Chapter Four
Remy
While there is no guaranteed way to predict a new client’s ranking on the Remy Callahan Petty Bullshit Scale, there are steps I can take to ensure my client knows I did not come to play.
Step one: Dress for business, not bullshit.
I’ve learned the hard way that people decide what kind of professional you are before you ever open your mouth.
If I walk in looking like I’m here to be liked, I’ve already lost. If I look like I expect to be taken seriously, I at least have a fighting chance.
This is a scale, and the parameters shift depending on the circumstance.
If I were showing up to an office, I’d be rocking a pantsuit and heels.
But I don’t want to give this grumpy goalie any ammunition, much less an excuse to peek down my top.
I go business casual for this meeting in a fitted white blouse, loose slate slacks, all the way down to my sensible flats, in case Owen Rourke gives me the runaround and I have to hustle to keep pace.
Step two: Walk like you own the place. I breeze through the door of the arena with my bag slung over my shoulder and the files Ezra gave me tucked under my arm, ready to reference at a moment’s notice.
I make a beeline for the elevators, but there’s already a woman waiting in front of them, pacing back and forth.
Her outfit is similar to mine—see, I knew I was on the right track—aside from her heels that clack against the floor with each anxious step.
She keeps lifting her thumbnail to her mouth, as if she wants to bite it, registering her manicure, and lowering her hand again, only to repeat the process again a few seconds later.
Judging by her nerves, I have a pretty good sense that she’s who I’m here to see.
She’s trying to hold it together, but it’s slipping at the edges. That tells me everything I need to know about how bad this situation actually is. People like her don’t get rattled unless there’s a reason.
This is the kind of assignment that either cements your reputation or quietly dismantles it. There’s no middle ground with high-profile clients. If this goes sideways, it won’t just be his name trending.
When she spots me, she stops in her tracks. “Miss Callahan?”
I extend my hand. “That’s right. And you are…?”
“Renee Monroe, Director of PR. We don’t bother with formality around her, so please call me Renee.” She gives my hand a single firm shake, then ushers me toward the elevator. “Why waste time with niceties when our players are getting in altercations on the ice, right?”
“Great. You can call me Remy.” I try to smother my laugh, but Renee gives me a tight, knowing smile.
“I’ve already had a day, Remy. I suggest that you brace yourself, because my problems are about to become your problems, and you don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself into yet.”
Step three: Meet the client’s energy. “I figured that I was walking into a—”
“Flaming shitshow?” Renee suggests.
The comment makes sense. Athletes with too much ego and not enough impulse control tend to leave a trail behind them, and someone always has to clean it up. Today, that someone is me.
I’m not looking forward to my job, but at least I like the team’s PR Director so far. Could be worse. “Any advice you can give me before the circus starts?”
Renee jams her thumb on one of the elevator buttons and straightens her blouse absentmindedly. She doesn’t speak again until the doors close. As soon as we’re cut off from the lobby, she puffs out a breath.
Closed doors change everything. Out there, it’s performance. In here, it’s damage control. I shift my grip on my files, steadying myself. Whatever this is, it’s already bigger than the clip.
“Technically, while I’m your liaison, you’ll answer to Mr. Giovanetti.
I’ll warn you right now, he’s… a lot. He will test you.
If you let him, he’ll steamroll you the minute you step into his office.
The man has no filter, and I mean none. Plus, with the League breathing down our necks, he’s in rare form.
My advice? Don’t let him bully you. You’re the professional, and you know your job better than he does.
If you can manage him, you’ll have no problems.”
“Sergio?”
Renee barks out a startled laugh. “God, no. Sergio’s lovely. Rational. Emotionally stable. He takes after his mother, Julie. I’m talking about Dante.”
“But Dante’s retired.”
“In the same way a hurricane technically stops once it hits land.”
My mind does a cartwheel. “What about Rourke?”
Renee lets out a world-weary sigh. “I don’t know what to tell you. He’s usually quiet. If you’d asked me a few days ago, I’d have said that he was one of the team members least likely to cause problems. I’m guessing something happened in his personal life, but—”
That doesn’t line up with what I saw. The man in that video didn’t look like someone having a bad day. He looked like someone who lost the thread entirely.
Dead behind the eyes, a la Dateline NBC.
The elevator chimes to announce that we’ve reached our floor, and Renee snaps her mouth shut again.
