Mackenzie
The smug look on my cousin’s face made me want to punch him right in the mouth. And if it wasn’t for the fact that he was one of my favorite people in the world—and the fact that we were in the middle of a business meeting—I might have done just that.
Instead, I turned to look at my boss.
“This isn’t fair,” I said, trying to not sound whiny but at the same time desperate to change his mind. “I’ve just worked my ass off the last eight months dealing with Ethan Valentine and saving the egotistical ass from losing his job.”
Ethan Valentine, a.k.a. Mr. Congeniality, was a star quarterback for the Napa Lightning NFL team.
And like I said, he was one egotistical ass.
He was also my client.
Right now, Ethan Valentine was drying out in a super-expensive rehabilitation facility in a New Mexico desert following a rather lascivious evening with two hookers, a bottle of Jack, and a pirate’s bounty of cocaine. It had landed him in jail. And added to his already stellar attempts at getting himself the worst reputation in the NFL, the League was ready to suspend him for bad behavior. It had been a nightmarish eight months for me.
I was also currently representing Daisy Jones—pop princess extraordinaire—and every teenage boy’s dream. On the outside, she was the All-American sweetheart. Honey blonde with bright blue eyes and dimples. She showed just enough skin to be tantalizing but kept enough covered to be appropriate. Well, in the media anyway. The stark reality of it was that Daisy Jones was a raving cocaine fiend with a penchant for taking her clothes off in nightclubs when she was dancing and high on drugs. Which, coincidentally, was most nights ending in ‘y’.
She was also gay. Which was a very well-kept secret.
I was all for her coming out. In fact, I encouraged it. But her manager and her strict Mormon parents were mortified at the idea and firmly put me back in my place—which was handling her endorsement deals and business ventures—not her life. It was hard to sit back and watch her spiral out of control because she was made to feel ashamed about who she really was, and forced to keep her true identity under wraps. Her manager, a yes-man called John Johnston, was a leading starmaker in the entertainment industry and even though he had made many superstars he was strictly old-school and didn’t think a controversial sex life would do Daisy’s image any good. He did my head in. And so did her lunatic father who had once forced her to turn down a multi-million dollar endorsement deal because he didn’t like that the business owner had once dated a porn star.
But despite the frustrations of dealing with two very big personalities, it had done nothing to diminish my love for the job. I was ready to sink my teeth into a new project and I knew exactly what I wanted that project to be . . .
. . . Purgatory.
Currently, the world’s number one MMA fighter and every sports agents dream. Rough, rugged and as fierce as wildfire, he was a massive star on the rise. He was also the latest entity to join the long list of prestigious clients at Eden, Fox & Coulter Management—one of the most successful and influential talent management agencies in the world…and my employer.
Hank Eden manned the helm. He had long since bought out the Fox and the Coulter of the business and now ran the successful agency with an absolute concrete fist. He was a remarkable spin-doctor. Fierce negotiator. And tough businessman.
He was also my father.
But that wasn’t how I got the job.
Nepotism meant nothing to my father. He didn’t care if you were family, a friend, fat, skinny, short, tall—you got hired on your smarts, your ability to think on your feet and how far you were prepared to go to keep your client happy and bring the money in.
His agency represented some big names. Rock stars. TV stars. Movie stars. Sports stars. Hell, one of his most lucrative contracts was with a porn star. He didn’t care what you did. If he saw the potential to make some serious coin from you, he would make you his project and earn you—and him—some big money.
His agency was a boutique agency. Each agent had no more than five clients. This was to ensure that every client got the TLC they felt they needed. It was a personalized approach, and it worked.
It’s what made him one of the most sought-after agents in the world. It was also why the biggest MMA fighter in the world, Purgatory, had just signed with him.
And after eight months of dealing with Ethan Valentine and his massive ego, and Daisy Jones’s unpredictable behavior, I deserved Purgatory.
The only problem…my father clearly didn’t agree and had just signed them over to Garrick, my charismatic cousin and best friend.
I frowned at Garrick, who shot me a smug look in return. So just like any professional agent would do, I flipped him the bird.
Garrick was the son of my father’s flighty sister, Arielle. She was a wannabe actress who had dumped Garrick on the doorstep of our New Orleans home when he was just four and I was five, assuring my parents that it would only be for a few weeks. That was nineteen years ago and she had never come back to collect him. Apparently she was somewhere in Las Vegas, or so the family grapevine suggested.
