Chapter 11 #3
“Her… fiancée.” Brody goes pale. “I swear I had no idea—”
“She said she was playing games—which I don’t want to hear any details about—and she took your wallet as collateral because she couldn’t get the ring off your finger when you… passed out.”
“About that,” Brody’s eyes darken.
“She admits she gave you something, but swears it was harmless.”
“That explains why my headache was extra—before the concussion.”
“What about his clothes?” Sabien wants to know, and I tell them the rest.
“Bigelow is waiting with her until we get back, and he made an appointment with the jeweler so we can get the ring off your finger and put this all behind us.”
I bite my lip, worried about the headache, whether it’s from a so-called harmless drug or his concussion, because Brody looks pale.
“You feeling okay?” He asks me. And he’s serious.
“Why wouldn’t I be?” Even if I am worried, I’m not admitting that to this kid. I need to maintain control.
“You passed out earlier, and I thought maybe you were still feeling a little lightheaded.”
“Look who’s talking.” Avoiding his eyes, I straighten my already straight skirt. “Thank you for your concern, but I’m fine.” I let off the stern pedal for a bit because maybe I am a little lightheaded.
But not for the reasons he’s thinking. Especially since he’s surprised me with his genuine empathy. Or seemingly genuine empathy. I remind myself he’s a player of world-class proportions. He’d put James Bond to shame—
The unmistakable and disproportionately loud ring of my phone interrupts my unnecessary and embarrassingly teeny-bopper-ish analysis of Brody’s sincerity.
Fumbling with my bag in my rush to retrieve the phone, I barely notice—or care at this point—that it’s Jett calling.
“Hi, boss—” Brody and Sabien watch me with interest, and I look away from them, even knowing it’s impossible to have a private conversation with all of us sharing the back seat, no matter how spacious it seemed a minute ago.
“Before you launch into your excuses why you didn’t answer my calls,” Jett says, “let me tell you I get it. You’ve been busy. Which brings me to my first question—how is Brody? And don’t whitewash it for me. Give me the god’s honest truth.”
He’s loud enough so there’s no hope that Brody and Sabien didn’t hear him. Thank God the glass partition between us and Stubby is closed.
I dart an apologetic look at Brody because I’m going to do as my boss asks and tell him the unvarnished truth—about the injury at least.
“He has a concussion, a minor cut between his eyebrow and temple with a dozen stitches. We’re on our way to the Venetian for the fan event. Stubby—I mean Stubichuk from the NHL—wouldn’t let Brody out of it, which pisses me off because the doctor insisted—”
“I get the picture. But I agree with Stubby. How did you know that’s what everyone in the business calls him behind closed doors? Never mind. Brody can’t get out on this kind of event unless he’s hospitalized.”
“I get it. We’re planning to leave as soon as possible.” I hold my tongue, not mentioning that fifteen minutes is the max time I’ve allotted.
“Great. As long as he’s okay to handle the promotional shoot tomorrow with Cavalaro Motors. Frank Martino, the VP of promotions, will be there. Play extra nice with him.” I almost interrupt him, and I’m surprised to feel Brody tensing up next to me at Jett’s words.
Jett pauses, then lowers his voice, and I take that as a signal to turn away from my listening companions, cupping my hand around the phone as if that’ll matter.
He says, “Martini’s taking a leap of faith with Brody that he’ll live up to the hype.”
“We’re taking a chance on Cavalaro Motors, too,” I insist. “They’re not established like Ferrari, in spite of their recent awards. They’re still an upstart in the Italian luxury car market.”
“Point taken. But he’s shelling out a helluva hunk of moola, and I don’t need to remind you that this agency—which by association means you—stands to do extremely well, especially if we can make it a long-term arrangement. It has to be mutually beneficial.” He heaves out a breath.
“How’s the family?” I risk the question in the name of distracting him.
Asking whether his wife has given birth yet seems too personal.
I shouldn’t assume that he would have led with that information at the top of the call since he’s all work and talks little of his personal life.
Hamish Jett is notoriously private about his personal life.
He might not even have mentioned the impending birth of his first child if it wasn’t happening on NHL All-Star Weekend, necessitating that I take his place as the agency’s representative.
“We’re still waiting for the bundle of joy’s arrival, but I’m told it won’t be long.”
“Then what are you doing talking—” The alarm in my words has Brody and Sabien staring at me with concern, like they’re ready to defend me from my boss—which is sweet but not needed since I can take care of myself.
“We have hours, not minutes.”
“Still,” I say, my heart rate not slowing in the least as Brody watches me, holding my eyes with his.
