7. Landon
CHAPTER SEVEN
Landon
My office still smells like citrus oil from the last cleaning. Polished walnut desk, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Chicago skyline, an espresso machine I never use—it’s all supposed to impress clients. Right now, it just feels sterile.
I’m halfway through reviewing a merger contract for a client in San Diego when Leah, my assistant, taps lightly on the glass wall and pokes her head in.
“You’ve been called upstairs,” she says, her voice careful. “Upstairs” never means anything casual. Especially not on a Tuesday.
“Did they say what it’s about?” I ask, setting down my pen.
“Just that Mr. Halpern wants to see you. ASAP.”
My pulse ticks once. Then again.
I glance at my reflection in the glass—gray suit, tie still tight, no breakfast on my shirt. Good enough. “Thanks, Leah.”
She nods and disappears.
I stand, smoothing the front of my jacket. The walk to the executive floor always feels longer than it is. That sterile quiet—the hum of silent wealth—echoes around me as I make my way to the corner office that houses the big man himself.
Harold Halpern. Senior managing partner. Forty years with the firm, razor-sharp, unshakeable.
“Landon,” he says when I enter. His voice is clipped, businesslike. “Come in.”
He doesn’t ask me to sit. That’s fine. I prefer standing when I don’t know if I’m being praised or gutted.
“We’ve picked up a new client. High profile. Time sensitive.”
I nod once. “Alright.”
“You’re being assigned to represent the Miami Icemen.”
I blink. “The hockey team?”
His brow lifts like he’s already bored. “Yes. The hockey team.”
I process that. “Sir, I don’t know anything about hockey.”
“You don’t need to. They’ve got PR. Marketing. Coaches. You’re not there to check their stats. You’re there to handle contracts, compliance, and any legal issues that arise. Think of it as babysitting with a JD.”
I pause. “May I ask why me?”
He leans back slightly. “Because you need a change of scenery, Landon. Everyone knows it. And this firm”—his eyes pin me, sharp now—“doesn’t operate like a therapy clinic. You’re valuable. But you’ve been drowning. And now, you get air. We want you sharp again.”
Ah. There it is. Not pity, exactly. Not concern. Just business. They’re shifting the broken piece to a less visible shelf so it doesn’t mess up the display.
“Besides,” he adds, reaching for a folder, “you’re being placed with someone who knows the territory well. Allyson Chen. She’s been embedded with the team for two years now. She’ll be your point of contact.”
Allyson. Of course. The firm’s golden child. I’ve never met her, but I’ve read enough firm-wide updates to know she’s fast, efficient, and absolutely doesn’t tolerate bullshit. If I’m being assigned to her, it’s because she asked for someone who wouldn’t slow her down.
Halpern hands me the folder. I flip it open. Training schedules. Media briefs. A basic compliance matrix. And a keycard envelope tucked into the back flap.
“What’s this?”
“Penthouse condo. South Beach. Temporary housing. You’ll be flown out tonight on the red-eye. Pack light, wear something that doesn’t scream midwestern funeral.”
I glance up. “This is for my entire stay?”
“Until October, yes. Then the permanent team will rotate in.”
I manage a nod. “Understood.”
He waves a hand, already turning toward his next email. “You’re dismissed. Contact Leah if you need help arranging transport.”
I leave the office slower than I entered. My mind is already calculating the pieces I need to move—cancel the gym trainer, put my place on the sublet market, let my mom know I’ll be gone.
And then, of course, there’s her.
Teresa.
My ex-wife.
The firm might not be a therapy clinic, but everyone sure as hell acted like mine was the most fascinating train wreck they’d ever seen. Partners whispering in elevators. Associates trying not to look too curious in meetings.
Leah—sweet, professional Leah—being asked by some prick from mergers whether she “felt safe” working under me during my “emotional period.”
The divorce was bad. Public, messy, and sensational. Made worse by the fact that Teresa chose to hire one of our rival firms. That made it front-page fodder in every legal gossip circle in the city. And she made sure everyone knew why.
“He’s emotionally repressed. He has no vision. He wouldn’t let me grow.”
What she meant was: I didn’t want kids. Not then. Not while we were still trying to untangle our own crap. I wanted to wait. She didn’t.
So she left.
Took her designer heels, her ambition, and her Instagram of sourdough starter she never fed, and filed for divorce with Cartwright & Lowe, who promptly fed every step of the case to the press for free.
Now it’s over. The papers signed. The condo we shared sold. The dog—hers, not mine—living with her sister in Aspen.
And me still trying to remember what life was supposed to look like.
Maybe this—Miami, new faces, hockey players with too much money and too little sense—is the break I need.
The elevator dings as I return to my floor. Leah’s already waiting.
“You’re all set for tonight,” she says, handing me a printed itinerary. “Flight at 11:10 p.m. Car will be here at eight.”
“Thank you.”
“And Landon?” She pauses. “It’ll be good for you. A change.”
I give her a tight smile. “We’ll see.”
Back in my apartment, I pack with more detachment than care. Clothes. Laptop. A leather-bound planner that’s mostly blank now. I pause at a photograph—me and Teresa in Paris, before the rot set in.
I toss it in the trash.
Miami it is.
The red-eye is quiet. Cold. My seatmate sleeps with a mask on, snoring softly. I don’t sleep.
At 3:40 a.m., the plane lands. By 4:15, I’m standing outside the terminal as a black car pulls up with my name on the dashboard.
The driver nods. “Mr. Shaw?”
“That’s me.”
“South Beach?”
“Yeah.”