As a result, Garrick and I had grown up like brother and sister and were very close. He was my confidant. My best friend. My sounding board. He was also my biggest rival.
“Okay, let’s talk about Jake Pennington,” my father said, obviously keen to move things along.
This wasn’t a formal meeting, so I was surprised that he was bringing up another client. He had called us in for a meeting about Purgatory. Or so I thought.
“Who is Jake Pennington?” I sat back in my chair, still a little pissed at Garrick and my father.
“The hockey player,” Garrick replied. “You know, the one they call the Saskatoon Sasquatch because he is such a mountain of a man?”
My blank look told him I didn’t have a clue. I didn’t know hockey. Hell, I was from Louisiana. I grew up in New Orleans and went to college in Arizona. I didn’t see snow until I moved to New York seven months ago.
“He was considered one of the best players in the league up until a few months back.” My father slid the client file across his desk toward me. “When he accidentally killed his best friend with his skate.”
My eyes shot from the file to my father. “He what?”
“He accidentally cut his best friend’s throat with the blade of his skate,” Garrick explained.
“That’s terrible,” I gasped.
I looked at the two pictures in the file and the contrast was startling.
The first picture was of a big, confident hockey player with beautiful, sparkling eyes, a dimpled chin and a bright, cocky smile. Wow. I could see why they called him Sasquatch. He was a mountain of muscle, like nothing would get past him on the ice. According to his file he was six-foot-seven. He was also devastatingly handsome. And if I was really honest, I was kind of mesmerized by those magnetic eyes peering back at me from the picture.
The second picture was of a man who looked like the weight of the world rested on his shoulders. While he was still broad, his buzz cut was now a dark mess while his beautiful face was lost behind a beard. He looked like he hadn’t slept in days and the sparkle had gone from his eyes. He looked haunted.
My heart unexpectedly squeezed with anguish for him.
“So what are you planning to do with him?” I asked.
“Nothing. He’s being released from his contract.”
I lifted my eyes and they rounded on my father.
“Released from . . . you’re dumping him?” I couldn’t keep the dismay out of my tone. “After everything he’s been through?”
“He’s not interested in upholding his end of the contract. He’s requested the termination. He’s done,” my father said dismissively.
“He spends more time at the bottom of a bourbon bottle than anywhere else,” Garrick added. “It was only a matter of time. His family was killed in a plane crash two years ago and a year ago he killed his best friend. He’s in a bad head space.”
“No shit. Who wouldn’t be?” I couldn’t keep the disgust from my voice as I looked from my cousin to my father, and then back at my cousin again. “So, let me get this straight . . . this guy loses his entire family in a plane crash, then accidentally kills his best friend a year later and now you’re going to dump him. Are you freaking kidding me? What is wrong with you two?”
Dad fixed me with his wise eyes. “It’s business.”
“It’s bullshit, is what it is.” I shook my head and dropped my gaze to the beautiful eyes looking back at me from the photo.
“I’ve already organized the legal team to do up the paperwork,” my father explained and I couldn’t help the look of disapproval I gave him through my furrowed brow. It was a classic Eden move that I had clearly inherited from him.
I looked back to the second photograph. There was something about him that seemed . . . kindred.
I shook it off and quickly flicked through the file. Like I said, I didn’t know anything about hockey, but even I could see that this guy had been good.
No. He had been great.
When I looked back up, my father and Garrick were staring at me.
“I’ll take him on,” I said without thinking. “For the remainder of his contract.”
My father and Garrick just stared at me.
“I mean it. I will take him on. Give me a chance.”
“That’s ten weeks,” my father reminded me.
“Ten weeks?” I thought about it for a moment and then nodded. “I’ve got this.”
Garrick looked doubtful. His bright blue eyes sparkled across at me with amusement. “You will never pull it off.”
I hated being told that. Especially when I had something to prove. So I glared at him. “Just watch me.”
“You’re not NHL certified,” my father said.
Player agents needed to be NHL certified and to do so meant applying to the National Hockey League and completing an agent certification program. It was the same thing with the NFL, and I was NFL certified. I didn’t think getting my NHL certification was going to be a problem.
“You’re certified,” I reminded him. “I will fly under your flag until I complete the program. I can do that while I am getting to know Jake.”
“Good luck with that,” Garrick said. “He’s a recluse. Doesn’t let anyone in. Not even his friends. Spends most of his time holed-up at his fishing cabin in Canada. Believe me, Mack, we’ve spent the last nine months trying to bring him back to life. He’s not interested.”
