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It’s not only Nathan’s job on the line if the Boston Guardians are sold off.
Trent is just as vulnerable to losing his position in the club as Nathan is.
I can’t let that happen.
They’re all here.
All of Boston’s heavy hitters are here in the Guardian’s VIP box, anxiously anticipating watching the season’s first game while sizing up their competition.
I have to hand it to Rex. Inviting them all here today not only silently states that the team really is up for grabs but also shows each of these men that if they want a shot at buying the club, they will have to pay top dollar for it. It will surely become one of Boston’s biggest bidding wars in quite some time.
Since the news hasn’t broken out yet about the upcoming acquisition, I’m not surprised to see that I’m the only sports agent here today. Most of my colleagues are cheering their players from the comfort of their homes since the first game of the season is too nerve-wracking for our players, so they don’t want the added pressure of us being in attendance. Some players like that kind of cheerleading support, while others see it as their agents not having faith in their abilities. Then, there are the occasional few that are ruled by superstition. If they believe their chances of winning increase by having their family members and whole entourage in the audience, then you best believe that even their ninety-year-old grandma is sitting in the stands at every game. But if they believe lady luck will be on their side playing solo, then no one dares to come.
Luckily for me, the Donovan brothers and Wilder don’t make a fuss about me coming to their games. Not only because they know it’s my way of telling them that I have their backs but because I bleed green and white just as much as they do.
Before I became their sports agent, I was already a Guardians’ honoree.
I grew up in this arena.
Some of my best memories have taken place here.
Some of my worst ones, too.
So, saying that I’m just curious about who is going to own this club is an understatement.
I’m emotionally invested in the outcome of such a sale.
And so far, by the few men I’ve already talked to since I arrived, I’m a little underwhelmed.
None of them see this club as I see it.
It’s only another business venture for them.
There’s no heart on the deal.
And that can be a problem.
“I’ve never really seen the appeal to hockey. I find the sport quite heinous, actually,” one of them says while stuffing his face with free shrimp. “But I just had to come to see what the big fuss was about.”
“Agreed,” another suit nods in agreement. “But money is money. Am I right?” he chuckles, coaxing his friend to laugh along.
Douche.
I’m momentarily distracted from their fit of giggles when I see a few security guards rush to leave their posts. It takes me two seconds to realize who they have their disgruntled sights on—Lottie.
In my quest to assess these bigwigs, I totally forgot that Lottie came with me today at Nathan’s request. Not only did I leave her alone, but I missed it when Trent entered the VIP box and started talking to her.
Damn it.
I leave the pack of hyenas amused by their own laughter in favor of rescuing my best friend from a pissed-off Trent and his goons. I’m still a few steps away, but by the sound of it, Trent suspects that Lottie may be an undercover journalist on a mission to uncover further incriminating details to publish in tomorrow’s headline targeting Nathan. Not that I’m surprised Trent made such a leap in judgment, considering that Lottie has never once come to a game—much less been invited to the VIP box—and Nathan’s recent media coverage.
“Your boys so much as touch a hair on her head, and I’ll sue you and this club so fast that the Boston Guardians might as well change its name to Piper’s Bitches. Is that understood?” I warn them before they can grab her.
“Lee,” Trent groans as he turns around to face me.
“Nichols,” I retort with a scowl, crossing my arms over my chest.
“So this woman is a friend of yours?” he asks, suspiciously scanning Lottie up and down.
