Chapter 38
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
STEPS DOWN A DARK ROAD
DANIEL
Ten years ago
Hockey is in my blood.
The cold of the rink, the smell of the ice, the electricity of a crowd. I grew up three blocks from a rink in Duluth, and I spent more hours on that ice than I spent inside my own house. I still wasn’t good enough.
That’s the thing nobody tells you about loving something completely—it doesn’t guarantee you anything. Loving it doesn’t make you good at it. I loved hockey the way some people love God, and hockey looked at me and said Nope.
So I found another way in.
The Minnesota High School Hockey Tournament at the Xcel Energy Center in St. Paul is not the NHL.
It’s not even close. But I’m here because this is one place you can find the good ones before anyone else does.
The best players have been here every year since they were freshmen, most of their hockey careers starting years earlier.
Some of these kids were practically born on blades, playing as if they don’t know that what they’re doing is extraordinary.
It’s my job to know.
I’m holding a coffee that stopped being warm an hour ago and a program I haven’t looked at because I don’t need it. I’ve been watching the kid in the number 19 jersey for forty minutes, and I already know.
He’s something.
Not just good. Exceptional.
Most people can’t see it, but I can—the difference between a player who executes and a player who thinks.
Number 19 plays the way a great chess player does, like he sees three moves ahead and adjusts in real time, marrying instinct with intelligence.
I haven’t seen a kid with this level of skill in my five years of doing this.
“That kid is something else, isn’t he?” a man says next to me.
He points at number 19.
I glance at the man. He stands out because he’s wearing a suit that costs more than my rent.
“He sure is,” I say carefully.
You don’t show your cards at these things.
“You a scout?” he asks.
“Agent,” I say. “Independent. You?”
He turns to look at me then. He has the kind of face that’s hard to age—he could be in his late forties or nearing sixty.
“Business,” he says simply. Like that covers everything.
He extends a hand. “Bruce Granger.”
I shake it. “Daniel Crewe.”
“You been watching him all game?”
“Most of it.”
“And?”
I look back at the ice. “He’s the best player on this ice by far,” I say. “Best I’ve seen at this level in years.”
“You know his family?” Bruce asks.
“Not yet,” I say. “You?”
“I know of them,” he says. “Whitman family.”
On the ice, number 19—Whitman, apparently—scores.
The section erupts. The school banner section two rows down cheers like crazy.
I watch Whitman come out of his celebration faster than his teammates, already repositioning, already thinking about the next shift, and I feel the satisfaction of being right.
“The thing I’ve noticed about some agents,” Bruce muses, “is that most agents see the contract…the entry-level deal…”
I nod. “True.”
“You want to manage a career?” he says. “I’d be more interested in owning one. That kid could set you up for life,” he says.
The corner of my mouth lifts. “Owning,” I say. “That’s an interesting approach.”
“Some might say it’s an accurate one.” He smiles.
He looks at me for a long moment. Then he reaches into the inside pocket of his jacket and holds up a business card. I take it.
“You seem to have a good head on your shoulders,” he says. “Good sense of business.”
I’m flattered. This man is obviously successful at what he does. I’m thirty years old, and I’ve been doing this for a while now. I know I’m good at it, but it’s taking me longer than I’d like to get where I want to be financially.
“Thank you,” I say. “I appreciate that.”
“If you ever find that you want more, call me. I’ve got some work, if you’re ever in need or want to level up.”
He holds my gaze for one more moment and then walks away. I watch him go, then look down at his card.
Interesting.
I put the card in my pocket.
The game ends 4–1. Whitman has two goals and an assist and has been the best player on the ice for the past sixty minutes.
I make my way down to the corridor outside the locker rooms—not hovering, just present.
He comes out with two other kids from his team, his hair damp from a quick shower, laughing at something one of them said.
He’s taller than he looks on the ice. He’s already built like someone who knows what he’s doing in a weight room.
He has an easy way about him—not arrogant and just genuinely likable.
I step into his line of sight.
“Hey,” he says, friendly and slightly cautious. I’m sure he’s been told to be wary of all the hovering agents and scouts.
“Great game,” I say. “Daniel Crewe. I’m a sports agent.”
His teammates exchange a look.
“Thanks a lot,” he says. “I’m Tully Whitman.”
“I’ll be honest with you,” I say. “I’ve been watching you, and you’re the best player I’ve seen at this level in years. With the right representation, you could be playing professional hockey within a year.”
