Chapter 3 Cole
Cole
“Something wrong?” the woman— Cassie—says, a smile playing on her lips.
My momentary distraction by her presence is punctured.
Well, it’s happened. Rick has officially gotten tired of my bullshit and is sending out his junior agents to deal with me instead. Fine by me.
“So Rick sent you to do his dirty work,” I reply. “He too busy to deal with me anymore?”
“Rick will be joining us later. He always has time for his clients.”
I scoff. “Sure. That’s why he sent some junior agent fresh out of college who probably has no idea who won the Stanley Cup pre-2010.”
She arches a brow. “First of all, I’m twenty-seven. College is unfortunately an increasingly distant memory for me. And second, pre-2010? Please. I’m literally always thinking about when Jim Lorentz killed a bat on the ice in the fog game of the ’75 finals.”
That shuts me up for a moment. And also immediately makes me feel like an utter dick, because I’m not in the business of disrespecting and questioning women who work in hockey. It’s a cutthroat industry at the best of times, but especially for anyone who’s even a little different.
“Sorry,” I say, voice gruff. “That was—sorry.”
And… Jim Lorentz? Okay, so. She’s got brains.
Which is attractive—objectively speaking, I mean. I’ve always had a weakness for a woman who can challenge me. (Something that hasn’t helped me settle down. Turns out liking independent, challenging women means they never really need you around.)
“It’s fine.” She shrugs it off with a smile, as if she’s used to being underestimated. As if it washes over her like water. “Would you mind if we spoke privately for a moment? How about in one of the free offices?”
My mouth hardens back into a line. She might be smart, but she’s still an agent, and I’m not going to make this lecture easy for her. “Right here is fine.”
“Okay… well.” She straightens her back, places her iced coffee on the table next to us so she can open the crisp, white pages of her notebook.
“This might come across better hearing it from Rick. But I’m afraid he has some concerns about you this season.
He’s suggesting a media strategy plan to reset your image.
This will help get you back into the good graces of the team’s front office. ”
Irritation clouds my head. “Sorry, but no. I’m not interested.”
“I understand it’s not what you want to hear. But he’s trying to do what’s best for your career.”
I’m going to reply and tell her ‘no’ more firmly. But then my eyes drop to her neckline, and I'm distracted.
“You’ve got a little…” I reach out on instinct to the collar of her blouse, and my finger comes away powdery white. “…flour?”
“Oh.” Cassie blushes, her cheeks turning lightly rose-colored. The sensation of making her turn that shade sends heat straight through my body. “I was, um, baking this morning.”
I snort. “Of course you were.” Seems about right that I’d get stuck with the only sports agent on the planet who gets up early on a weekday to bake.
In my experience, most sports agents are just like Rick.
Male. Slick. Either charming-but-slimy or douchey-but-sharp.
But this woman isn’t like them. She’s like a shot of espresso—no, not as bitter as espresso.
More like one of those aggressively caffeinated Starbucks drinks made of pink sugary bullshit.
So, something I would never fucking order. But here she is anyway.
“You’re nothing like Rick,” I observe. “I’ve never met an agent who smiles this much before.”
She blinks, half a second of surprise at my tangent, before she composes herself. “You say ‘smile’ as if it’s a dirty word.”
My lip curls up. “Trust me, I know dirtier words.”
Her professional, sweet smile doesn’t budge at inch.
“I know. We all heard you call the paparazzi a lot of them two weeks ago.”
I huff a laugh as if it’s been tugged from me. “Not my finest hour.”
“Not at all. But you’re right, though. I do smile a lot.
I’m an optimist.” She gently closes the notebook, and picks up her iced coffee, taking a sip.
I try not to watch how her lips kiss against the outside of the straw.
She raises the drink and examines it. “I like to look at life from a ‘glass half full’ perspective.”
I pick up my water bottle and drain the rest, holding it up as counterevidence. “Empty. No arguments there.”
“You’re very cynical," she says, almost cheerfully.
“You’re very naive,” I counter.
“I might be naive, but I’m also trying to help your career, and I think you should be open to listening to Rick.”
I hold her stare. She’s bubbly and warm, but there’s a sharpness running underneath that. As fine and subtle as a knife’s edge. A knife slicing through something sugary-sweet. The combination is intriguing—
No. Not intriguing.
Annoying. Right.
Definitely annoying.
I cross my arms. “Do you have a problem with me?”
“On the contrary. I grew up here. Every hockey fan in Boston loves the Nor’easters.”
I note her careful phrasing with a rough laugh. Rick has obviously taught her well in the ways of agent speak.
“You like the team. But you don’t like me.”
“I work for a sports agency. My personal feelings about any specific client aren’t relevant.”
“So there are personal feelings. And they’re negative. Want to fill me in on what the hell that’s about? Because we’ve never even met, and you’ve already decided you don’t like me.”
