Chapter Two #2
"Sounds like exactly the kind of project I'm up for."
Carey smiles as if I just signed my own death warrant, because whether I fail or get this client to cooperate, Carey wins.
"Oh… and one more thing." She taps the folder. "You'll want to relocate for this one."
I shot a look up. "I'm sorry... did you say relocate?"
"Seattle," she says lightly. "That's where the client is, and he'll need a strong hands-on approach if you have any hope of reining him in."
Of course he will.
"His agent's number is inside the file. I’d add it to your contact list now. You’ll need his help.
Make arrangements to relocate on your own dime," she adds, sliding the file towards me, and then takes a seat in her oversized leather chair already turning towards her computer as if this conversation is over.
"We won't be able to expense this with Gabriella not wanting us to go through with this client. Oh, and Natalia...?"
"Yes?"
She glances up from her computer. "Though I’d love to see you fail and watch you pack up your office while security waits to escort you out, this promotion I’m up for comes with a huge raise and a company car, so try not to sleep your way to the top this time.
We both have something riding on your winning.
I’d like not to get fucked over by your antics yet again. "
I want to throw the file right at her head, but assault with a deadly heavy file would get me fired, and I won't give her the satisfaction. She can't get me fired unless she has a reason to. As long as I ace this one, I'm in the clear.
"I don't sleep with clients."
"So only professors then? Please close my door when you leave."
I walk out. I want to slam the door, but I don't. The minute I do, Molly, my best friend who works in legal, comes racing up as if she'd been waiting for me.
"I heard what happened in the meeting. Did Carey really try not to give you a file? Everyone's talking about the assessments and how people might lose their jobs."
Word gets around here fast. I’m not surprised that she’s already heard what happened in the meeting.
"It looks that way," I say, heading toward my office with her at my side.
"Well, we figured cuts might be coming when she showed up. Did she give you a file?"
"I had to chase her down to her office and beg her to give it to me, but I got it. Only, I'm not so sure I want it."
"Luka Popovich," she says.
I snap a look at her. "Wait… how do you know who I got?"
Her eyebrows stitch together with concern. "I heard Tony from the legal team say that he heard that Luka’s already scared off two PR agents. Neither of them lasted more than a week. I guess Tony is a big Seattle Hawkeyes fan and has some intel."
"Two agents?"
"Yep. Tony heard that Luka is starting to get a reputation for being difficult to work with. No one else will take him on. Bonus: he's a scary Russian with rumors swirling that his father is some mafia boss. Can you believe that?"
Mafia boss? But he’s a hockey player. I shake the thought from my mind. I’m not going to concern myself with rumors. I need this win, whether Luka is some kind of Russian mob prince or not.
"Perfect," I say sarcastically, flopping into my desk chair and opening the file. I skim the quick rundown about him. "Now I see why Carey wanted me to fight for this one."
"You're really going through with it?" Molly asks.
"I don't have a choice. I have to if I want to keep my job."
"Do you think you can get him to talk to you?"
"I don’t know. I’m going to head out to Seattle to see what I’m working with. Carey thinks it’s a must, and now I see why."
"Seattle in January?" Molly lifts an eyebrow in concern. "You hate the cold. That's why you moved out to Arizona for college."
Among other stupid reasons. Like going to the same alma mater as my father, trying to be just like him, hoping that graduating from the same college with the same degree in public relations would entice him to pick up the phone over twenty years after leaving.
That was a stupid dream.
"True. I don't love the cold, but this is one of the most prestigious firms in the country, and I've worked too hard and too long to let Carey come in here and ruin it all for me."
"I get it. So you're heading to Seattle when?"
"I have to get started right away. Gabriella is only giving everyone four weeks to turn these accounts around before an assessment to decide who stays and who gets fired," I say as I pack up the new file that feels more like a venomous snake about to strike than a file that will save my career.
"I shouldn't be there too long, though. I give it two weeks, tops, to get him to see it my way, and then I should be able to come home and tie up loose ends here.
I've dealt with clients like this before. He’s nothing special.
Just a cocky athlete that thinks he knows better. "
"Good luck. I have to get back to work, but call me when you get back. We can try that new yoga studio that opened down the street."
