He places his palms on the table and leans forward. I catch a hint of that citrus scent that haunted my dreams for weeks. “You sure seemed to enjoy my lack of professionalism.”
“Mr. Novak.”
“You were screaming my name, Avery. Begging me not to stop.” His voice drops to a rough whisper. “Tell me that was professional.”
“Stop.” The word comes out sharp. “Whatever you think happened, whatever you think you remember, is irrelevant. You're my client now, and I have a job to do.”
He straightens up. “So do I. And my job doesn't include following orders from some uptight publicist who thinks she can control me.”
The insult stings. “Uptight?” My voice comes out shrill. “I’m trying to save your career.”
“I don't need saving. Especially not from someone who runs away in the middle of the night.”
That does it. All my composure evaporates. “You want to talk about running away? Let's talk about your DUI last season. Let's talk about the social media feud that made you look like a petulant child.
“Let's talk about how you've been photographed with more women than a rock star, and how your endorsement deals are hanging by a thread because sponsors don't want to associate with someone who can't control himself.”
His face goes dark. “You don't know what you're talking about.”
“I know exactly what I'm talking about. It's my job to know.” I gather my papers with sharp, angry movements. “And if you want to keep playing hockey instead of washing out of the league in five years, you'll start listening.”
“No one will dictate my life,” he says, his voice deadly quiet.
“Then enjoy your short career.”
We stare at each other across the conference table, the air crackling with anger. His chest is rising and falling like he's been skating hard, and I realize my own breathing has quickened to match.
This is not how I planned this.
“I don’t need a PR agent,” he says finally, then he turns and walks out, slamming the door behind him hard enough to rattle the walls.
I sink back into my chair and stare at my perfectly organized presentation materials scattered across the table.
Well. That went well.
4
Liam
The flash of cameras hits me the second I step out of my car at Madison Square Garden. All-Star Weekend in my home arena is a victory lap.
Three days celebrating the best players in the league right here in New York, with the regular season on pause until next week.
The Metropolitan Division sent four of us this year. Cole as team captain, Logan from defense, Ace, our starting goalie, and me. It's a solid showing for the Renegades, proof that we're having the kind of season that gets noticed.
Skills competition tonight, All-Star Game tomorrow, then back to the grind on Tuesday.
This season is the highlight of my career so far. Instead, all I can think about is Avery's voice telling me she's going to manage my behavior.
“Nova! Over here!” The photographers shout, and I flash them a grin. The one that says I'm having the time of my life, even when I'm not.
Cole falls into step beside me as we head toward the arena entrance. “You good, man? You've been off today and yesterday.”
Here we go. Cole is always trying to get me to talk about my feelings, tone down the partying, make better choices. He's like a broken record. The responsible captain trying to keep his wild forward in line.
He and Avery would get along great.
“Never better,” I lie, adjusting my backward cap. “Ready to show these All-Stars how it's done.”
