Going for the Goal

by Sara Rider

  “Since we’re already having an uncomfortable conversation, are you going to tell me how things went with that agent you were raving about today?”

  “Not well.”

  Ben swore under his breath. “What happened?”

  “She didn’t like me.”

  This time, his brother chuckled. “Did you even try to make her like you?”

  He shrugged. It had been a last-ditch effort, and as far as he was concerned, he could negotiate his own deals from now on.

  “Well, you had three agents drop by today looking for you, and another fifteen call.”

  “And they all see the same thing. Dollar signs. Before I fired Vince, he’d been making trade plans with Utah behind my back. Apparently they were going to put in a huge bid for me before the midseason trade deadline.”

  “It’s better than being without a team.”

  “No, it’s not.” Nine years ago, the Vipers had rescued him from being relegated to the minor leagues after the Warriors had decided he was more trouble than he was worth. In return, he’d given every ounce of his loyalty to them. He wouldn’t even recognize himself in anything but black and green—Vipers colors—at this point.

  He’d been with the team longer than any other player and had taken them to some incredible heights. The only thing the Vipers hadn’t achieved was winning the Stanley Cup, and he’d be damned if he left before that happened. They’d gotten so close last season, the memory still burned like acid in his brain. They had lost in game five to Detroit. The team recouped, picked up some good trades in the off-season, and held on to the momentum right through the first months of the new season. Until Liakos brought them to a screeching halt with his latest diva-style rampage.

  Nick needed an agent who understood that winning with the team he’d given his heart and soul to was more important than a seven-million-dollar-a-year contract.

  “I’m sorry. I know I should’ve pressed charges, but—”

  “No,” Nick said firmly. “I know why you didn’t and I’ll support whatever decision you make, as long as you don’t make it out of guilt. After a few weeks, the public will forget about the fight and I’ll find a new agent.”

  “You said Jillian Nichols was the only agent you trusted.”

  He’d been thinking about firing his agent for a while anyway. Vince had been with him since the beginning of his career when he was just a junior agent starting out. Since then, the man had built a veritable empire on Nick’s back, using him to meet and sign his teammates. Somewhere along the way, Vince had stopped caring about Nick’s needs. Stopped consulting him on smaller decisions altogether. He assumed that the answer was always to take the path of the largest amount of money. Just like every other agent trying to get Nick’s attention.

  When he had seen Jillian Nichols’s name in Sport Fitness Magazine’s profile of prominent female sports agents a month ago, he’d remembered her instantly. The girl from the stairwell who’d charmed him with her complicated strategizing and golden freckles. Almost a decade later, her conviction and passion burst from the inky-black print like a miniature fireworks display. Even though her client list was best described as a motley crew of quirky athletes without any big names in any of the major leagues, she’d managed some impressive feats. He’d always followed his gut and taken the unexpected path, and that path led him right to her office door this afternoon. That, and maybe a little curiosity about whatever became of Jillian Nichols. Not that he’d admit that part to Ben.

  He scrubbed his hand over his face. “She is. Unfortunately, the trust wasn’t mutual. I think I might have overestimated my appeal.”

  “Did you try being nice?”

  Nick gave him a side-eyed glare. “I’m always nice.”

  Ben chuckled again. It was a good sound, even if it came at Nick’s expense. “You’re a six-foot-three, two-hundred-and-twenty-pound man with a dark-and-broody thing going on. That means you have to try ten times harder to come across as nice. It’s unfair, but that’s okay. You can use your millions of dollars to dry your manly tears.”

  Nick gave his brother a playful shove. He was so accustomed to big-name agents clamoring to get his attention that it hadn’t even occurred to him that Jillian wouldn’t immediately jump at the opportunity to sign him. He’d reacted like a defensive jerk, taking out his frustrations on her. Coach had ridden his ass hard all week at practice and shortened his ice time in their last game, against New Jersey. Liakos hadn’t gotten any crap for his part in the fight.

  The state of Jillian’s office had also thrown him off. It was a dump. He knew she wasn’t a top-tier agent yet, but he hadn’t expected her to be working a one-woman operation out of a building that was one leaky pipe away from being condemned. At least he’d managed to avoid digging himself an even bigger hole by hitting on her. He might not have gauged her professional interest accurately, but he was damn certain there was still chemistry between them. The kind that ignited sparks every time they looked at each other.

  “How bad was it?”

  “She stabbed me in the leg with her paperweight.”

  “Wow,” Ben said, managing to sound even more amused. “Didn’t your junior prom end the same way?”

  “That was a nail file.”

  “Well, I guess we have an uphill battle ahead of us.”

  “I don’t think Jillian Nichols is the kind of woman who changes her mind.”

  “You can’t give up. How do you think I’m going to feel if your career is ruined because of me?”

  “I’ll give you some of my millions to console you.”

  Ben smacked him on the shoulder. “I’m serious.”

  “So am I.” The third period started and Nick jacked up the volume. The fact was, they both knew his career had already peaked and he was now looking at a downward trajectory. Jillian was right that his style of hockey was an endangered species in the NHL. Punching Liakos in the face had only accelerated his extinction.

