Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
BIANCA
As Brody crashes to the boards and lands in a heap, I jump to a stand and almost topple forward from my seat in row five hundred gazillion. “Shit.”
The guy next to me says, “Amen.” The crowd lets out a universal oh no then settles into a low nervous buzz.
Not wasting time, I push past him to the steep stairs leading down and out of the stands.
Taking a quick glance at the jumbotron, I see the close-up of blood on Brody’s face and cringe.
It looked like if he didn’t have three guys holding him up and helping him off the ice, he would have collapsed into a heap.
They’re taking him to the training room, and absently crossing my fingers as I pick up my pace with my stupid heels clicking to the staccato beat of my heart—way too fast—I hope all he needs is stitches.
God, please don’t let it be a concussion.
Swearing under my breath as I reach the bottom of the nosebleed section, I rush to find the elevator that’ll take me down to the ice level and the locker rooms. I can’t believe Jett didn’t get me a seat in the luxury box, but at least he got me the official credentials hanging around my neck encased in plastic.
The agency has several seats in a luxury box, but they were all taken by family members of clients.
Jett himself didn’t even come to the game.
He sent me. Why? To watch out for the kid, in his words, because Brody Holden is too young to drink and the exact right age to get into trouble.
Jett still doesn’t know how right he was. I need to call him, but not now as I push past fans and kiosks peddling NHL All-Star gear.
I knew Brody was trouble, even before last night. I did my research. Not that it matters since he is a legitimate, once-in-a-generation or maybe even two, phenom on skates. He’s one of those players who make you believe in magic when you watch him on the ice, blinding everyone to his flaws.
The thought of his number one flaw makes my hyperventilating heart skip high and catch air while I mentally will it back down my throat.
The twenty-year-old treasure of the NHL is our prized client, so dazzling a player that of course we had to fight against a horde of rabid wolves, aka, sports agents, to get the dazzling hockey wonder to sign with us.
Every certified sports agent and some only pretending to be legit had been in the hunt to sign him.
Not that I can take even a morsel of credit for the major coup of landing him. That was all Hamish Jett’s doing. My esteemed boss took years to nurse the deal into bearing fruit, and I had nothing to do with it.
Jett, founder, principal, and president of the Jett agency, managed the coup de grace of signing the universally regarded mega talent, often compared to Gretzky and Bobby Orr by experts and fans alike.
Brody Holden was a phenom, alright, and in agent speak, the client of a lifetime.
My big accomplishment was landing a job with the Jett agency and working my way up from a contract review position to assistant agent, mainly on the strength of my doglike work, as in I would fetch the paper for Jett if he asked me to, and my 24/7 availability.
I’d like to say it was due to my brilliance and stellar personal charm, but it’s not. It’s plain old hard work and hard-headed determination. No one can outwork or outlast me. Plus, I’m laser sharp in my aim, eschewing anything that doesn’t get me to my goal.
My goal? Partner in the firm. Do I have the best credentials?
While I’m no slouch with my law degree from Pepperdine—a whole other mountain climbed before I got here—which is ranked 16th on the list of 17 law schools known for sports and entertainment law.
I’m no Harvard grad, but I have that steely-eye thing—the same thing that the most successful athletes have, the ones who start with the same kind of mountains to climb as I have because they’re not statistically the best or don’t fit the mold; instead, they start from the bottom of the pack.
The exact opposite journey of the highly vaunted—and lucky as hell—Brody Holden.
As soon as I reach the security guard at the elevator, I pull my credentials from inside my suit jacket—something like a note from the principal saying it’s okay for me to wander the halls, only encased in plastic and hanging on a lanyard—and flash it for the security guard.
“Sorry, ma'am. This is a restricted area—”
“I know that. I have credentials. I’m Brody Holden’s agent and—”
His brows furrow, and he aims a lethal dose of skepticism at me. “Brody’s represented by Hamish Jett—”
“I work for the Jett agency.” I wave my plasticized card at him, holding it up as high as I can without taking it from around my neck for him to see. Did I mention I’m not very tall? I’m on the shorter side of average… okay, I may be considered short by some.
Alright, alright, everyone thinks I’m short. Except me. I’m over five feet tall. By half an inch. In my book, that’s officially not short.
Never mind that I’m wearing four-inch heels to a hockey game. In spite of the boost, this security guard looms over me and squints at my credentials, then studies my face as if it’s a struggle to match me up with my photo.
With great reluctance and his mouth flat, he gives an almost invisible nod. I rush past him before he can think his next words and get on my way. Always prepared, I know exactly how to get to the training room at this arena.
Maybe I can get the trainer to help us get the wedding band off Brody’s finger while he’s in there.
That could be important because we’ll have to deal with a media circus, which will be even bigger now that he’s been injured.
If we don’t handle it right, the fact that he scored the first goal of the game could get lost in speculation about his wedding band, let alone whether his injury is serious.
Then it hits me. Maybe his injury is serious.
Shit. I start running and almost turn my ankle as I turn the corner and aim myself at the door marked TRAINING.
Pushing through into the room, I careen forward the last few steps until I reach Brody, stumbling to a stop.
Needless to say, my heart is galloping so hard I feel like I just won the Kentucky Derby.