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.”
