Chapter 10
Brian
My Chicago hotel room feels even more sterile than usual.
The same generic abstract art hangs above the king-sized bed, and the same beige curtains frame a view I've seen a dozen times before.
After a night in Noa's apartment—with its colorful walls, overflowing bookcases, and the scent of cookies and cinnamon—this place feels like a sensory deprivation chamber.
Just another day in the life of Brian Klein, extraordinary sports agent.
Except today, the thought of playing fixer fills me with uncharacteristic exhaustion.
My phone buzzes with my assistant's hourly update.
Jamal's publicist sent over the statement draft. Legal says it needs work. Conference room booked for 9 AM. Savannah will video call at 11. Flight to Pittsburgh confirmed for Thursday.
Thursday. Five days from now. Five more days of hotel rooms and conference calls before I can see Noa again.
Woah, Brian. You didn't even text her.
I shake my head, trying to clear the image of her sleepy morning smile from my mind. This is ridiculous. I've had good sex before. Great sex, even. One night with a bookstore owner shouldn't be hijacking my thoughts during billable hours.
But it wasn't just about the sex, was it?
It was the way she laughed with her entire body when I told her about Gunnar Stag's Vegas wedding.
The casual way I baked in her kitchen and rummaged in her linen closet for sheets.
The peace I felt watching her light the menorah, her voice blending with mine in familiar rituals…
The rented conference room is already half full when I arrive, and Jamal's team of handlers is looking anxious. I slip into professional mode automatically, my voice shifting to the commanding tone that's become my trademark.
"The statement needs a complete rewrite. It reads like he's sorry he got caught, not sorry he endangered lives." I toss the paper onto the table. "And we need to get ahead of the suspension. Preemptive community service, substance abuse program, the works."
Jamal's manager begins to protest, but I interrupt him.
"You hired me to fix this, not coddle him. He's one incident away from losing everything." My voice carries the authority of someone who's seen careers implode. "If he wants to maintain his endorsements, he follows my plan to the letter."
By the time we break, I've outlined a rehabilitation strategy that might salvage Jamal's career if he actually follows through on it.
As everyone files out, I find myself wondering what Noa would think of all this.
Would she see me as ruthlessly efficient?
Would this version of me put her off—the one who steamrolls opposition and speaks in terms of damage mitigation rather than actual redemption?
I rub my temples and try to focus. I've never cared what a woman thought about my work before. Why start now?
Savannah's video call provides a welcome distraction. At six months pregnant, the Olympic gold medalist's face fills my laptop screen, and her frustration is evident.
"They buried it in the contract language, Brian. Page forty-two, subsection C. If I'm unable to compete for any reason, they can reduce payment."
"Pregnancy discrimination is illegal," I remind her.
"Tell that to their legal team. They're calling it 'physical inability to perform obligations.'"
I pull up the contract on my second screen and scan the relevant sections. "We have options. Public pressure, legal action, or renegotiation with performance criteria based on your post-pregnancy return."
As we discuss strategy, my mind unexpectedly drifts to an image of Noa, her belly swollen with pregnancy, reading to children in her bookstore.
The vision is so vivid it momentarily steals my breath.
I've never had that reaction before—never imagined a woman carrying my child.
I'm pushing fifty. What the hell is happening to me?
"Brian? Did you hear what I said?"
I snap back to the present. "Sorry, connection issue. You were saying?"
After Savannah's call, I have a brief window before my lunch meeting.
Instead of reviewing emails, I find myself looking at Pittsburgh real estate again.
A commercial space, a neighborhood away from Bishop Books, has just been listed.
Corner location, plenty of natural light, walking distance to a confident curly-haired woman who's colonized my thoughts.
My finger hovers over the contact button before I stop myself. This is ridiculous. What sane business owner looks at real estate after one incredible night during a snowstorm?
My phone buzzes with a text from Alder Stag.
When are you back in Pittsburgh? Tucker says you're coming for some big meeting?
