by Raine Miller
Too late, though, as Max asks, “Are you unhappy with this trade, Boris?”
I shake my head rapidly. “No, not at all.”
“Your contract was satisfactory, I assume? I mean, you signed it,” he says. “I assumed this acquisition was a good one for us and for you. The numbers we put up were quite generous.”
“No, I apologize,” I say quickly. “Everything is in order on all fronts. I think I’m just a bit jet-lagged from the early morning flight.”
“Ah, good.” The handsome, well-dressed, silver-haired owner claps his hands once. “This is a tremendous acquisition for our team. We want to make sure you come in with good feelings. Get off on the right foot.”
“Both feet are here in Las Vegas and I feel good,” I assure him. “I just want to play hockey, sir.”
2: A Total Rebuild
TALIA
I have about fourteen boxes of paperwork to fit into three drawers of a file cabinet. It’s actually surprising how much business my boss, Harold Shaw, managed here in Vegas, even from his home base in San Francisco. He sent me here with the historical files, even for clients we no longer manage. Now I have this monumental logistics issue to figure out.
Maybe someday I’ll convince him we need another person here, just an administrative assistant to help digitize the files, answer the phones, manage the calendars. Good thing I can do all of that too—otherwise, I’d be tearing my hair out right now.
I mean, I guess it makes sense that a financial advisor would be somewhat organized, right? It would be weird if I was really good at analyzing market performance and investment strategy but unable to figure out how to organize a few files.
When Harold offered me the opportunity to rebuild Baseline Investments here in Vegas, I jumped on it in a heartbeat. He once had a respectable market share here among the sports and entertainment professionals, but he has many high-profile clients in San Francisco now and he can’t get down here as often. Some of his clients have moved to other markets and are handled by other members of the team. He realized this was an untapped market, ready for someone hungry to come in and build it back up.
I mean, I know it was a favor, too. This opportunity spared me the need to dig a hole and jump inside. He’s been supportive and discreet, but it’s never a good thing when your boss realizes you’ve been sleeping with a client. A very rich, very married, very important client.
I can’t stomach seeing the guy and Harold can’t stomach losing me from the team, so this is our compromise.
This office is a box. It’s probably ten feet wide by seventeen feet long with one window to the outside world and a tiny, attached bathroom. It’s nothing special, and I know it’s temporary, only until I can get enough clientele booked to justify a better space, but still. It’s kind of a hole. Well, I guess I did jump in a hole after all, now, didn’t I?
A hole you dug for yourself…one shovelful at a time.
I push my glasses up and gaze out at the street below. It’s busy with what I presume is a wide mix of tourists and locals. My office is not quite on the Strip, thankfully, but it’s close enough, and there is a row of restaurants just outside my office doors. I found an apartment within a safe walking distance, though I bought pepper spray and a set of knuckledusters that both hang on my key ring just in case.
My first client of the day comes wandering in as I’m staring outside. The sound of the bells on the door make me jump to attention. I smooth my skirt and toss my long hair behind my shoulders as I reach out to shake his hand.
“Imari,” I say, “good to see you again.”
“Thought I might not see you again after I moved here. Good news for me, you got traded, too.”
I grin. Imari is tall and lean, a forward who played for Golden State until he broke his leg. He started coaching for the Dons in San Francisco and came to us for money management advice. Namely, he wasn’t making as much as an offensive coach as he’d been making as a pro player, and he needed to figure out how to better protect what he had. Now he’s head coach at UNLV and feeling much more comfortable with his salary.
“Sorry for the mess.” I look around and realize I don’t have a chair to offer him, so I move two boxes to the floor to open up one of the guest chairs before heading around to my office chair to pull out his files.
“Why no assistant? This place is like a little, tiny prison. You get promoted or put in prison, Talia?”
I laugh. Probably too loud because I’m socially awkward like that. And, he kind of hit the nail on the head. It’s both a chance to build my client list and serve a good strong dose of career-purgatory as punishment for doing something very, very stupid.
