5. Sophia
Chapter 5
Sophia
I ’m a pacifist.
I abhor violence.
Smacking a man—no matter how much I want to—is an example of violence and therefore would be wrong, both morally and ethically. It would be a bad idea from a practical standpoint as well, seeing that he’s huge and dangerous-looking.
“Let me see if I have this straight.” I feel proud of myself for using words instead of slaps. “You came here to buy a team I’ve just inherited?”
He nods. “I’ll make it worth your while, believe me.”
I snort humorlessly. “Are you completely oblivious to the concept of irony?”
His jaw ticks. “What?”
“A minute ago, you had the balls to call me a vulture.” He winces as I press on. “The irony is that here you are, swooping down right after my father’s death, trying to ‘make a deal.’” I use my most sarcastic air quotes around the last three words.
“I am here to make a deal.” He clenches and unclenches his fists, but the sight doesn’t turn me on… as much as usual. “A fair deal,” he continues as I try to get my breathing under control. “One that’s even better than what I would’ve made with your father.”
“Well, then. Considering that I’m a gold digger who only cares about money, I’m about to blow your mind.” I channel all my violent fantasies into a single withering look. “I wouldn’t sell you a golf club if I were starving and needed money for bread. And in case you’re wondering, I don’t play golf.”
Just like insults, comebacks aren’t my strong suit, but this one will have to stand because I’m done talking to this asshole.
I turn to leave, but there’s a pained grunt behind me.
I glance back.
The pudgy gentleman I saw earlier is clutching his chest.
What the hell?
He slides out of his chair and sprawls on the floor, eyes closed.
I’m rooted to the spot, in complete shock… but the Viking asshole isn’t.
He leaps toward the man, taps his shoulders with both hands, and shouts, “Are you okay?”
No reply.
“He’s unresponsive.” The Viking meets my gaze. “Phone 911 and get the AED.”
The words are said with such commanding force that I find myself running out of the room to comply, only to realize I have no idea what the AED is.
I quickly return and witness my nemesis ripping the man’s shirt off of him with one powerful tug, revealing a hairy chest with man boobs. The Viking then puts one of his hands over the other and presses into the man’s chest so hard I half expect his ribs to break.
Spotting me, the Viking glares at my empty hands. “Where’s the fucking AED? And is the ambulance on the way?”
“What’s an AED?” The question comes out in a panicked squeak.
“Useless,” the Viking mutters under his breath and stops the compressions to breathe into the fallen man’s mouth.
How inappropriate is it that I feel a tiny pang of envy toward the dying man?
“AED stands for automated external defibrillator,” says Mr. Cohen as he rushes out of his office. “I’ll go get it. You call 911.”
“Assuming you can manage that,” the Viking says snidely, then resumes the chest compressions, humming what I could swear is “Stayin' Alive” by the Bee Gees.
Frantically fishing out my phone, I dial 911 and tell the operator what’s happened, where I am, and that someone is already performing CPR. I also go into a number of details that might be irrelevant, like why I was here, and what I had for breakfast earlier. Oh, and on top of telling her my name, I mention Mr. Cohen and ask the Viking for his.
“Mason,” he grumbles. “Mason Tugev, though I have no idea why the 911 operator would care.”
“Did you say Tugev?” the 911 operator chirps excitedly. “Like the hockey player?”
Given the mention of a team, I presume yes—and tell her so.
“He’s amazing, isn’t he?” she says breathlessly.
“Uh-huh. Are the EMTs on the way?”
Mason looks at me questioningly.
“Yes,” she says, and I give Mason a thumbs up, which he counters with a frown. “Talking to me doesn’t slow them down,” the operator continues. “So, please, tell me what Mason Tugev is like in real life?”
I roll my eyes. “Have you seen the film The Northman ?”
“The one where Eric Northman is a Viking?”
It takes me a second to connect the dots. Eric Northman is a character on True Blood played by Alexander Skarsg?rd, who also plays the berserker in The Northman . “Yes,” I finally say. “Mason is as friendly as the hero of that movie.”
The real-world Mason scowls, proving my point.
“I haven’t seen that movie,” she says. “Is it good?”
I really hope the EMTs are not delayed by this. “If you like Vikings, it’s a must-see.”
“Is it about the invention of hockey?” She sounds confused.
Ah. Right. Hockey fan. “No. I doubt the Vikings invented anything apart from horrific ways to execute people. Though they did like to skate and ski.”
At this, Mason’s frown deepens.
“I think we’re getting a little off track,” I tell the 911 operator.
And by “off track,” I mean the train has grown rockets and is flying to the moon.
