My analyst-slash-rookie agent, Summer Landry, turned her laptop my way. “So these are the current NCAA prospects. I’ve done all the standard evals—juniors, clubs, points, goals, GPAs?—”
“Good, good.”
“And then I have a category for intangibles. Like this guy is a bird watcher, which is probably not relevant to hockey, but I figure if he’s telling everyone he’s into parakeets, then he might be an individual thinker? Which could be good. Or just weird.”
“Kind of like their college essay. Tells us a bit more about their personalities.”
Summer nodded. “I have links to their college essays, too.”
I laughed. “Summer, you are killing it. Okay, I’m going to pore over these tonight, and tomorrow we’ll talk about next steps. Have you got anything in here about potential representation?”
“That’s the hardest thing to find out because people like to keep lips zipped. But if so-and-so’s third cousin is chatty, it’s in there.”
“Awesome.”
Having Summer on my team was the blessing I hadn’t realized I needed. She came across as an innocuous gal-next-door type with her platinum blonde hair and cornflower blue eyes, but she had a mind like a steel trap. This woman knew her hockey stats and knew exactly how to give me the bottom line. While she had started as an analyst, I had quickly promoted her to junior agent, which meant she would soon have clients of her own.
Assuming we could acquire new clients to replace the ones I’d lost and that I could afford to pay her and keep the frickin’ lights on.
“So, how’s Thad?”
I squinted at her. “Why do you ask?”
“Oh, it’s just that you two have been dating for—how long now?”
“Seven months.” One week, four days. I had reason to check the specifics this morning.
“And?”
“And we’re taking it slow.” I shrugged, infusing casual where it so did not belong. “I’ve dated a lot of weirdos, so I’d like to be sure before I make any major commitment.”
“Like living together? Or more?”
Damn, this girl was nosy. “I stay over at his place a couple of times a week. I’ve even left a toothbrush there. It’s all very civilized.” Not exactly drenched in passion, but I felt safe with Thad. And at a few years shy of forty I wasn’t in the market for drama. My assurance that I’d made the right call in dating Mr. Nice Guy was confirmed this morning when I found something monumental in his underwear drawer.
An engagement ring, nestled in a Tiffany-blue box, waiting for the answer to a question. One Thad had yet to ask, so I suspected he was gearing up for the perfect moment. He had a business trip to the Middle East next week, and I wondered if he would try to pin me down before or after.
I smiled at Summer. “I’m happy right now, but you know I need to be focusing on getting the agency on a firmer footing before I can think of anything personal.”
A knock sounded and the door to my office opened a crack, just enough for Esme, our assistant, to poke her blonde head through. The daughter of my hair stylist Tara and former Rebels general manager, Hale Fitzpatrick, she had just graduated from NYU. I’d hired her the moment she said, “hockey players are assholes, but I can be a total pro around them.” Exactly the energy we needed in the office.
“You guys done?”
“Just about.”
The words were barely out of my mouth when the door was thrown open, and the starting bars of Lizzo’s “Truth Hurts” blasted through the office. Summer was already on her feet singing about the results of her DNA test—spoiler: she’s a hundred percent that bitch—and her boy problems. In truth, she had none because she was madly in love with Hatch Kershaw, one of my Cup-winning clients.
I shot up, glad I’d kicked off my Nikes earlier because they let me shimmy more easily across the dance floor. We had instituted regular post-lunch office dance parties—my idea because even as the oldest chick here, I still had a few good ones in me—and now we liked to boogie for a few minutes each day to work off lunch and prepare us for the afternoon stretch.
Today I felt freer than usual despite losing another client, probably because of that ring. Knowing I was about to be engaged helped overcome those feelings of inadequacy I’d lately felt as several of my clients deserted me. Lucky in love or lucky in my career: maybe I couldn’t be both or I would have to suffer through cycles where one eclipsed the other.
For now, I would dance.
Esme was shaking her head, all sunlit waves with fetching purple streaks as she clicked her hips to the music. Summer was going full-scale robot. I didn’t think she had it in her to access that kind of weird, but I loved to see it. As for me, I was running with a classic “hands above the head, let’s shake the booty,” my signature move on the dance floor. It had been a while since I let off steam like this …
Gah, don’t ruin it thinking of him.
Esme screeched. We stopped dead in our tracks as the music continued.