  Ben snatched the remote out of his hand and hit the mute button. “If you don’t get a new agent soon, you’re going to be traded to a shitty expansion team in the middle of nowhere, where you’ll have no chance of ever winning the Cup. You’ve worked too hard to let that happen and I have no desire to spend my precious holidays for the next few years visiting you in some cultureless backwater town.”

  “Look, I’ll figure something out. Can you turn the volume back on now? I want to hear what the announcers are saying about Detroit’s new coach.”

  “I’d like it if you’d reconsider the agent who offered you a lifetime supply of Broadway musical tickets as incentive for signing with him. But even then, I’d be happier if you figure out how to make Jillian Nichols like you.”

  “And how am I supposed to do that?” It was probably a bad sign that he was more interested in getting Jillian to like him as a man than as a potential client, but it was hard not to think about the sweet girl with the razor-sharp mind he’d met almost a decade ago. The one who shivered from the slightest touch of his fingertips on her skin. Too bad she’d made it clear she wasn’t interested in picking up where they’d left off—personally or professionally.

  “Well, first apologize for being a jerk.”

  “It’s not like I said anything that wasn’t true.”

  “It’s not what you say. It’s how you say it. Right now she probably thinks you’re some big, brutish ogre. Which you are.”

  Nick raised an eyebrow. He could never be sure where his brother’s overly creative brain was heading.

  “You’ll never be able to convince her you’re Prince Charming. Instead, you have to convince her you’re Shrek.”

  “You want me to paint my face green?”

  Ben ignored his comment. “I want you to do something nice to show you really aren’t a jerk.”

  Nick sighed. “How do I do that?”

  “Yo
u can’t think of anything nice? Really?”

  “It doesn’t matter anymore.”

  Ben twisted his mouth, a look that always expressed his trepidation. It was funny how they looked so much alike, both having inherited their dark looks and blue eyes straight from their mother. Yet while Ben’s features vividly expressed his every emotion, Nick had been told more than once that no one could tell the difference between his scowl and his smile. “What are you saying?”

  He took advantage of his brother’s distraction to snatch the remote and turn up the volume. “I’m going to take care of things like I always do. If Jillian Nichols won’t represent me, I’m going to represent myself.”

  Seeing Nick Salinger again after all this time had thrown Jillian completely off her game. She’d found five typos in the contract she’d been working on tonight. Thinking about the ones she probably hadn’t caught made her skin crawl. He’d only been in her office for fifteen minutes, but somehow he’d managed to burrow into her head and distract her for hours afterward. It was only thanks to the extreme work ethic and discipline she’d cultivated over her career that she’d managed to complete everything on her urgent to-do list before her eyes started to glaze over.

  She needed to get him out of her head.

  She also needed an intern so she wouldn’t be stuck working well past midnight every night. Unfortunately, she hadn’t received a single application from any candidates this year. Again. No one wanted to work for free in a small, one-office shop that had no star athletes. Even though she could offer an intern much more direct experience than a big-name firm, where’d they’d be doing nothing but making photocopies and Starbucks runs, wannabe sports agents were drawn to the gloss of companies like Pantheon.

  Signing Brody Shakeman would change all that. Tonight, she was going to celebrate the fact that she’d just tweaked the last few clauses of his representation contract and sent it to him for his final signature. Shakeman was a handsome young snowboarder with dozens of brand names clamoring to endorse him. She’d played the long game with him, discovering his talent years before most other agents took extreme sports seriously, patiently supporting him, and waiting until he was truly ready to go pro before signing him. This contract represented more than just prestige. No one would think of her as a small-time agent after this.

  Too many people refused to take women seriously in this business, not least of all Lou Parsons, her former boss. He’d used every sneaky opportunity to discredit and bad-mouth her over the past nine years, ever since she’d quit working for Pantheon with a little too much flourish. Forwarding an email from Parsons referring to her as “a hot piece of ass” to the other VPs at the agency along with her resignation letter hadn’t been her smartest move, but at least she was able to live with her own conscience.

  Ironically, it hadn’t stopped Parsons from trying to get her to sell her company to the Pantheon empire the moment she’d had a modicum of success.

  That was something that would never happen. After failing her internship, she’d had to rebuild her career from scratch by earning her law degree and working with the athletes no one else would touch until she established herself. Nichols Sports Management might not be flourishing the way she’d thought it would at this point in her career, but she was proud of what she’d accomplished so far.

  As much as she wanted to toast her own achievements, she was too exhausted. Her closest friend, Genevieve, was spending the holidays in London to pursue some new opportunities for her fashion business. Hopefully they’d both have a reason for celebratory drinks when Genevieve was back in town, but tonight Jillian was going to relax.

  She tried to shake the thoughts of Salinger from her mind, but it turned out the image of him emblazoned in her brain was just as stubborn as the man himself. It wasn’t just his looks, though she had to admit his tall, dark, and rugged thing was exactly her type. She could feel his passion blazing when he spoke about winning the Cup. It was mesmerizing. Maybe she should’ve given him another chance . . .