“Right,” she says sheepishly. “The EMTs will be there in five minutes.”
I hang up, just as Mr. Cohen returns with the AED thing, which I realize I’ve seen before, usually next to a fire extinguisher. I just didn’t know what it was.
“Open it,” the Viking—I mean, Mason—orders.
Mr. Cohen steps back. “I don’t feel comfortable using it on a client.”
“Why not?” I ask.
“I could get sued,” Mr. Cohen says.
“I’m not a lawyer,” Mason says over compressions, “but even I know that there are Good Samaritan laws on the books that protect those who try to help in these circumstances.”
Mr. Cohen takes another step back. “The laws you speak of don’t protect people as much as everyone thinks they do. I’ve handled many a case where someone did something grossly negligent, and that term is rather subjective.”
I bite my tongue. This is not the time to treat everyone to a philosophical treatise on whether or not we’re ethically obligated to help people in need.
Mason looks at me. “Do you have more balls than this coward?”
I nod, even though my heart is hammering. “What do I do?”
Mason sighs. “Open the fucking thing.”
I open the AED box, and automated voice prompts start telling me what to do. As instructed, I take out the sticky electrode pads and plug them in. Before I can attach them to the man’s body, Mason says, “You need to shave his skin first. There should be a razor in the back of the box.”
Shave the man? What’s next, a mani-pedi?
But then it clicks. The chest hair is in the way of the electrodes. I rummage for the razor, and there it is.
I attack the hair, but it’s too thick and curly. That, or this razor is too dull.
“Take out the child-sized sticky pads,” Mason says when he spots my grooming troubles.
I locate the smaller pads and take them out.
“Glue them to where the normal-sized ones would go.”
I obey.
“Now rip them off.”
I gape at Mason. “Rip?”
“I’m sure you’re familiar with waxing,” he says. “Same idea.”
Oh. Right. I rip off the first pad, removing the stubborn hair and proving without a doubt that our patient isn’t faking his unconscious state. Then I do it again on the other spot before attaching the two adult pads to the red, naked patches of skin.
Is the wax thing something I could get sued over? It wasn’t negligent, but it was gross.
From here, the AED basically takes over, telling everyone to stay clear when it deems necessary to hit the patient with a shock. Then it tells Mason to resume CPR.
I have to admit, the thing is cool. Kind of like Alexa with a medical degree.
The sound of sirens rings out nearby, followed by the footsteps of firefighters and EMTs. Moving swiftly and determinedly, they relieve Mason, place the patient on a stretcher, and rush away.
As soon as they are gone, I realize I have a question, so I pose it to Mr. Cohen and Mason. “Will he make it?”
“Probably,” Mason says. “Then again, there are no guarantees in life.”
“Will someone call and tell us?” I wish I’d asked this earlier when I was speaking with the chatty 911 operator.
“Doubt it,” Mason says. “It would probably be against HIPAA regulations or some such.”
“Well, he’s my client,” Mr. Cohen says. “So I’ll know if he makes it… eventually.”
“Will you tell us?” I ask.
“I’d have to ask my client if he would be okay with that,” Mr. Cohen says.
I blink at him. “How would he give you permission if he doesn’t make it?”
“In that case, I’d ask his family.”
“Just don’t bother on my account,” Mason grumbles.
I turn on him, incredulous. “You don’t care?”
“Not particularly,” Mason says. “I don’t know the man.”
“But you saved his life.” I glance at Mr. Cohen in the hopes that he can explain the enigma that is Mason.
Mason sighs. “ Maybe I saved his life. Maybe I didn’t. All I wanted was to avoid newspaper headlines that say, ‘Hockey player with CPR training watches a man die.’”
It’s like he’s into two sports: hockey and being an asshole.
“All right,” I say. “This was… interesting. I’d better get going.”
Apparently, I have a new house to check out and turtles to befriend.
“Wait,” Mason says as I turn away. “I want you to consider my deal.”
“Sure,” I say. “I’ll consider it.”
With that, I leave without a backward glance.
Just to make sure I’m not a liar, for a millisecond, I consider the idea of selling the team—and decide that my answer is still “hell, no.” Even if Mason Tugev weren’t such a jerk, I need to wrap my head around my newfound wealth before I make any deals. Also, if I have as much money as Mr. Cohen said, I don’t need any more, so I might as well stay diversified by owning a hockey team.
Speaking of diversification and not squandering my inheritance, I need to speak to someone majoring in finance. Which, luckily for me, is my best friend and roommate, Abigail.
Jumping into a cab, I tell the driver to take me home.