Her stare flickers under her soft lashes.
God help me, I want to know exactly why. Exactly what’s going on inside her head.
Before she can answer, one of the venue staff walks by—some overeager intern. “You guys doing okay? Cole, you need a refill on your water?”
“No, thanks,” I reply, my stare not leaving Cassie’s face, “but the junior agent over here could use another iced coffee, if you’re offering.”
“Oh, sorry.” The intern turns red and starts to babble at Cassie. “Didn’t mean to be rude by not asking you. It’s just—I thought you were still drinking. Your coffee’s still half full.”
Half full.
Cassie raises an eyebrow. Her lips ease up into a smile that makes my blood heat, in irritation or desire.
Goddamn it.
She politely turns to the intern. “Don’t worry. I’m all good, but thank you so much.”
“All right,” I grumble, after the intern has hurried away. “You’ve made your point. But I'm still not interested in Rick's plan. I might be less fixable than he thinks.”
My issues go beyond patching my image up with some good PR. I used to know exactly where I belonged. Now I’m pulled in two different directions and trying to fight through the heavy weight of guilt in my chest.
Cassie looks at me. Then leans forward.
“Hey,” she says, her fingers lightly skimming my wrist for a brief, heart-clenching second. “I don’t know what’s going on with you this year, Cole. But it’ll be okay. I promise.”
The smile on her face is soft, sincere, and reassuring. For a moment, I actually do feel reassured.
Which is fucking crazy.
I can’t help it. I narrow my eyes, the storm cloud in my chest expanding and growing darker.
That’s the thing; I don’t want to be seen.
I don’t want to share. I want to do my job and be left alone.
Because she’s wrong, some choices can’t be undone.
All the years I put this sport first can’t be undone.
I pull my wrist away from her and head off for the main exit of the arena, my heart thumping loudly in my ears.
Cassie follows after me. Despite her petite height, she’s surprisingly swift in those sunflower heels.
“You’re just—walking off? Very mature.”
“Yep,” I reply, not turning back. “Pretty much.”
I push through the nearest doors and jog down the stairs outside the arena.
It was sunny today, but the night air has a sharp bite of fall cold.
I don’t usually exit this way, through all the fans.
Most of them have gone home, but it’s still a busy downtown street.
A few groups of people turn to stare at us as I stride away.
“Cole, stop.”
I turn back to face Cassie, and she nearly bumps into me.
“Listen to me,” she says, backing up a step. “You don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with. Let’s go find Rick so you can talk this over properly—”
“You suck, man! Tonight was a total fluke!”
I glance behind me. There’s a man decked out in Florida gear down the street pointing at us, holding up his phone like he’s just started recording. He’s clearly pretty wasted, swaying on his feet. But he’s lucid enough to be shooting me a steady stare of hatred.
“I’m trying to have a conversation,” I yell back at him before I turn to Cassie.
“Just ignore him,” Cassie urges me. “Come on, let’s go back into the arena.”
The Drunk Floridian cuts off her sentence. “I’ve got you live on stream, dude. Say hi to the internet! We’re gonna rock your shit in the playoffs!”
I bite my tongue, willing myself not to respond. What the fuck? It’s November and I’m already being heckled about playoffs that don’t start until April. Life as an athlete isn't always as glamorous as people think it is.
Pressure pushes in at my chest from all sides as I try to focus on Cassie in front of me.
“How about you and Rick just let me handle my shit on my own?” My voice is sharp. “This isn’t any of your business.”
“You guys see this?” Drunk Floridian shouts at his phone. “Taylor’s yelling at some cute office lady on the street. Stay classy, New England. Keep going, Taylor, Hockey Twitter is gonna love this one!”
Cassie exhales. “Come on, let’s go back inside and keep talking. I’m on your side here, Cole.”
My jaw tenses. “I don’t want to talk.”
“Have you heard the trade rumors?” Drunk Floridian yells. “New England’s gonna ship you off because you’re such a mess!”
I feel my fingers flexing as my chest tightens.
Stay calm stay calm stay calm—
“Your girlfriend over there is cute,” Drunk Floridian leers, pointing at Cassie. “How about I show her a good time for you?”
And, well.
I don’t know why that’s my breaking point.
Later I know I’m going to tell myself it was the accumulation.
It was every asshole comment from that jerkoff fan.
It was the general concept of fans and managers and execs who think they have a right to everything from me just because I play hockey.
It wasn’t anything specific about any particular junior agent standing right in front of me.
Later, I’ll probably tell myself a lot of things.
But right now, my hand is grabbing the plastic cup out of Cassie’s grasp, and I’m turning around. And though I’m no baseball player (no fighting; so boring), my throw is pretty fucking great. Pretty much a fastball in the zone as I beam the iced coffee at Drunk Floridian as hard as I can.
It nails him right in the face.
The coffee explodes.
All over him and his stupid phone.