  No. Tonight wasn’t the time for self-doubt or regret. She’d had to develop her career entirely on her own with nothing but her gut instinct to guide her. And tonight her gut was telling her to crack open a bottle of prosecco and celebrate the fact that she’d just acquired a kid on the verge of superstardom. Sure, he hadn’t actually signed yet, but the deal was as good as done. The hard part was over. By tomorrow, no one would be able to dismiss her legitimacy as a pro sports agent ever again.

  The first thing she did when she got home was draw a bath. Her one-bedroom condo was tiny, but it had a large living room window and an amazing claw-foot tub, which she almost never had the time to take advantage of.

  With the faucet set to maximum heat, she popped the cork and filled the lone champagne flute she could find in the back of her cupboard. The first sip was crisp, tangy, and delicious, but it’d taste even better once she was enveloped in lavender-scented bubbles. She set her glass on the floor along with her phone and stripped off her gray sheath and black tights, then stepped into the tub for a decadent soak.

  And shrieked the instant her foot sank into the water.

  It was ice-cold.

  “The hot water tank’s broken again,” Craig’s disembodied voice called out from the other side of the paper-thin wall. “Didn’t you see the signs?”

  “Must’ve missed them,” she called back to her neighbor, an older bachelor with a penchant for listening to classical music at four in the morning, as she scrambled out of the tub.

  “It’s gonna be at least a week before it’s fixed.”

  “Thanks, Craig.”

  “No problem.”

  “Just great,” she muttered to herself as the sound of Craig’s toilet flushing filled the room.

  She abandoned her glass in favor of drinking straight out of the damn bottle on the couch with a magazine. She refused to believe this was a sign from fate that she wasn’t supposed to celebrate the deal yet. Once Shakeman’s endorsements rolled in, she might earn enough to consider upgrading to a new place with functional plumbing.

  She didn’t even make it past the first article before her phone buzzed with a new text message. For a half second, she considered ignoring it, but it was futile. She’d never be able to relax. Just knowing there was an unanswered message languishing in her inbox made her heart race and her skin itch.

  It was from Jaime Chen, one of her first and favorite clients. Jaime was a pro soccer player with the Seattle Falcons, and had just had a banner season, winning the inaugural year of the American Women’s Soccer League and being featured on the cover of Sport Fitness Magazine’s coveted Bodies of Sport issue.

  Did you get yourself a ticket for the Sport Fitness Awards?

  Jillian inhaled slowly and contemplated the best way to respond. Telling the truth—that she’d already had to call in a disgusting number of favors to get Jaime on as a presenter at the televised ceremony—was out of the question. She settled for a casual cryptic response:

  Sorry, won’t be able to make it.

  Her phone rang almost as soon as she hit send.

  “Why are you answering a text message at one in the morning?”

  Jillian laughed. “You texted me first.”

  “I texted you because it was a non-urgent question, the kind you can ignore until the next morning. And it’s only ten p.m. on the West Coast. You’re supposed to be out living a glamorous New York life, or sleeping, or better yet, sleeping with someone. Not working.”

  “I’m always working.”

  “Well, stop. Have some fun for a change. No, wait, first wave your magic agent wand and get yourself a ticket to the awards show; then we can really have some fun.”

  Jillian’s chest tightened with regret. The Sport Fitness Awards was one of her favorite events, not to mention a great place to schmooze with industry execs. She needed to get her business some extra
publicity and wanted nothing more than to watch her client walk onto that stage like the superstar she deserved to be, but Jaime was using her spare ticket for her boyfriend. Getting another ticket would involve asking too many unpleasant favors—something Jillian did only for her clients, not for herself. “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “Good! It’d be tragic if you missed me delivering the Biggest Balls award.”

  “Jaime,” Jillian said in a terse voice, in an attempt to hide the fact that she was trying not to laugh. “That is not what the award is called.”

  “I know, I know. The Best Save in a Professional Sports League award. But I wouldn’t be me if I didn’t put my own spin on things.”

  “This is a live televised event that will be viewed by millions of people, including representatives from every major news outlet out there. If you don’t stick to the script they give you, I will duct-tape you to a chair and force you to listen to my rendition of the Canadian national anthem played on a referee’s whistle. Got it?”

  “Okay, okay. I’ll stick to the script . . . if it doesn’t suck.”

  “Jaime—”

  “Fine! I promise. As long as you promise to go shopping with me. I’m coming in a few days early in March to find the perfect dress for the event.”

  “That I can do.”

  “Awesome. And please try to get a ticket. You’re the whole reason I’m getting to do this. I don’t want you to miss it. You deserve to have some fun, too.”

  “I’ll do what I can,” she said with a sigh, mentally adding that item to her never-ending to-do list.

  “Good. Now get some sleep.”

  She already had another text from a different client by the time she hung up. It wasn’t a pressing issue, but she still took care of it and responded to a half dozen emails in her inbox. After that, she finally felt tired enough to head to bed. She climbed beneath her warm, down-filled duvet and tried to erase all the wayward thoughts from her mind so that sleep would come quickly.