Chapter 13
Chapter Thirteen
Lauren
“I appreciate you both coming in today.”
Leon Shay was a Chicago Rebels player back in the day, which I assumed was the only reason he was bothering to talk to me.
His son, like Arkady Volkov, was one of the hottest prospects in pro hockey.
Felix Shay was being courted by everyone, so I was lucky he was gracing me with even ten minutes of his time.
“Most agents would wine and dine us,” Leon said as he spread his thighs to give his balls plenty of room to breathe. “Sure you want in on this action?”
Felix rolled his eyes. “Dad, Lauren’s got a great reputation.”
“Just saying we’ve had some nice steak dinners out of it so far.”
I pinned on a smile. “Well, I like to focus on the potential client and how we can work together. There’ll be plenty of opportunities to expense nice steak dinners later.”
Felix huffed a laugh. His father just sneered.
The kid was nice, so different from his dad, who had held a rep for being the most-hated guy in the league three decades ago.
He had played on the golden team, the one that announced the Chase sisters as a force in pro hockey.
Of course, he had hated everything about the team’s culture—the women in charge, the gay general manager, the so-called wokeness of it all, yet it didn’t stop him from enjoying the fruits of it.
After that first Rebels’ Cup win, he was promptly traded out so his assholery could become someone else’s problem.
He didn’t last long on his next team, or his next.
Within three years he was out of the league.
I encountered this a lot. Big-mouthed fathers looking to use their kids to make up for what they missed. Shay had made it to the big leagues, but he was obviously hoping to relive his glory days through his son.
“So, Felix, what are you looking for in an agent?”
Felix opened his mouth, but his father’s voice emerged. “Someone who’s a hard ass and can get the job done. Who will work twenty-four seven to get my boy in front of the best sponsors and top team orgs.”
Interesting that the sponsors were mentioned first. “Is that what you’re looking for?”
Felix looked thoughtful, as if no one had bothered to ask him before. “I’d like that, of course. But having someone in my corner is important, too.”
Leon scoffed. “Kids these days, right? Always looking for therapy in every adult they come across.”
I smiled at Felix. “That’s what a good agent does. Looks out for all your interests, financial and otherwise. I see you’ve already had representation.”
“Yeah, but my dad didn’t like any of them.”
“Them” being the five agents he’d cycled through since the age of fifteen, though technically they were “family advisors” because kids that young weren’t allowed to sign officially with an agent. But the NCAA rules had changed and, at eighteen, Felix was looking to get serious about his career.
Shay had stood and was reading my framed diploma on the wall. “Michigan girl.”
“That’s right. Went through the hockey program there.”
“The women’s one.”
Well, yes, Leon. The women don’t play in the men’s leagues yet.
“I’ve no doubt you’re aware of my background and my career.”
“Good for a girl,” Shay observed.
Felix flushed, embarrassed at his father’s rudeness.
Here was the tricky thing about signing players to my stable—I wasn’t just taking on a kid, I was taking on his baggage, and that usually meant stage moms and dickhead dads.
Typically, I didn’t mind that as long as the player worked hard and was open to my advice.
But when he came with an extra like Leon Shay, I had to decide if it was worth the hassle.
I went through my spiel, outlining the services we offered, dropping a few names to indicate that I had a great roster of clients already and that I was getting them nice sponsorships. Thank God for Hatch’s deal with Passepartout.
“And your dad mentioned that he was looking for twenty-four seven coverage—well, that’s something I can offer. I’m available whenever you need me, even if it’s just to talk. And if, for some reason, I’m not, I have a team of people on hand who can be at your disposal.”
“Any men on this team?” Shay blurted out.
“I don’t have any male agents on my staff yet, but that might change. Right now, we’re a smaller agency, which gives us more flexibility to be there for our clients.”
“So if you’re not around because of, your time of the month or whatever, then you’re relying on other women to back you up?”
“Jesus, Dad,” Felix muttered, then mouthed “sorry” at me.
I wanted Felix, but not this badly. “Why did you take this meeting, Shay?”
He looked at me sharply, evidently surprised at my tone.