“You just make sure Brody is good to go tomorrow. Talk again soon.” He ends the call, and I can see that Brody heard his parting words, and guilt clogs my throat because Jett made him sound like he didn’t care about the concussion. Is he exploiting Brody? Am I exploiting Brody?
Shit. Does this make me as bad as Stubby and the NHL execs?
No. Brody pays the agency to make money for him, doesn’t he? It’s my job to…
My conscience doesn’t allow the platitudes to be any more effective than the band-aid over the wedding band had been.
The guilt is still there, and I can feel it looming large, my justifications about to fall off like the band-aid did, any second now, exposing me as a greedy, money-driven hypocrite.
Jett always warned this was the hardest part of the job—weighing what’s best for the client’s wallet against what’s best for their well-being. The weight is crushing me right now, especially since the short-term gain of money is more important to me than it is to Brody.
Am I letting my financial emergency get in the way of my judgment? Should I cancel his participation in the commercial shoot—
Brody leans in, patting my arm as if he’s read my expression. Of course he has. He can probably see my guilty conscience like it’s dressed in neon.
“Jett’s right,” he whispers.
Shit. “How much did you hear?”
“All of it.”
I squeeze my eyes shut like I can will a replay, but he pats my arm again and as his hands slide down to my knee, I go still and open my eyes.
He’s wearing a tired smile, but it reaches his eyes and suddenly he seems as far away from a wild kid as I can imagine.
Then his dimple pops and he squeezes my thigh, and I swat him, and we’re back to the Brody I know so fast that I might have mental whiplash.
“Don’t worry. I’ll get a good night’s sleep, and after the shoot, I’ll sleep all the way home on the plane. I predict I’ll be good as new by Monday morning.”
My first instinct is to scold him and remind him that the doc said no hockey for two weeks, but I don’t. It’s not my place. I glance at Sabien, and he winks at me.
It’s other people’s job to make sure he follows doctor’s orders, not mine.
But the Whalers coaches and management are biased, his parents are far away in Canada, and he has no girlfriend who cares.
His teammates or friends maybe? He hasn’t been with the team long enough to develop that intimate kind of support system like best friends who will truly look out for your best interests.
Sabien? His lie about the wedding ring to the Trainer proves his judgment isn’t much better than Brody’s.
Brody may have gotten himself into this mess by his questionable decision to drink and bring a stranger to his room the night before the game, but Sabien’s bold and creative lying ability has the potential to make things a gazillion times worse.
I finally respond. “Whatever you say, Brody. You’re the boss.”
His grin sparks him to life momentarily. “I never thought I’d hear you admit that.”
“I suppose I deserve that. But you know my job is to take care of you this weekend as much as anything else, right?”
“Tough job since it’s completely unnecessary.”
I roll my eyes and cough while Sabien laughs.
“Okay, fine. Maybe I wouldn’t have gotten crushed against the boards if I hadn’t… had company last night.”
“No kidding. You were slow more than a couple of steps.”
“It was the end of my shift—”
“Exactly.”
I put up my hands. “Stop. Brody scored the opening goal and played well—”
“Until he didn’t. He played like a forty-year-old by the second period.”
Brody gives Sabien the finger, and Sabe laughs.
Apparently, that’s the end of the discussion.
“Don’t worry so much, Brooks.”
“I’ll be fine after this weekend.”
He gives me a puzzled look, but I don’t elaborate.
I can’t tell him that I really, really need the bonus from this Cavalaro Motors promo deal. Right away. It’s not his problem. I’m the one who’s supposed to worry about his problems, not the other way around.
Besides, I’m doing enough worrying for a whole legion of people. I’m three months behind on my student loan payments since the rent went up on the apartment I’m sharing with my best friend, and my cash flow drought is stressing me more than usual.
The usual stress about my law school loan teetering on default and possibly ruining my credit record was already enough to make me edgy. In the normal scheme of things, a defaulted student loan would be inconvenient, but not the end of the world.
Except in my business, it would mean the end of my career.
Annual financial background checks are routine in the sports representation business ever since the scandal decades ago where a certain superstar hockey player got taken by his agent.
Shaking it off, I reassert my positive energy. None of that will happen to me. I will get my bonus. Brody will kick ass at the commercial shoot tomorrow.
I aim a reassuring smile at Brody. “Let’s make it a priority to get you back to your room as early as possible to sleep.”
“I’m all for that. As soon as I can get this ring off my finger, I’ll sleep like the dead. I don’t like walking around in public with it on. Gives me the heebie-jeebies.”
Sabien laughs.
I don’t laugh with him.