The penthouse is exactly what I’d expect from our firm’s Miami accommodations—sleek lines, dark wood, chrome fixtures, and a view of the ocean that looks like someone painted it for a real-estate brochure.
I drop my bags at the door and step out onto the balcony.
It’s still dark, but the horizon is fading from deep blue to gray. A slow burn. Like something is waking up.
I haven’t lived anywhere warm in years. I sit in one of the balcony chairs and lean back.
This isn’t the life I wanted. But maybe it’s the life I need.
The gym in the building opens at six, and I’m there by six-ten.
It’s small—just a couple treadmills, free weights, a cable machine—but it’s clean and empty. I jog for twenty minutes, then do a circuit until the sweat soaks through my shirt and the edge starts to come off the tightness in my chest.
Not that it ever completely fades, but I’ve learned how to dull it. Repetition helps. So does silence.
After a shower and some espresso from the in-unit machine, I head out in a clean navy suit. The city outside the penthouse is awake now—palm trees swaying, sidewalks steaming in the heat. The joggers and the cyclists seem impervious to the temperature.
The firm’s Miami outpost isn’t far—an upscale floor in a shared executive building with tinted windows and a lobby that smells like lemongrass and ambition.
Allyson Chen meets me at the receptionist’s desk with a clipboard in one hand and a phone in the other. She doesn’t smile, which I weirdly appreciate.
“Shaw,” she says, gesturing for me to follow her. “We’re late.”
“For what?”
“The first of many fires.”
We walk quickly, her heels clicking a sharp rhythm on the polished floor. She’s in slim black pants and a tucked blouse, hair twisted into a braid down her back. Every movement is economical. No wasted breath, no time for small talk.
I like her immediately.
Inside the conference room, she drops the clipboard on the table and points to a chair.
“First,” she says, tapping the files, “Jeremy Henry is out.”
I pause mid-sit. “Out as in…”
“Gone. Resigned. Not our problem anymore.”
“He was lead counsel for the Icemen, wasn’t he?”
“Yep. Now you’re taking the lead until they find a permanent replacement for him. Congratulations.”
“Any reason he left?”
Allyson shrugs. “Rumors. Burnout. Conflict with team leadership. Could be anything. What matters is that you’re in.”
I glance down at the folder. “I hope this includes a crash course in professional hockey, because I’m not very conversant with the sport.”
“Don’t worry. The players don’t care what icing means either. And besides, you’ll only be here for the pre -season. I can pick back up once the season starts.”
I like the sound of that. “What’s the damage report?”
Allyson lifts a brow. “How much time do you have?”
She slides a sheet toward me. It’s a timeline—names, dates, attached articles. Turns out the team’s been… busy.
“There was an incident two seasons ago involving three players and a tequila-fueled house party that made Page Six,” she says briskly. “That blew over thanks to a PR spin and the fact that one of them got married to the woman in question.”
I blink. “Married?”
“Mmhmm. Another player had a—let’s call it an entanglement—with a journalist embedded with the team. That got messy. There were NDAs involved. We handled it.”
“Damn.”
She’s still flipping pages. “Last season’s head coach, Ace Carter, retired after winning the cup…
but not before building a reputation for running the team like a frat house.
Allegedly slept with someone the team hired to make a video game based on the team.
Him and the team analyst and one of the players.
You will soon learn that this team has some kind of reputation. ”
“Meaning?”
“Let’s just say that in the last three years, there has been a grand total of three harems that we know of.
And the media has been eating up all the drama.
We’ve had to file a couple of cease and desists.
This season, we are determined to only focus on the game and the sponsors.
Nothing off-ice for any of the players.”
My jaw tightens. “Are any of these lawsuits still active?”
“No. But their potential is always simmering. That’s where you come in.”
“Good to know,” I murmur.
She hands me another sheet. “On the upside, the team’s brand is exploding.
They’ve got three top-tier sponsorships circling—Rolex, Under Armour, and a new partnership with a woman-led gaming company called GameHatch.
Plus a joint campaign with the NHL and Visit Florida.
Big money. Big exposure. Big paperwork.”
I look at the spreadsheet. Every cell screams liability. But also… opportunity.
Allyson watches me read, then leans one hip against the table. “Still with me?”
“Barely.” I glance up. “But yes. This is what I signed up for.”
“Well, technically, you didn’t.” Her tone is dry. “But now that you’re here, we may as well make the most of it.”
There’s a long pause.
“You ever work with athletes before?” she asks.
“No.”
“They’re like divorce clients with more muscle and less shame.”
I can’t help but smile. “Sounds charming.”
“Some of them are great. Some of them are disasters in motion. Try not to get attached.”
I file that away.
The meeting wraps after she gives me three team contact cards and a schedule of weekly check-ins. She tells me I’ll be meeting the GM and the marketing director by the end of the week, possibly at a charity gala.
And then I’m out.
Back in the car, I check the itinerary. There’s a stop scheduled at a dealership uptown. The team’s gift, apparently. Something about making sure I have appropriate transport for the job.
I’m not complaining.
The dealership is glass-walled, lined with polished floors and white cars under spotlights. A man in a blazer greets me like I’m royalty and gestures to a slate-gray Audi parked near the side.
“This is yours,” he says, keys in hand. “From the Icemen.”
I walk a slow circle around the vehicle. The interior is leather, pristine. Touch screen display. Miami plates already installed.
It’s excessive. It’s completely unnecessary.
And I like it.
As I slide into the seat, adjusting the mirrors, I glance at my reflection in the driver’s side glass.
For the first time in almost a year, I don’t look like a man trying to hold himself together. I look like a man with options.
I think Miami was the right call.