“Maybe both?” I answer, cringe-smiling. Ever done that? Smile and cringe at the same time? It mostly looks like you’re passing gas. Not pretty. I school my face to what I hope is neutral and add, “Harold wants me to get a few new clients before he’ll spring for extra help. A few more than that and I may be able to get new digs. So please go out and say nice things about me to people who need an awesome financial advisor. Baby wants a new office chair.”
“I’ve already done that, girl. Expect a few calls in the next week, for sure.”
“Yay. You’re the best.” I offer a fistbump which he reciprocates. “Speaking of…how’s your better half?”
“Shai’s good,” he says. “And the girls are growing up fast. They’re having their seventh birthday party in a month and they literally won’t stop talking about it. You should come if you’re into that sort of thing.”
Imari has twin girls with his wife Shai. They are such a nice family; I just adore them. Which is why I spend an awful lot of time analyzing and adjusting his portfolio. He got a bum, random deal when it came to that injury. He was expecting to be able to play for at least ten more years and losing that time meant he had to face some unexpected realities when it came to his long-term financial plans.
“Seven-year-old birthday parties are my jam, so you can count me in. I’m reserving my own personal jumping session in the bouncy castle right now, so tell Shai.”
“On it.” He laughs at my ridiculousness and taps something into his phone. “Done.”
“Well then, I’ll be on the lookout for my invitation. You’ll be pleased to hear I have good news that I can’t wait to share with you…” I veer us back on track to the purpose of this visit.
As we go over his financial statements, I show him a recent change-up I made to his investment portfolio, pointing out various line items of note. “The market is super volatile right now, so I wanted to make sure that the bulk of your money was as bulletproof as possible. So, I moved these assets over here, but then put a chunk that was languishing in mediocre-town and threw it into these hot stocks. I watched and when they went high, I sold and then reinvested in a medium-risk mix. The value was instantly higher and should now have medium growth, with little chance of getting hit hard by market unpredictability.”
“Wow, Talia, you’re a genius. I didn’t know portfolio advisors could be so nimble. What a great strategy.”
“Well, I aim to please. And remember, I had you sign off so I could have that level of flexibility in decision-making. Other advisors could do it, but it would mean monitoring accounts individually on a day-to-day basis and most don’t want to do that much work.”
“What do people pay them for, then?”
I shrug. “The investment process is pretty complicated, and it does take an expert to make discerning choices at the right moment. Most good advisors can get great results without this level of service. I just like to play with the puzzle pieces when I can, when I’m feeling confident of a sure bet. Maybe there will come a day when I can’t do this level of hyper-focus on accounts, but for now, I have the time and interest. Especially for my favorite clients.” I give him a playful wink.
He presents his knuckles for a second fistbump as we finish up his review. Once we’re done, I walk him to the door. He gives me a side-hug, made awkward by the fact tha
t he’s like a foot taller than I am, before heading out into the afternoon sun. And I smile. Looks like I’ll have at least two friends in Las Vegas, after all.
I don’t have other client appointments today, so I hunker down in front of my computer to watch how the markets finish, then make some notes on a few clients’ accounts I want to change up. Before I know it, it’s past nine and my stomach reminds me I’ve missed dinner. Again.
After locking up, I make the short walk to my apartment. I was lucky to find something affordable, with a doorman and security system, right within actual walking distance of the office. I like living among the hustle and bustle of the high-traffic area just off the Strip. It makes me feel like I’m part of something and feeling part of something is enough for me, since I’m an introvert by nature.
Inside my small studio apartment, I hear the tinkle of my cat’s little collar bell as she runs toward me, welcoming me home.
“Good evening, Miss LuLu,” I say, picking her up. She rubs against my face and purrs before squirming away and running toward the kitchen area. “I’m sorry I’m late. You must be starving.”