The Stags. A legitimate business reason to be there regularly. To see her often. But that's assuming she even wants to see me again.
My lunch with the basketball executives passes in a blur. I negotiate contract points on autopilot while my mind keeps drifting to a woman with dark curls and intelligent eyes who makes me desire things I've spent my entire career avoiding.
Back at the hotel that evening, the Pittsburgh real estate listing and Alder Stag’s message pokes at my peace of mind. I call my assistant.
"Tahel, hypothetical question. What's our travel budget looking like this year?"
"Astronomical, as usual. Why?"
"Just curious about the Pittsburgh trips specifically."
I hear her clicking through files. "Brian, you've been to Pittsburgh six times in the last four months. Between flights, hotels, and car rentals, you're looking at about five figures just for those trips. And that's not counting the time lost to travel days."
Five figures. And that's only for recent trips, not counting the years of back-and-forth regarding the Stag family contracts.
"The thing is," Tahel continues, "the Stags are your primary revenue source. Alder's contract renewal, Tucker's endorsement deals, Hawk's coaching transition, Gunnar's new partnerships... you're spending a fortune to service clients who are all in the same city."
She's right. I've been so focused on maintaining my nomadic lifestyle that I haven't realized how much of my business has become established in one place. That’s the only thing settled in my life, in fact.
"What are you thinking?" she asks.
I pace the length of the hotel room. "I don't know. Would it make financial sense to have some kind of base there? Satellite office. Something."
"That's... actually not crazy. You could probably cut your travel costs in half and be more responsive to the Stags. They're family-oriented—they'd love having you more accessible."
The practical benefits are obvious. But there's another reason I'm considering this—one that has nothing to do with profit margins and everything to do with a woman who lights fragrant candles and reads stories to children.
"Would you want to relocate?" I ask. "If we did something like this?"
"Are you kidding? I'm from Ohio originally. Pittsburgh's a great city, way cheaper than here, and I'm tired of coordinating your travel schedule from three time zones away."
Her enthusiasm surprises me. "I thought you loved San Diego."
"I love efficient business operations more. And honestly, Brian? You've seemed... different since your trip to Pittsburgh. More distracted, but also more..." She pauses, searching for the word. "Human, I guess."
More human. Because of Noa.
"It's just an idea," I say, backpedaling suddenly. What am I doing? One night with a woman, and I'm ready to restructure my entire life? "Very preliminary."
"Of course. But if you want me to run some numbers—cost analysis, potential savings, staffing requirements—I could put something together."
After we hang up, I light the fourth candle on the mini menorah I've carried in my suitcase for years. The small flames feel inadequate compared to the warm glow of Noa's brass heirloom, but they still center me, still connect me to something beyond myself.
I stare at the candles and try to think practically. Tahel's right about the business case. The Stags generate significant revenue, and they're concentrated in one location. It makes financial sense to establish a presence there.
But every time I try to focus on spreadsheets and profit margins, my mind drifts to Noa's laugh, to the way she looked at me as if I was worth her attention, and to the possibility of seeing her not just once during a snowstorm but regularly. Dating her. Building something real.
The thought terrifies me. It was easier when she felt impossible—a perfect memory from one magical night. But if I'm in Pittsburgh regularly, and there's a chance for something more...
What if she doesn't want that? What if I'm projecting significance onto what was just a holiday fling for her?
My phone chimes with an email from Tahel: a preliminary cost analysis, travel projections, and efficiency metrics.
The woman works at lightning speed. The numbers are compelling: I could reduce travel costs by 60% while improving client response time.
The Stags alone generate enough business to justify leasing an office.
It makes sense professionally. The personal complications... those I'll have to figure out as I go.
Before I can overthink it, I send a reply: "Move up the Pittsburgh trip. Get me there by Monday. Let's test the waters."
Monday is only three days away. Three days until I can see Noa again to gauge whether what I felt was real or just a storm-induced fantasy.
Three days until I discover whether I'm making a smart business decision or the biggest mistake of my carefully constructed career.