Chapter 2
Chapter Two
Lauren
My phone lit up with the name I’d been waiting on for over twelve hours.
“Wilson! Where the hell are you?”
“Fishing in Montana.”
Rather him than me. “Caught anything?”
“Just a case of the grumps. The brass told me they won’t come up on the salary.”
Christ on a Zamboni. “You’re not supposed to talk to them without me, Danny. That’s my job.”
“Yeah, well, about that …” Next came one of those dreaded conversational voids. I jumped into the breach.
“Listen, who got you a half mil more per year on your last contract? Who snagged that sportswear deal when Under Armour was looking at five other players?”
“Sure, but—”
“And who played a round of golf with the commissioner—and let the asshole win—to get that three-game suspension knocked down to two? I’ve been on your side since the beginning.”
He sighed. “Lauren, you’ve been great. Really. But without the backing of TMG, I’m not sure you can take me to the next level.”
You’re already at the next level! I put you there!
Leaving the Mallinson Group and going solo with my boutique—and we always called it “boutique”—sports talent agency was one of the riskiest things I had ever done.
And I had once slid into the net during a push for goal and got a skate to my left cheek for my trouble (no scar, thankfully).
It was weird to think that my agent days were even more terrifying than my player ones, but back then, I knew where I stood.
I ran on instinct, Gatorade, and negative reinforcement.
Now, I had to depend on my personality, such as it was, and my ability to persuade professional athletes I was the only person who could get them that deal.
Of course, the fact that the Chicago Rebels had recently won the Cup was supposed to be the ace up my sleeve.
I represented three of their players and was lately inundated with requests for meetings.
Rather than scream all this at Wilson, I fought my way back to calm. “I have a lot of leverage these days. Sponsors are blowing up my phone because of the Rebels.”
“And you’re going to be working to get those players deals. Sounds like a conflict of interest.”
“There’s enough to go around for everyone, Danny. I have a call into Jerry at the Cougars this afternoon, where I will be impressing upon him the need to shore up your contract and ensure you aren’t left hanging. You need to trust me.”
“I’ve already spoken to Kit.” My old boss at TMG, who was likely laughing his head off. I would never forget his reaction when I said I was leaving: Sorry, Lo, but the clients don’t trust women agents to get the top deals. “I’m going to sign with him.”
I gripped the phone tight enough to crush it—or my bones. Hard to say which was more likely to be dust first.
“Can you let me talk to the Cougars before you make any drastic decisions? If I can’t get you the deal, then you’re free to cut me loose.”
“I’ll have my lawyer send over the official notice of severance, Lauren. I really appreciate everything you’ve done, but I need to move on.” He hung up.
Fuck.
I had known it would be tricky striking out on my own.
Leaving a large agency like Mallinson with all the benefits that entailed meant that some clients got jitters, worried I couldn’t attend to their needs without the backing of a big dog.
Three of my football players had defected back to TMG, while one of my hockey guys had told me flat out that he wasn’t sure I could do it without a man holding my hand.
I wouldn’t miss him. And now Danny Wilson, a mid-career forward with the Boston Cougars, had fired me.
The Chicago Rebels winning the Cup should have been a huge boon, not just to the Rebels players I represented, but also to my fledgling outfit.
Winners attracted winners like metal to magnet, so I was hoping to see the halo effect in the months ahead.
But apparently it wasn’t happening quickly enough for a player like Danny.
I needed to stanch the bleed—and soon.
“So, tell me everything.”
My analyst-slash-rookie agent, Summer Landry, turned her laptop my way. “So these are the current NCAA prospects. I’ve done all the standard evals—juniors, clubs, points, goals, GPAs—”
“Good, good.”
“And then I have a category for intangibles. Like this guy is a bird watcher, which is probably not relevant to hockey, but I figure if he’s telling everyone he’s into parakeets, then he might be an individual thinker? Which could be good. Or just weird.”
“Kind of like their college essay. Tells us a bit more about their personalities.”
Summer nodded. “I have links to their college essays, too.”
I laughed. “Summer, you are killing it. Okay, I’m going to pore over these tonight, and tomorrow we’ll talk about next steps. Have you got anything in here about potential representation?”
“That’s the hardest thing to find out because people like to keep lips zipped. But if so-and-so’s third cousin is chatty, it’s in there.”
