live for twelve-thirty. My fans are waiting."

"Give that back," I demanded.

Max tossed the clipboard onto a nearby equipment trunk. The metal clip snapped loudly. "You are completely out of touch. Nobody watches network pre-games anymore. It's all about social reach."

"He is a football player," I said, my voice hardening. "He needs to focus on the playbook, not a ring light."

Anson adjusted his shoulder pads. "Babs, the live stream will pull three million viewers. Just move the network interview."

"I can't move the network," I replied. "They own the broadcasting rights."

"Then cancel it," a new voice interrupted.

Julian Croft walked out of the VIP suite. He owned the title sponsor brand paying Anson eight figures a year.

"Julian," I said, squaring my shoulders. "You know the broadcast penalties."

"I'll pay the fines," Julian waved a hand dismissively. He stopped next to Max, giving her an approving nod. "Max is right. Your scheduling is archaic, Barbara. You're stifling his brand."

"I'm keeping him disciplined," I countered. "If he loses focus, he loses the game."

Max laughed, a sharp, grating sound. "He's a natural talent. He doesn't need you micromanaging his every step."

Julian checked his gold watch. "Actually, Barbara, Max and I had a long conversation this morning. We reviewed the engagement analytics."

"Without me?" I asked, looking at Anson.

Anson refused to meet my gaze. He stared at his cleats.

"We don't need you for this conversation," Julian said. "Effective immediately, Croft Athletics is pulling our endorsement if you remain his manager."

The corridor grew incredibly quiet.

"You're firing me," I stated.

"We are upgrading," Max corrected, a smug smile stretching across her face. "My agency is taking over Anson's portfolio. We know how to handle real stars."

"You handle pop tours," I told her. "You know nothing about sports management."

"I know how to keep him happy," Max purred, trailing a manicured fingernail down Anson's chest plate. "Which is more than you ever did."

I turned my attention to my husband. "Are you agreeing to this? Five years of building your career, and you're handing it over to a singer you met three months ago?"

"It's business, Babs," Anson muttered. "Julian wants the change. I have to keep the sponsors happy."

"You're a coward," I said.

"Watch your tone," Julian warned. "You're lucky we aren't suing you for breach of contract based on your poor performance this quarter."

Max stepped closer to me. "Face it, Barbara. You're obsolete. You have no connections, no power, and no talent. You're just a plain, boring woman holding him back."

She picked up my clipboard from the trunk and shoved it against my chest.

"Pack up your cheap suits and go back to whatever pathetic desk you came from," Max sneered. "And on your way out, tell the locker room attendant to bring us some sparkling water."

I gripped the edges of the clipboard. The plastic dug into my palms. I didn't yell. I didn't cry.

"You will regret this," I said, my voice dead calm.

Julian scoffed. "Is that a threat?"

"It is a fact," I replied. "You just handed a multi-million-dollar athletic franchise to a woman who thinks a blitz is a type of cocktail."

"Get out," Anson snapped, finally looking up. "Just leave, Barbara. You're making a scene."

I stared at him for one long second. Then, I turned around and walked away.

My shoes hit the concrete floor in a steady rhythm. I didn't look back. I navigated through the labyrinth of stadium tunnels until I reached the quiet VIP exit.

My phone vibrated in my pocket.

I assumed it was the blackmailer again. I pulled the device out, ready to confront whoever was threatening me.

The caller ID didn't show an unknown number.

It displayed a single name: *William*.

My thumb hovered over the screen. I hadn't spoken to my brother in five years. Not since I walked away from the family empire to marry a rookie quarterback.

I swiped to answer and pressed the phone to my ear.