Chapter 8
A more approachable Kazimir Lindstrom
Kazimir
With my arms weighed down with bags, I wave my foot under the bumper to close the trunk of my Mercedes Benz tank, round the vehicle, and enter my home.
My phone rings.
I drop the bags I’m holding on the console. By the time my hands are free, the call goes to voicemail.
I redial my publicist’s number. “What’s up?”
“If you’re busy, Kaz, I can call at another time.”
“My hands were full, that’s why I couldn’t answer. I’m all yours now.”
I walk back to the door and shut it. Homes on Grace Court Alley tend to attract a lot of attention from the streets. Passersby are always eager to get a peek inside.
Alina lets out a sigh.
My stomach tightens. “What is it?”
“It’s Devlyn.”
“We’re divorced.” I exhale a frustrated breath. “Why is it that I still have to deal with that woman?”
“I swear to God, she needs to hire a publicist who can speak on her behalf or learn to shut her mouth.”
I rub a hand over my face.
“A reporter from The New York Tribune’s “Culture & Style” section asked her a straightforward question, but Devlyn had to turn it into a ‘poor me’ moment.”
“What lies did my ex-wife feed the reporter?”
I kick off my Converse, remove my socks, and stuff them into the shoes. I pick up Harley’s discarded beat-up ones that look more gray than white that are flipped sideways and align both pairs side by side.
The difference in size is comical.
“This woman is the definition of being entitled.”
Alina’s comment snaps me back to the moment. “What?”
“You didn’t hear a word I said?”
“Sorry, I got distracted.”
“Devlyn ran her mouth outside of Forêt,” Alina says.
“She was dining at the three Michelin Star vegan restaurant on Madison Avenue that charges a cool three-hundred-and-thirty-five-dollars per person for their plant-based menu. Your charming ex-wife dropped an additional three hundred dollars on her bar tab.”
Her money. Not mine.
“When she stepped out of the restaurant, she was accosted by a reporter. Her answer was pure Devlyn Frostburg.
I have no doubt. “Lay it on me.”
Barefoot, I pace the heated concrete floor, clenching my phone to my ear.
And she does.
“Working single mom?” I scoff. “What a load of crap. That’s an insult to all the single moms who are struggling to make ends meet.
Forget about the fact her son is a professional athlete—earning several millions of dollars every year—he has a massive social media following he monetizes, and tons of brand sponsorship contracts.
Devlyn is his manager. She also has a massive social media following she monetizes. The woman isn’t hard up for cash.”
“She didn’t stop at that,” Alina says.
Of course not.
“She told the reporter she would’ve been able to donate part of her winnings had it not been for the fact she had to cover your legal fees because she lost the lawsuit against you—”
“She’s the one who decided to contest the fact we won that money while we were still married.
It doesn’t matter if the marriage only lasted three months until I found another man balls deep inside her at my cottage.
Half of those winnings were mine.” I pinch the bridge of my nose.
“The woman is exhausting. The ink is dry on our divorce papers. I’ve donated every penny of the money we won on the lottery.
The prenup states I owe her zero in alimony if we’re married for less than a year.
She needs to stop dragging my name in the mud every time she opens her goddamn mouth.
” The woman is determined to be the thorn in my side for the rest of my natural life.
Alina clears her throat. “Have you given any thoughts to what we discussed the last time Devlyn’s actions and words landed you in the gossip pages?”
This again. “You want me to enter into a fake relationship with a model or an actress to show people I’m not a cyborg without a pulse? I’m not a Hollywood celebrity, Alina.”
“I didn’t say that. And these types of arrangements aren’t only for celebrities.”
I shake my head.
“Throughout the divorce proceedings, you never made a statement. After the judge ruled in your favor about the lottery money, and the press was hounding you, you didn’t make a statement.
Every time reporters corner you in the streets for a statement, you bulldozer right through them like a bowling ball slams through pins. Then, there’s your grandmother…”
My heart breaks at the mention of the woman who was a mother to me.
“Kaz, you donate so much money to worthy causes. On top of that, your annual hockey charity brings in several millions of dollars. Those amazing accomplishments are dwarfed by all this drama.” She pauses.
“There are two images of you out there––the unstoppable former captain of The New York Blazers and the legendary Roy Kent of hockey who got caught up in one of the worst divorces in recent memory––”
“It doesn’t matter what people think of me. I managed not to lose myself after stepping off the ice, my businesses do well, I treat my employees with respect and dignity, and my annual charity event always surpasses my expectations.”
“My fear is that because of the circus Devlyn orchestrated––and keeps fanning––she’ll come across as the victim during your divorce and will take away from the publicity around your upcoming charity event.”
“My days of being a public figure are behind me. I don’t have to placate the press anymore. Even at the peak of my career, I hated talking to them.”
“A more approachable Kazimir Lindstrom would be a great selling point for that brewery in Montana that’s been giving you the runaround.”
That has my attention.
Erik said the same thing.
A beat of silence passes between us.
“The Active Kids charity gala is coming up this Saturday, right?”
“And I’m going solo.”
“What if you didn’t?”
I grumble.
“Kaz, you have the power to decide what the press is going to focus on when you step on that red carpet on Saturday night.”
I blow out a breath. “I’m a lousy actor, Alina. My threshold for pointless small talk is nonexistent. I’d never be able to pull off fake dating a woman I don’t know.”
“I never said it had to be a woman you didn’t know.”
My eyes shift to the two pairs of Converse.