Interesting. I consider everything she’s said, and left unsaid, as I follow her from the elevator to the office.
Her assessment of Owen doesn’t match the video clip Ezra showed me.
Is Renee just clueless about the players on her team?
She doesn’t strike me as the type to make excuses for other people, especially given her insight about her boss.
Either way, I decide, I want her in my corner. Step four: Keep your thoughts to yourself until you decide which hills you’re prepared to die on.
I take note of the desk in the outer office, with Sergio’s assistant’s nameplate resting on the corner, and join her in the interior room. There’s a huge desk inside, but nobody is sitting at it.
Renee huffs to herself and checks her smartwatch. “Give him a minute,” she says, sounding wearier than ever. “Let the man have his dramatic entrance.”
I lower myself into one of the chairs. “What do you mean?”
This is the part where most people shrink. Big personalities, loud rooms, too many egos competing for space. I don’t. If anything, I get quieter, sharper. Let them burn through their energy. I’ll decide when to step in.
“He was in here when I left,” Renee grumbles. “Which means that he stepped out, so that he’ll be able to storm in again and—”
The door slams open, revealing a man who appears to be in his late sixties. I raise my eyebrows as he strides through the room, ranting as he walks.
“I told those kids I wanted magic. Magic!” He gestures furiously with his hands. “And what did they give me instead? A goddamn migraine!”
Renee catches my eye and gives me the kind of knowing expression that reminds me of Jim from The Office. I nod my sympathy.
The man throws himself down in the rolling chair so hard that it spins away from us. He doesn’t miss a beat. “I can’t catch a break! One of those little assholes is already overstepping in one way or another. I tell you what, I’m this close to selling the team…”
“I’m sure that won’t be necessary, Mr. Giovanetti,” I interrupt. I extend my hand toward him over the desk. “Or… may I call you Sergio?”
The older man snaps his mouth shut. He grips the arms of his chair so hard the supports creak, and his eyes narrow to slits. Next to me, Renee presses her mouth into the thinnest of lines.
“Sergio?” the older man spits. “I am not Sergio.”
I lower my hand and offer my sweetest smile. “No? I’m sorry, you were talking about selling the team, so I assumed you were the owner. My mistake. Who are you, then?”
The man’s upper lip twitches. He leans forward, all of his earlier ire redirected from his wayward goalie to me. Step five: Never flinch. I keep smiling without breaking eye contact.
Men like him rely on reaction. If I give him one, he wins. If I stay exactly where I am, calm and unbothered, he has to recalibrate. That’s when I take control.
“I’m Dante Giovanetti. Dante!” He stabs a finger at the desk. “And the Venom is still my team, no matter what it says on the paperwork!”
“Or the desk,” I butt in.
Dante’s eye twitches. “Excuse me?”
I reach for the plaque on the desk, which reads Team Owner: Sergio Giovanetti and turn it to face him.
I have never witnessed a spontaneous human combustion, but given how bright red Dante’s face is, I think he’s about three degrees away from bursting into flames. Of course, I know who Dante is. Everyone in the Strip has heard of him. He’s infamous.
But Renee told me that my best bet was to keep him in line, and that means establishing the fact that his bluster and infamy aren’t going to intimidate me.
I slide the nameplate back into place. “Pardon my confusion. So, you’re Dante Giovanetti. I’m Remy Callahan, your crisis manager.” I make a point of plucking a pen out of the holder on his desk and making a note in my files. “Now that we’ve got that cleared up, let’s talk strategy.”
Dante doesn’t seem to know what to do with himself now that I’ve successfully derailed his monologue. “Yes,” he snaps. “Let’s.”
Renee’s hand twitches. Outside of Dante’s line of sight, hidden by the position of his desk, she gives me a subtle thumbs-up.
I cross my ankles and flip through my notes, even though I know them by heart. “Let’s start with the basics. I’ve seen the clip, and I understand the implications. I take it Rourke is suspended?”
“Yes, which means we’re stuck with our backup goalie for now.” Dante crosses his arms over his chest. “Which is far from ideal for our season.”
I nod my agreement and purse my lips in sympathy. “Understandable. But from what Renee has told me, it sounds like this event was an outlier. How long has Rourke played for the team?”
Dante rolls his head to scowl up at the light fixture. “I believe this is his, what… fourth season with us?”
Renee nods.
“And before that, on his previous teams, were there any issues? I’m not aware of any, but you know his history better than I do.”