“Wanted to see what you’re made of. If you’re Bond’s sister-in-law or your old man’s daughter. I lost money with him, y’know. A few of the Rebels players did, back in the day.”
The ghost of Jonah Yates was never far away.
“Yet, you’re not even holding a grudge. Here you are because you want the best for your boy.”
“Too right I do.”
“So you think you can be a misogynistic, insult-comic asshole without the jokes, see if I’m desperate enough to take it because I’d love to have your son as a client.
Well, news flash. I would not be working for you.
I’d be working for Felix, so if that’s a problem or if you think I’m going to be your punch bag, then I am not the agent for your son. ”
Shay sniffed. “I expected you’d be tough. Mouthy, too.”
Felix looked stricken—in a good way. I might have made a fan. “Dad, Lauren had an amazing career. She won everything.”
I winked at Felix. “I appreciate that. Always good to know who you might be working with. Now, did you have any questions for me?”
Despite my efforts to stand up for myself, I remained in a foul mood after my meeting with Felix and his dad.
Shay Sr. had said they’d be in touch, but I harbored little hope.
He didn’t like being challenged, though it demonstrated perfectly that I could be the pain in the ass he needed when it came to his son’s career.
Some guys would never want a woman running the show.
Approaching the hostess of fancy steakhouse Galleria in downtown Riverbrook, I murmured, “I’m meeting someone,” as if I was about to commit a crime. “Nazarov.”
She looked me over. “Are you sure?”
“Alexei Nazarov?”
Another top-down review, then a curl of her glossed lips told me I was clearly letting down the side, though it was hard to say which one.
“This way, please.”
She led me into the dining room, but her body blocked my view.
Only when we arrived at the table did I realize it was by a window, so prime restaurant real estate and uber-fucking-romantic.
Luckily, I was wearing anti-romance armor—sweats and running shoes.
I hadn’t even showered. Take that, Nazarov.
He stood when I arrived. “You look beautiful, Silver Eyes.”
“Can it, Nazarov. I made zero effort in honor of this sham.”
He, on the other hand, had decided to take this shit seriously.
A French blue shirt open at the collar, a custom-designed suit that shaped his shoulders to perfection, and the air of a man who could get anything he wanted.
Did that include me? And if so, why? I thought I knew his game, but tonight I would find out for sure.
Once seated, I grabbed a piece of bread and stuffed it in my mouth. I hadn’t eaten all day, and while I should have been fueling up for this, I was spending far too much time fuming about Shay and figuring out what not to wear.
Before I could raise a finger, Nazarov signaled to the server, who shimmied across the floor like he was surfing an oil slick.
“Yes, sir?”
“Lauren, what would you like to drink?”
Nazarov was drinking San Pellegrino, but that wouldn’t work for me.
“I would love a martini. Three olives, extra dry.” I stuffed another piece of rosemary crusted bread in my mouth, barely managing to suppress my moan.
“Of course.”
Once the server had slinked off, I stared at my dinner date. Chewing gave me a chance to up the disdain levels, though his face was so damn perfect that I could have wept.
“You look like you’ve had a bad day,” he said.
“Maybe I’m psyching myself up for a bad night.”
“I’ll make it easy on you. We are here to catch up.”
I snorted. “Oh, that’s why? I thought it was because you need to blackmail women to spend time with you.
Which I don’t get, because any woman would be happy to sit across from this and gaze upon its perfect features.
” I held up a hand. “I can admit this from a completely objective standpoint, Nazarov. And yes, every woman here wants you. All but one.”
A quick scan confirmed that we were indeed the focus of every woman—and man—here. Or maybe they were wondering how a schlub like me had scored the privilege of sitting in such rarefied company.
He signaled to the server who sprinted over. “Could we have more bread, please?”
“Of course. Your drinks will be up in a moment. Would you like to hear about the specials?”
“Sure.”
The server laid it all out there while I focused on the empty breadbasket. Forget the Miracle on Ice, I was rooting for a miracle of the loaves-not-fishes variety.
“I’ll leave you guys to decide,” and off he went on a bread and booze run for the hangry woman.