I get LuLu fed, then heat up another culinary delight from my freezer (chicken enchiladas suizas) and make a cup of tea before settling on my blue velvet chaise with a book. My apartment is exactly two and a half rooms—the studio living space, a bathroom, and a tiny kitchenette space separated from the main living area by a small buffet bar and two stools. I’ve got a chaise lounge, one of my handmade chenille blankets (hand knit by moi), and two full bookcases. It works for me.
I start reading the John le Carré thriller my dad gave me for Christmas in between bites of enchilada, the heavy hardback tome awkward to manage with LuLu and my dinner plate in my lap. But I have some serious experience doing the cat/book juggle—which becomes a lot easier once the dinner is eaten—and settle in to read some more. I keep nodding off, but I don’t stop to force myself into my bed or anything sensible like that.
No, I just keep on reading…or attempting to.
Eventually I fall asleep on the chaise…with LuLu and my open book on my chest…with my glasses still on my face.
Again.
At least my life’s predictable.
3: Something in the Water
Boris
“It’s so good to see you, moya kuzina,” Georg says as he spots me on the bench press. “And good to see that your summer of leisure didn’t diminish your gym routine.”
I laugh at this and shake my head before grabbing the weighted bar and pressing it to my chest, working through ten reps before setting it back on the rack. “I know. I look good. You look as scrawny as ever, though,” I joke back.
Georg flexes his bicep and says, “Scrawny? No, lean and fit and sexy, so says my woman.”
“I’m sure she loves being called that,” I say, still laughing. “American women love being treated as if they are items to be owned, I hear.”
“You hear? You mean you haven’t had an American woman?”
“I am not a monk, Georg, as you are well aware.” And it’s time to change the subject. “Why is the gym so empty today?”
“Some summer commitments are not yet finished. Russian league just finished. Pam and I got back three days ago but some stay for time with family,” Georg says as I pull another set. “Practice starts in one week. They will wait until the last minute to return.”
“It was like that in Austin, though many came back a few days early to party.”
Georg grins and wiggles his eyebrows. “Partying happens all season long here.”
“Not for you anymore, I hear.”
“That is true. Why didn’t you go back home for summer league?” he asks.
I finish my last set on the bench and sit up. Georg adjusts the weight so he can do his sets. I rib him for switching to a lighter weight and he says he’s sure he can lift heavier but why bother when there is no one important around to see it?
Shaking my head, I answer his question about summer. “I had a mild concussion at the end of the season and was advised not to play summer league. I pause momentarily, curious why Georg didn’t know about my injury. Too busy with his American woman is my guess. “So, I stayed in Austin and ran an ice hockey camp for kids instead.”
“You ran a camp?”
“Yes. I really enjoyed it.”
“Ick. Kids. Who would want to be around kids all day every day like that?”
“You don’t like children?”
“They’re okay at a distance I suppose.”
“What about your woman? Doesn’t she want to have kids?”
“Now who’s being sexist?” Georg asks, laughing. “No, not anytime soon. She says I’m barely an adult myself and she doesn’t need anyone else to take care of in her life right now.”
“Ouch.”
“It is the cold truth, my brother. I hope I never knock her up. I’d be a terrible role model.”
My cousin is so jovial about this whole conversation that I feel certain this is not a bone of contention between Georg and his wife, Pam. It’s great that he found someone who is a good fit.
“You know,” Georg says in between his sets. “You should be careful here. I think there is something in the water. Evan met his wife here and they have a couple of kids. I met Pam here. And now even that govnyuk, Viktor, found someone to fall in love with him here. They have a baby on the way, as well.”
“She must be a saint, his wife.”
“Oh, they are not yet married,” Georg gossips. “He knocked her up before they could plan the wedding. Scarlett says he passed out cold when she told him. She also works for the Crush in the PR department, doing social media mostly so you’ll meet her soon. Pam and Scarlett are close, so we hang out as couples sometimes, but Viktor is still very much the Mad Russian fucker we all love to hate on the ice. Now that we are all on the same team, he is much more tolerable thanks to his little family, if you know what I mean.”