I smile at her. "Good. If he’s as bad as everyone says, I’ll need to work out some serious tension in my body when I get back. Don’t go far from your computer this week. I have a feeling I’ll need you to send out more cease and desist emails to the media than ever before on this project."
"I’m your girl. Whatever you need," she says and then walks out and back down the hall towards her department.
I flip open the client's file for the first time.
Luka Popovich. Twenty-seven years old–only a year older than me.
NHL first-line winger for the Seattle Hawkeyes.
Six-foot-four of what the press calls raw talent and zero impulse control.
He’s got the stats—points leader on the team, All-Star selections, and a PR nightmare, just like all the greats before him.
I stare at his Hawkeyes head-shot paper-clipped inside the file, those intense blue-gray eyes fixed in a cold, icy glare.
Russian mobster? Yeah. Maybe I can see where the rumors come from.
And then there are the scandals.
Bar fights. Social media tirades. A legendary reputation for sleeping with anything that moves. And the latest incident, the one that landed him on my desk… a nude photo shoot for a high-end women’s magazine where he posed with his Olympic medals.
The Olympic Committee is furious. His endorsement deals are evaporating. His agent is desperate.
Carey and Molly were right. This is a nightmare client.
I flip through page after page of documentation. There are screenshots of inflammatory social media posts, tabloid photos, and legal warnings from the Olympic Committee about the violation.
My phone buzzes. A text from Carey.
Carey Von: Good luck in Seattle. You'll need it.
I stare at the message, my jaw tightening. She couldn't even wait until I'd left the building to twist the knife.
I backed out of the text without responding.
Then I pull up my contacts and call my mother.
She answers on the second ring. "Natalia? Is everything okay?"
"Hi, Mom. Yeah, everything's fine. I just have a work thing. I need to come to Seattle for a client. Would it be okay if I stayed with you?"
"Of course, sweetheart," she says, warmth coating her voice. "You're always welcome here. When are you coming?"
I tap my mouse to wake up my computer. I need to research flights and get something booked. "Probably tomorrow if I can get a flight. I'll let you know the details once I get them."
"I'll get your room ready," she said. "It'll be good to see you."
My childhood bedroom. The one I haven’t stayed in since I left for college eight years ago.
Most of my visits with my mother have involved her coming to see me.
Between college, trying to win my internship, and then working every available moment to work my way up at Legacy PR, I haven’t taken much time off since I left Seattle.
We chatted for a few more minutes before I hung up.
I lean back in my chair and stare at the folder again.
Relocation to Seattle. A cocky hockey player with a God complex. A pissed-off Olympic Committee. A client no one can tame.
Not to mention a consultant who'd love to see me fail and an assessment clock ticking loudly in the background.
There’s no backup plan, and certainly no safety net. If I fail, it’s over for me.
I glance down at Luka Popovich’s Hawkeyes head-shot for the second time, studying him more closely this time, as if it might give me more clues about how I’m going to get him to cooperate when two other agents have failed.
Sharp jaw. Crooked nose, like it’s been broken at least once. A faint scar splitting his upper lip. He isn’t conventionally handsome in the polished, billboard-model way.
But his eyes. Those piercing icy blue-gray eyes are almost too striking to look away from.
There’s something in them that feels dangerous—not reckless or chaotic.
Almost assessing in an unapologetic way.
Like he knows exactly how much damage he could do and chooses when to do it.
Not unlike the rumored son of a mob boss.
I can see why that’s catnip to half the female fanbase.
The longer I study the photo, the more I understand it. It isn’t confidence. Confidence can be manufactured. This is competence.
There’s an ease in the way he holds himself. Not a smirk exactly, but the ghost of one. Like he’s already three steps ahead and mildly amused that you’re still on step one.
That’s the appeal. Not the jawline or the scar. The certainty of a man who’s competent on the ice… and maybe in a few other areas…
Fine.
If this is the fight, they want to give me, I'll win it.
I've spent my career proving people wrong. Proving I belonged in rooms I wasn't invited into. Proving that rejection letters and closed doors don't define what I can become.
Carey Von thinks she's finally going to watch me fail, but she's wrong.
I flip the folder closed, stuff it in my laptop bag, and pull up the search engine on my laptop. I type in, flights to Seattle leaving tomorrow.
Time to get to work.
All right, Luka. Give me your best shot.