None of the specials appealed, or maybe I’d already forgotten them because the fact I was married to the dreamboat across from me was finally starting to sink in. Alexei Nazarov was my husband. How fucking crazy was that!
Rocked by this rather late-in-the-game revelation, I opened the menu and scanned the offerings. When I looked up, Alexei was studying me instead of his menu.
“Yes?”
“Just wondering why you’re so hungry.”
“Because I had calls with clients and potential sponsors all day, and while I had a lunch run planned, I had to skip it because one of my players broke his ankle skateboarding in Colorado. I had to listen to his girlfriend crying her eyes out about his season being ruined but really, she’s worried that he might have a limp when he walks down the aisle for their wedding, even though they’ve only known each other for less than a month and marriage isn’t even on the cards.
Maybe I should have advised they get drunk in Vegas.
” I sounded a touch … frazzled. I hadn’t even mentioned the Shay shit show. “So, that was my day. How about you?”
“I unpacked some boxes. Went to the gym. Picked up this suit from the dry cleaners.”
“You probably had lunch, too, you bastard.”
He smiled and my stomach swooped. Hunger, I insisted.
“Yes, I was lucky. No one broke an ankle and distracted me from my calorie intake. You do not have an assistant who can feed you?”
“Esme is great, but sometimes she’s in another world. Boy trouble. When I needed to eat, she was nowhere to be found.”
The server arrived with my martini and bread. I noticed now that there was a nice tray of dips that I looked forward to smashing.
“Thank you,” I said as the drink was set down.
“Yes, thank you.” Nazarov looked up. “Can we order now? My … date is hungry.”
Not your date. But there was no missing the pause there. He had considered saying “wife,” but he probably knew I’d walk right out of there with my rosemary-studded rolls and fabulous cocktail if he so much as dared.
“Of course. What can I get you?”
Nazarov ordered the fish. I went with steak, “rare, I’m out for blood,” which alarmed the server but drew a dark chuckle from Alexei.
I took another sip of my drink, enjoying the burn as it slipped down my throat. It also had the effect of bringing me to my senses. I set the glass down, prepared to be all business.
“So what’s this all about?”
“This? It is dinner, Lauren.”
I gave him my sourest look. “Just tell me what the end goal is here.”
“The end goal? I …” He paused while his Terminator brain considered the best strategy to draw me out. His programming decided on: “I have regrets.”
“Oh, we’ve all had those, buddy.”
“About us.” He lifted an eyebrow. “About how things ended between us all those years ago.”
“Nazarov, there was no us. We were, I thought, friends, then we made the mistake of crossing the line, and you made sure I knew it.”
“Lauren, I—”
I held up a hand. “I’m going to stop you right there. We were young, stupid, horny kids. Now we’re adults, very different people who have moved on.” Okay, old, stupid, and horny. “So you think you treated me poorly when we were, what, twenty-one? Big deal. It was years ago.”
“I am trying to apologize.”
“It’s water under the bridge. But it doesn’t really explain why you’re insisting on being a dick in the present.”
The Nazarov scowl entered the chat. He didn’t like that. But then no man enjoyed being called out.
“You actually think that this is acceptable behavior. You know what?” I leaned in over my martini glass, feeling a little reckless now that I’d gulped down half a glass of vodka and vermouth on an empty stomach. “I think you’re feeling old.”
His gaze seared mine. “This is true.”
“And you’re feeling a little left out because all your pals are pairing off and pushing out kids—well, they’re not, but they take the credit—and this miracle has fallen in your lap and you’re thinking, maybe this is it?
No need to go to the trouble of creating a connection or working at a relationship.
Here’s this ready-made mess I can scoop up and reheat in the microwave and call it a fucking marriage.
” I pointed at him. “Well, I’m not here as your consolation prize, Ass-arov, I already have my own fish to fry, and you are not part of the equation. ”
He held out both hands, palms up. “Which is it? A miracle or a mess?”
“Both! It can be both. Because it’s all about perspective. You see a miracle—c’est moi—and I see a mess—et tu.”
He smiled. “Yes, I see a miracle. And yes, you are right. I am a mess before you.”