“You ready for round two, baby?” he asked through a thick haze of alcohol breath and cockiness. He obviously didn’t have a clue that he passed out about five minutes after we got out of the Uber last night. I blushed as I remembered him trying to do a striptease as he fell into bed. I didn’t sleep at all last night. I took advantage of having unsupervised access to his cell phone and his room, and got to work, pausing only for a quick nap on his chair.

In five hours, I managed to clean up his social media, change all his passwords, and sync his calendar to mine so I could make sure to attend all of his activities. I also sent an email on his behalf to Coach Howard, apologizing for leaving practice early and promising to make up the hour. There were a few privacy laws broken, but all in all, I didn’t really give a fuck. If Oakley had a problem, he could bring it up with his coach.

“There would have to be a round one in order to experience round two, and I’m not sure your morning whiskey dick is up for the challenge,” I deadpanned, scrolling through his email.

He sat up in bed, eyebrows raised as he looked at me. “Who are you?”

“Amanda Matthews, your new publicist,” I replied, taking off my reading glasses and handing him back his phone. He grabbed it out of my palm and immediately peered at the screen. “There is an email from Coach Howard validating my claims. I cleaned up your social media, deleted your apps, and changed your passwords. I’ll give you access again once I’m convinced you won’t share any more photos of your dick.”

“What the fuck?” he groaned.

“You have ten minutes to do whatever you need to do to get your ass out the door for practice,” I said in what I hoped was a convincing tone.

“I don’t have to listen to you,” he argued, scratching his head.

“Yes,” I began. “You do. If you won’t do it because your spot on the team is in jeopardy, then you’ll do it because I found poems you wrote to your high school girlfriend, and I’m not afraid to share them.”

He swallowed. “You’re bullshitting me. Who even are you?”

“Your breasts are like playdough, molded perfectly for my large hands,” I recited, eyebrow arched. When I was going through his phone, I wasn’t expecting to find prime embarrassment for blackmail, but luck was on my side. “Your flowery pussy smells like pistachio ice cream.” The poem was bad with a capital B. He stared at me like he was still trying to understand what was happening, and his eyes widened when he realized I wasn’t bullshitting him.