His teammates are very interested in this. Whitman himself looks at me with an expression I don’t quite expect—thoughtful rather than excited. Taking it in rather than lighting up.
“That’s really nice of you to say,” he says. “Seriously.”
“I’m not just being nice.” I laugh. “It’s the truth.”
He smiles at that, and the kid has it all. He’s got the looks, the smarts, and the skill.
“I appreciate it either way.” He pauses. “I have a year of high school left, though, and then I’m planning on going to college.”
I keep my face neutral. “How old are you?”
“Seventeen.”
Damn. Not as young as I hoped. Don’t know why I thought he might be younger. The guy is tall and ripped.
“You don’t need college to get into the NHL,” I say evenly.
“I know,” he says easily. “But I want to go.”
“You’d be leaving money on the table,” I say. “Significant money. Entry-level contracts have a ceiling, but the trajectory from there—”
“I know how it works,” he says, but there’s no edge in it, no defensiveness, just someone who has thought about this. “I want a degree. In case something happens.”
“Like what?”
“Like an injury, or, I don’t know…a losing streak,” he says. “It happens. And I’m not going to be one of those guys who ends up broke at thirty-five because hockey was the only plan.” He looks at me steadily. “Maybe you think that’s shortsighted?”
“I think that with your talent, there will be no losing streak, and the injury scenario is so unlikely that—” I shake my head.
“That means a lot, especially coming from someone like you,” he says. “Thank you. Really. And if I change my mind about the college thing, I’ll look you up.”
I can tell he’s trying to be kind but is still shutting me down. I smile and give him my card anyway.
“Please do.”
He takes the card with a nod, and his teammates are already moving without him.
“Hey, Tully,” I say as he walks away. He turns back to look at me. “If you want to be a free agent, you’re gonna need a great agent. Advisor for now, agent for later.”
“And that’s you,” he says, grinning wide.
“That’s me.”
I think about that guy Bruce talking about owning a career. Whitman is going to take more work than I thought.
That’s fine.
I’m patient.
A few months later…
I’m at my desk at 9 p.m. on a Tuesday, eating cold pad thai out of the container, when my phone rings.
Unknown number. Minnesota area code.
I almost let it go to voicemail, but I answer it.
“Daniel Crewe.”
“Daniel. Bruce Granger.”
“Mr. Granger,” I say. “This is—how did you get this number?”
“You’re not that hard to find,” he says. “How are things?”
“Good,” I say. Then, because he strikes me as someone who doesn’t need the automatic answer: “Slow. But good.”
“Did you secure the Whitman kid?” he says.
I lean back in my chair. “It’s not so simple,” I say.
“No?”
“He wants to go to college.” I hear the frustration in my own voice, and I don’t entirely hide it because there’s something about Bruce Granger that makes performance feel like the wrong move.
It’s been four months since I saw Tully, and I’m dying even more to represent him.
“I’ve reached out twice. He’s polite. He’s interested, but he’s going to college.”
“University of Minnesota,” Bruce says.
I pause. “How do you—”
“I told you,” he says. “You’re not that hard to find. And neither is he.” A brief silence. “So you’re waiting.”
“I’m waiting,” I confirm. “Which is—look, I believe in this kid. I’ve believed in him since the moment I saw him play.
But waiting doesn’t pay my rent, and I’ve got three other clients who are—” I stop myself.
I don’t know why I’m telling him this. I need to stop filling the silence. “It’s going to take time,” I finish.
“I see,” Bruce says. He clears his throat. “Since this is the long game with Whitman, how about I give you an incentive in the meantime?”
I’m quiet for a moment. “I’m listening.”
“I have business interests,” he says. “Various ones. One of those interests involves knowing which young athletes are investment-worthy before they become public knowledge. Before the contracts get signed and the endorsement deals get structured and the value goes up.” A pause.
“Early intelligence, I guess you could say. That’s what I’m always looking for.
The right information at the right time is worth considerably more than the same information a year later. ”
“You want inside information on prospects,” I say.
“I want a relationship with someone who has good eyes and good judgment,” Bruce says. “Someone who can tell me, in real time, how a particular player is developing. Whether the trajectory holds. Whether there are complications that might affect the investment picture.”
“Complications,” I repeat.
“Injuries. Personal issues. Things that affect performance, which further affect value.” His voice is smooth and even and completely matter-of-fact, like we’re discussing commodity futures rather than the private lives of college athletes.
“Whitman specifically, for now. He’s the one I’m most interested in at this stage. ”