I can’t help but smile at the thought of big Viktor Demoskev fainting when he found out he was to be a father. It even elicits a slight chuckle as we switch to the cable machine for leg lifts. Georg grabs his water jug—yes, a giant jug of water, not just a normal-sized bottle—and holds it up before taking a chug. “I only bring my own water from home, now. Taking no chances on this baby-making issue.”
“I would not mind being a father,” I say as I adjust the Velcro ankle strap and check the weights. “If I found the right woman, that is.”
“Well, there are plenty of women in this town willing to plead their case to a successful athlete.”
I make a noise of distaste. “I am not interested in women like that.”
“No?”
“You know me,” I say, rolling my eyes. “Random women who just want to score an NHL player for the night will never appeal to me.”
“Oh yes, I forgot you’re a serial dater and boring as hell.”
“Meh.” I give a shrug. “So what if I’m boring?” He’s not wrong. I am a serial dater. One woman at a time, even though I’ve been single for more than a year. I’ve had a few relationships over the years that were casual, but I’m finished with the one-night hookups that used to tempt me. Lately those have been few and far between. The jersey chasers were always just so terribly fake—and still are for that matter. Whenever I do take a woman to bed, I like to pick someone who doesn’t follow hockey, who won’t come looking for me later. I’ve been careful and kept my personal life private over the years. What happens behind my bedroom door is nobody’s business. Playing the “I’m a boring guy” card has worked pretty well for me keeping my private life running smoothly under the radar. And that’s just the way I like it.
“I think you might be a closet romantic,” Georg says shaking his head at me. “There are so many fish in the sea. So many tasty, tasty fish for a single guy who looks like you.”
“Do you regret settling down?” I divert the topic back to him once again.
“No, not at all. Pam
is perfect for me. I think I knew it the first night we met.”
“Now who is the romantic?”
“For her, I totally am.”
“Well, then you understand what I am looking for. I don’t need many women. I need the right woman. I just need one. And I will find her eventually. I can be patient.”
“Finding the right woman can be life-changing,” Georg admits. We finish up our workouts as he peers up at the clock. “Speaking of which, I’m supposed to meet Pam for lunch soon.”
Georg leaves me shaking my head in disbelief as he takes off for the showers. It’s hard to believe that any woman could have had such an effect on Georg Kolochev. He was truly wild when we were together in Sochi for the Olympics. Drunken, sex-crazed, and one-hundred percent wild. His wild lifestyle mirrored his wild style of play on the ice. I was certain he would burn out early, yet here he is, thriving, married, and sober. Or maybe, he was sober, married, and thriving.
I stick around the gym to finish off with jump rope and box jumps before finally grabbing a quick shower and my bag to wander out into the searing hot Vegas afternoon. I will have to get used to the desert heat of living here full time. I’m thankful my apartment is only a few blocks from the practice arena so I can walk there in just minutes. The arena on the Strip where we play our games is about two miles from where I’ll be living so I can just order an Uber to games if I don’t want to do the longer walk in the heat wearing a suit. Which honestly doesn’t sound too great.
But it does mean I don’t need a car immediately, which is good since I sold mine when I got the trade from Austin. I had to have a car there, because everything was spaced out far and wide in the Texas landscape. The Comets arena and the practice facility were many miles apart. Neither were in the downtown area of Austin where I lived, but here in Vegas, everything is quite close, so I can manage on foot at least for now. I’ll probably have to get a car eventually when I find a more permanent place to settle. Scott told me that most of the players own homes in Summerlin, a town about fifteen miles outside of Vegas, where the environment is that of a regular family community, totally opposite of the hopping night-life Las Vegas is famous for. I’ll have to check that area out whenever I’m ready to look for a permanent home to buy. It’s going to have to be somewhere much quieter than the Las Vegas Strip, that’s for damn sure.