Her father clicked on his email, listening with half an ear. "Times have changed. People want to see their favorite stars screw up, then repent. No one's interested in angels anymore."

Melissa's mouth opened, then closed. How could her father speak about him like this? What ever happened to loyalty? What's more, her father was dead wrong about Dominic's appeal.

"Look at Ty Calhoun," her father pointed out. "Fans are even crazier for him now that he screwed his image consultant, then saw the light and married her. Nothing's better than a bad boy turned good."

Melissa had met Ty a few times and found him to be a very charming lady-killer, but not at all her type. She preferred someone who didn't have anything to prove, who didn't use his sexuality to win over the world, who simply owned it as an integral part of who he was.

But now wasn't the time for her to bite her father's head off. She sat on the chair directly across from him. "What did you want to see me about?"

"Your mother called. Don't forget to bring potato salad to the barbecue this Sunday, or she'll be all over me for not telling you."

Her heart sank. She'd been so certain that he was going to bring up her promotion. Well, since she had his undivided attention, she'd take the direct approach and ask for exactly what she wanted—and make sure she got it.

"Actually, Father, I'm glad you asked to meet with me. I've been wanting to get on your calendar."

He briefly looked up from his computer screen. "Is there a problem?"

"No. My work has been going very smoothly, and I was extremely pleased by the endorsement deal I negotiated for Wilson last Friday." If ever there was a time to toot her own horn, it was now.

"I'll email you some notes on the Martin trade. You can take that over, as well."

She beamed. "Fantastic."

More work and responsibility without "Agent" on her business card. She was making a difference in players' lives and she was well paid for an associate, but she wanted to be recognized for her achievements rather than for being Tom McKnight's daughter.

He looked up at her, impatience on his deeply lined face. "Was there anything else you needed?"

She straightened her spine. "Yes, there is."

He finally took his hands from the keyboard and sat back in his chair, lacing his fingers across his stomach.

"I've been working here for five years," she began. "During that time I've taken on more and more responsibility, I've earned my MBA, and I've negotiated several big endorsement deals for key clients."

Her father nodded, and hope bloomed deep in her chest.

"I deserve to be promoted to agent."

She laid her damp palms on her lap and waited for her father to speak. As the silence stretched on, a knot formed in her stomach.

Her father threw his head back and laughed. "Honey, I thought you already knew this—no one in this business will ever take a female football agent seriously. Especially not a cream puff like you."

Melissa shot to her feet as he turned back to his computer. "What about all the deals I've worked?" she demanded. "I've done great things for our clients. I've made them—and you—a lot of money."

He waved a hand, dismissing her completely true claims. "They took you seriously because you work for me. Ultimately, everyone knows I'm the one backing the deals. Besides, you aren't tough enough for this business. Agents can't cry when they don't get their way."

He wasn't joking. Not in the least. And Melissa finally realized the truth: Her father had never, ever, not for one second, planned on her becoming an agent. If he had his way, she'd work as an associate for him until the day he retired.

Seeming to notice her dismay, he said, "Don't get me wrong, honey, you've been doing a great job. You're a top-notch associate. All the guys think so."

He was talking to her as if she were a little girl, which, she now understood, was exactly how he viewed her. They all did: his players, the other agents, his secretary.

"Thank you for your time," she said coldly, then walked across the room and closed the door behind her with a soft click. She held her head high as she walked past Angie's desk.

As she quickly navigated the hallway, Melissa's brain spun with plans. She wasn't going to waste a single minute sitting in her cubicle feeling sorry for herself. She wanted to be an agent, and if she couldn't be a McKnight agent, she'd do it someplace else. And she knew exactly where to start.

Barnum's. The secret bar for San Francisco Bay Area professional athletes. It was the only place where the very rich, very sought-after men could shoot some pool without groupies hanging all over them. Rumor had it not one single female fan had crossed the threshold in thirty years.

But she had no doubt she'd get inside. She'd made a whole lot of guys a whole lot of money. They owed her.

Ignoring the forty new emails in her in-box, she picked up her bag and headed for the elevator. On the street, she hailed a cab and gave the driver her best guess at Barnum's address. It was a widely guarded secret, but she'd been privy to enough drunken conversations to pick up a couple of clues to its location.

On a street corner a block from the water in a rather seedy part of town, Melissa paid the driver and stepped into the fading sunlight. She was beginning to wonder if this was such a good idea, just as the sound of laughter drew her attention to a door opening halfway down a dark alley. A rookie defensive lineman stepped out into the daylight.

Bingo! Now all she had to do was figure out a way to get inside.

She strode to the door and pounded on it with both fists. It was rather cathartic to beat the crap out of a metal door, even if the edges of her hands were starting to throb.

A man opened the door just wide enough for her to see his gold tooth. "Members only."

He closed the door in her face, but rage made her strong. She shoved it open an inch. "These guys know me. Let me in."

He opened the door a foot this time and checked her out from head to toe. He grinned lecherously. "I'm sure they do, babe. Go home. Find a nice boy to marry and make babies with."

She peered over his shoulder into the dark room. Jones Wilson was leaning over the pool table. She'd just made him a bucket of money, more than double the original offer he'd been made to hock tennis shoes. He owed her.

"Jones!" she shrieked over the throbbing rap music.

The bouncer recoiled and covered his ears, giving her the chance to push the door open and lunge past him. She was halfway inside by the time he grabbed her.

"Not so fast," he growled, and she had a feeling she was moments away from being literally tossed out on her ass.