Chapter Four #2
“Nothing out of the ordinary,” Renee says. “If you go all the way back to when he played for the Ice Hawks in the AHL, there were a couple of notes from his coach, but nothing since he went pro.”
“Ice Hawks?” I repeat, nearly dropping my pen. “As in, the South Shore Ice Hawks?”
Renee nods again. “Exactly. But again, he was just a kid back then.”
Well, fuck. Ezra had mentioned that Rourke was from Boston, but it didn’t occur to me that he’d be a Southie.
That explains more than I want it to. Southie boys don’t just lose their tempers. They hold onto things until something finally snaps. I don’t need that kind of volatility in my life, professionally or otherwise.
I move past it, even though I have a nasty suspicion that this is going to be a problem for our working relationship. “That’s good, then. If his image up until this point has been positive, it makes my job a heck of a lot easier. People make mistakes. It’s all in how we frame the narrative.”
“So, what, he’s going to post an apology video?” Dante asks.
“No, nothing that simple. My point is, a mistake here and there can humanize a celebrity. It’s much easier to address a one-off event than a recurring pattern.
” I tap my pen against my notes. “I have a few ideas already, and I’ll refine my plan once I’ve met him.
Speaking of which, will Mr. Rourke be joining us? ”
“He should be here already,” Dante says. “Renee, get him in here.”
Good. Let him walk into this already behind. I want to see how he handles pressure when he’s not the one setting the pace.
“He’s on his way,” Renee assures him.
“Then where…” Dante stops short and cocks his head. He stares at the door of the office, and in the sudden silence, I’m aware of two men’s voices outside, though they’re too low for me to make out the words. A moment later, the door opens, revealing two men.
I recognize Rourke instantly, even without the slow-motion replay and commentary.
He looks bigger in person, not only in size but in presence, like he takes up more space than he means to.
There’s something tightly wound about him, something held just beneath the surface that hasn’t decided whether it’s going to stay contained.
One resembles a younger version of Dante.
“Goddamn it, Dad,” the mini-Dante says. “We’ve talked about this. It’s my desk. It’s my team. What the hell are you doing in here?”
Dante waves a dismissive hand at his son. “Cleaning up your mess. Rourke, glad to see that you finally made it.”
“I came right over, sir.” To his credit, Rourke isn’t sweating, but his hair is slightly messy, and I can tell that he’s a little out of breath.
Good. He’s taking this seriously. As he should be.
“No excuses,” Dante snaps. “Rourke, this is Miss Callahan, a crisis manager. She’s here so you don’t get kicked out of the League or set the building on fire.”
Rourke lifts a hand to smooth his hair back into place. “Hi.”
I extend a hand to him. The office is getting crowded at this point, so I have to lean around Renee’s chair to offer Rourke my open palm. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Rourke. Please, call me Remy.”
His eyes narrow, and he gives me the shortest handshake of my life. “Owen.”
Great. He’s a one-word kind of guy. That won’t be a pain in the ass at all.
Although, actually, better a client that barely talks than one who runs at the mouth. In other words, better Owen than Dante. I take my silver linings when and where I can.
His grip is brief, controlled, like he’s measuring exactly how much contact he’s willing to allow. Not rude. Not warm, either. Careful. That’s more interesting than outright hostility.
“So, now that we’re all here…” Dante clasps his hands together.
“Rourke has been suspended for two games. That gives us a little time for things to blow over, and a little time for you to work some of your own magic. Once he’s back in the game, we’ll have to prove that he’s still making an effort to get his act together.
So, Miss Callahan…” He waves both hands toward Owen, whose expression is studiously blank. “Fix him.”
I don’t fix people. I manage perception, guide behavior, and build narratives that hold under pressure. If he thinks this is about slapping a bandage over the problem, he’s going to be disappointed.
Dante’s son—Sergio, I presume, based on both Ezra’s notes and the incriminating nameplate—pinches the bridge of his nose. “Dad, you can’t just say that—”
I interrupt before things can get any more out of hand. “As I said, I already have a few ideas. I’ll set up our first event in the next few days. Owen and I can go together, and we’ll use that time to talk one-on-one.”
Away from the noise, away from the commentary, where I can see who he is when he’s not being watched. That’s the only version that matters.
This wouldn’t usually be my go-to, but I can already tell that the Venom is a little bit of a shitshow from a front office standpoint, and I’d rather try to wheedle some useful information out of Owen on my own than try to talk to him and deal with Dante and navigate the weird power dynamics between the Giovanetti family all at the same time.
Hats off to Renee. I don’t know how she does it.
“Fine,” Owen says.
I pass him my card. “Add me to your contacts. You’re going to be hearing from me a lot in the near future.”
Owen reads my card, pinching it between two fingers. After a long moment, he lifts his head, and grits out a word as if every syllable costs him money. “Great.”
Yeah, right. This is going to be a nightmare. The problem is, I don’t think he’s the only one who feels that way.