“Waste of my time when I could be on the ice working on shooting pucks as I’m paid to do.” I hoped that all the lawyers who were in there with the team owner weren’t discussing how I’d somehow fucked up and was a liability to the team. “What’s taking them so long anyway? They said ten; it’s nearly eleven already.” I wasn’t talking to Shaun, which was lucky because he wasn’t answering. I knew he was only there in case they took away any of my money for any reason, which would affect his bottom line.
After a short pause, a young man opened the door and gestured for Shaun and me to enter.
“Mr. Howell, Mr. Lassiter.”
I waited for Shaun to say he had my back, or something equally encouraging, but he was scowling and there was worry in his eyes. I really wasn’t expecting anything from him because as agents went, he was pretty shit. I’d already been approached by a few other agents who would work with me on the charity side of my hockey, focus less on endless endorsements for things I didn’t care about, and more on what I could do with my position to make things better for others.
He’d known since the summer that he was a dead agent walking, but that was the game. He already had a couple of big names lined up, I knew that for a fact, and it was time to move on.
Going into the room was stepping into tension-city, the atmosphere was cold, and I could see Abbey Lomax, the matriarch of the billionaire Lomax family who owned the team, at the window. She stared out over downtown Burlington, her arms crossed over her chest, and if I’d been drawing her as a cartoon, she would have had a thundercloud over her head. Just along from her a man leaned on the wall, and I took a very deliberate second glance because even with my career on the line, I couldn’t help staring when there was sexy in the room.
“Mrs. Lomax, we have Mr. Howell and his agent, Mr. Lassiter.”
She turned to face us, slowly, and I was right that she was in angry mode about something, but it wasn’t me as her frown vanished in an instant.
She smiled and extended her hand. “Mr. Howell, a pleasure.” She shook hands with Shaun as well, although she didn’t say it was a pleasure to see him, but then he was an agent. “I want you to meet someone,” she gestured at tall, dark, and sexy, “this is Jason, and from today he’s your personal security detail.”
“My what, now?” I asked, and added a belated ma’am when she frowned at me.
“The Dragons management team and owners feel it would be beneficial for you to have around-the-clock security.”
I took a step back, “No.”
I exchanged glances with Shaun, who appeared equally horrified, and I knew exactly what my agent was thinking. He no more wanted me to have a bodyguard in tow than I did. If word got out that the big, strong skater needed a nanny, then endorsements would be hit a hundred ways to Sunday.
Coach stepped up to stand next to me, “Now, Garrett, listen to reason.”
“They hacked the screen,” Abbey pointed out.
I took another step back, until my thigh met the table. “I don’t need someone trailing me around!” I shot another look at Shaun and hoped to hell he could shut this down.
Shaun cleared his throat. “As my client clearly stated, to have a bodyguard could potentially affect his endorsement income—”
“Shaun, you’re a goddamn asshole,” Coach interrupted. This time he was angry, not consoling, and I’d seen this switch in his game plan before. He was done playing nice cop, and now he’d segued into bad cop without blinking. “It’s not all about money. What about his play?”
“Well, that as well,” Shaun offered smoothly.
He poked Shaun in the chest. “I’m guessing you want your client alive, right?”
“That is neither here nor there.” As Shaun continued to dig a huge hole, I sunk into the nearest chair. The bird incident, as I liked to call it, had been shit. The fact that I’d had to spend two hours in the ER under a concussion protocol had been cause for concern to the Dragons, and they’d let me know that in no uncertain terms the last thing they needed was their second most significant cap hit getting himself injured in the middle of the season. I’d managed to talk them down with Shaun at my side, told them it was probably just a punk-ass kid trying his luck, hip checking me into the wall. Shaun wanted to release photos, get the press involved—checking for an angle—and the team argued that there was no point in suggesting new ways for mega fans on other teams to harass the Dragons.
“I won’t intrude into your life,” Jason-the-bodyguard murmured.
I glanced at him, but when I caught his eyes, I couldn’t drag my gaze away. There was compassion in his expression and an understanding that this was an altogether shit situation.
“You will,” I muttered. I wanted everyone to stop talking about this attack, because talking about it made everything feel real.
A kid didn’t slam a hand over your mouth, or press his fingers to your throat, or tell you that maggots will eat you in the dirt.
There’d been grainy CCTV footage which was no help at all, and the other person, the one who’d shouted, described what he thought was a man, maybe six-feet, with a hoodie and jeans, although it was dark, and he couldn’t be sure. I’d rationalized that this kid who’d hurt me was just proving a point, although what I hadn’t told the cops, was that he’d connected himself to the dead bird in the box. I couldn’t forget him telling me about the maggots. Everything had blown over with me ignoring it all, and two weeks had passed before I even thought of the incident again.
“My job is to keep you safe—”
“I don’t need a bodyguard.” As fast as you could say Wayne Gretzky, my assessment of him as sexy was slowly being downgraded to life-destroying. What did he know about me that meant he thought I needed help? I’d never told anyone about the delivery of pungent orchids that stank my apartment out. Nor about the small card, with sympathy embossed at the top, which had my jersey number, twenty-three, drawn by hand and colored in as if a child had gotten hold of it. Not to mention the chilling words, sorry about your death.
The woman delivering them could only tell me that the order had been paid for in cash, and no, it wasn’t her who’d taken the order, and no, she had no idea who’d written the card. I’d received some weird stuff in my time, but this topped the list.
Just when I thought it was a good thing I hadn’t mentioned the flowers, after a practice that had left me feeling like a wet noodle, I’d come back to my beautiful car, the one I nurtured and loved, to find it scratched. Deeply, as if someone had taken the time to source a tool that would do the most damage. Only it wasn’t the scrapes that concerned the team. No, that would be the words that had been carved into the shining scarlet of my Mustang—Time to die. Tick tock.
I may have played at being an alpha male, hell, I may have been utterly focused on playing the game and being the hardest, fastest skater I could be, but even I’d had chills when I read the words.
It’s okay to be scared, and no one has to know I’m afraid.
Anger at the damage had turned to self-pity about how the only nice thing I had, the symbol of my success, had become a target. I’d no sooner got past that when the shit hit the fan as far as management was concerned. Late last night, after a loss to Boston at home, with people leaving the arena, that message had appeared on the Jumbotron. The vast screen hanging over the ice had been messed with and no-one knew how.