“Awesome.”
Having Summer on my team was the blessing I hadn’t realized I needed.
She came across as an innocuous gal-next-door type with her platinum blonde hair and cornflower blue eyes, but she had a mind like a steel trap.
This woman knew her hockey stats and knew exactly how to give me the bottom line.
While she had started as an analyst, I had quickly promoted her to junior agent, which meant she would soon have clients of her own.
Assuming we could acquire new clients to replace the ones I’d lost and that I could afford to pay her and keep the frickin’ lights on.
“So, how’s Thad?”
I squinted at her. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, it’s just that you two have been dating for—how long now?”
“Seven months.” One week, four days. I had reason to check the specifics this morning.
“And?”
“And we’re taking it slow.” I shrugged, infusing casual where it so did not belong. “I’ve dated a lot of weirdos, so I’d like to be sure before I make any major commitment.”
“Like living together? Or more?”
Damn, this girl was nosy. “I stay over at his place a couple of times a week. I’ve even left a toothbrush there.
It’s all very civilized.” Not exactly drenched in passion, but I felt safe with Thad.
And at a few years shy of forty I wasn’t in the market for drama.
My assurance that I’d made the right call in dating Mr. Nice Guy was confirmed this morning when I found something monumental in his underwear drawer.
An engagement ring, nestled in a Tiffany-blue box, waiting for the answer to a question. One Thad had yet to ask, so I suspected he was gearing up for the perfect moment. He had a business trip to the Middle East next week, and I wondered if he would try to pin me down before or after.
I smiled at Summer. “I’m happy right now, but you know I need to be focusing on getting the agency on a firmer footing before I can think of anything personal.”
A knock sounded and the door to my office opened a crack, just enough for Esme, our assistant, to poke her blonde head through.
The daughter of my hair stylist Tara and former Rebels general manager, Hale Fitzpatrick, she had just graduated from NYU.
I’d hired her the moment she said, “hockey players are assholes, but I can be a total pro around them.” Exactly the energy we needed in the office.
“You guys done?”
“Just about.”
The words were barely out of my mouth when the door was thrown open, and the starting bars of Lizzo’s “Truth Hurts” blasted through the office.
Summer was already on her feet singing about the results of her DNA test—spoiler: she’s a hundred percent that bitch—and her boy problems. In truth, she had none because she was madly in love with Hatch Kershaw, one of my Cup-winning clients.
I shot up, glad I’d kicked off my Nikes earlier because they let me shimmy more easily across the dance floor.
We had instituted regular post-lunch office dance parties—my idea because even as the oldest chick here, I still had a few good ones in me—and now we liked to boogie for a few minutes each day to work off lunch and prepare us for the afternoon stretch.
Today I felt freer than usual despite losing another client, probably because of that ring.
Knowing I was about to be engaged helped overcome those feelings of inadequacy I’d lately felt as several of my clients deserted me.
Lucky in love or lucky in my career: maybe I couldn’t be both or I would have to suffer through cycles where one eclipsed the other.
For now, I would dance.
Esme was shaking her head, all sunlit waves with fetching purple streaks as she clicked her hips to the music.
Summer was going full-scale robot. I didn’t think she had it in her to access that kind of weird, but I loved to see it.
As for me, I was running with a classic “hands above the head, let’s shake the booty,” my signature move on the dance floor.
It had been a while since I let off steam like this …
Gah, don’t ruin it thinking of him.
Esme screeched. We stopped dead in our tracks as the music continued.
“What’s wrong?”
“I forgot about your two o’clock.”
“My two—” I turned to the door, noticing now that someone stood behind my assistant. Towered, to be fair.
I thought of you and you appeared.
Alexei Nazarov didn’t just own a room when he entered, he made it his bitch. He hadn’t changed much since I saw him last September. Still tall. Still gorgeous. Still terrifyingly present.
I shot a quick look at Esme, who was busy muting the music on her phone.
“I didn’t realize I had anyone on the calendar.” She never scheduled anyone without running it by me first.
“Actually, that’s me.” Summer twitched her nose. “I said I’d talk to him before you had to.”
That sneaky fucker. Having avoided his calls for weeks, I hadn’t expected he’d do an end run to see me. Because I was ninety-nine percent certain he was not looking for new representation.