I knew I should let it go. Jake wasn’t my problem. And after an exhausting eight months putting up with the egotistical brat otherwise known as Ethan Valentine, why would I willingly put myself through the drama of another exhausting athlete with a chip on their shoulder?
Because he is broken . . . just like you.
I glanced at the photograph of the bearded hockey player. “It’s amazing what you can do when someone else believes in you,” I whispered.
“Care to make it interesting?” Garrick asked.
My eyes shot to his. He had my attention. Ever since we were kids, we had been highly competitive toward one another.
“Absolutely. What were you thinking?”
“You get Jake back on the ice and in the Stanley Cup playoffs and with your father’s permission you can have the Purgatory contract.”
My cousin stared at me for a while, his arms folded across his chest as I considered the bet.
“And if I don’t?” I asked finally.
Garrick grinned wickedly. “You get Jake on a team and in the playoffs, or I get Charlie.”
My eyes went as round as saucers. Across the desk, a small hiss escaped my father’s poker face.
I shook my head. “No way!”
No.
Fucking.
Way.
Charlie was my prized 1969 Dodge Challenger. I had found her abandoned in an old Baton Rouge shed and then lovingly restored her (okay, so I had paid a mechanic to lovingly restore her). Currently, she resided on our family property in Louisiana. I loved her. Unfortunately, so did Garrick.
“C’mon, cousin. You were so confident a moment ago. What are you afraid of? You chicken?” He sing-songed.
I stood up. “I am not giving up Charlie!”
“You wont have to.” His eyes turned dark as they found mine and his expression was smug. “If you get Jake back in form.”
I looked away from Garrick to the picture of Jake still in my hand. He looked like life had handed him a big fuck you.
“Fine. It’s a deal.”
Garrick clapped his hands together with glee while my father shook his head.
“The odds are against you, kid,” he said. “The Ice Cats fired him and I don’t know if another team will be willing to take a chance on him. We’re already into the regular season. Trades have happened. Teams are solid. You’ll be lucky to find anyone willing to take him on this late in the game.”
“I’ll work it out,” I said with more confidence than I had.
“It’s not going to be easy,” my father added.
I straightened my back, determined to show him how confident I was—even if it was a big fat lie.
“Good.” I said, grabbing my handbag off the back of the chair. “It will make me work harder.”
Then, winking at them both, I strutted out of the office.
* * *
As a sports agent, you had to wear a lot of hats. PR genius. Psychiatrist. Babysitter. Pimp.
Tonight I was Mackenzie Eden, stalker.
Through various connections (a.k.a. my father), I knew Jake was in New York wrapping up some business dealings. He still had his apartment in Greenwich Village, and there was talk around the city that he was in town to put it up for sale. Further talk put him at the same bar, Squire Tucks, every night while he was in town. Apparently drowning in a bottle of bourbon.
Hearing this, I decided Squire Tucks was exactly where our meeting would take place.
After leaving my father and cousin in the exclusive office complex on the Upper West Side, I took a taxi to Gansevoort Street and slipped into the dark bar unnoticed.
Jake Pennington was already sitting at the bar. Alone. He didn’t look up when I walked in and when I stood next to him at the bar and ordered a red wine he didn’t even bother looking up from his phone. I gave him a quick sideways glance. Nothing. He was too busy flicking through pictures between sips of bourbon to notice me.
To continue my stalking undetected, I slid into one of the booths toward the back of the dimly lit bar, which gave me the perfect vantage point to observe Jake while I worked out my game plan.
As train wrecks went, Jake Pennington pretty much had it nailed. Slumped against the bar, he looked nothing like the finely tuned athlete he used to be. Nothing like the one the media and fans nicknamed Sasquatch. Sure, he was tall, with a broad back and thick arms, and his shoulders were still big and round. But he looked like he’d been run over repeatedly, and then some. His beard was scruffy along his jaw. His signature buzz cut hair was gone and now he wore it too long and messy. Not that you could see it under the Yankees cap glued to his head.
Drawing in a deep breath I slipped out of the booth and sat down on the bar stool next to him. Up close, he was . . . well, he was beautiful. His eyes were magnetic. Piercing. But they simply glanced at me as I sat next to him and then turned away from me, uninterested.
I didn’t take his lack of interest personally. I wasn’t prone to caring about people’s opinion of me, or if guys found me attractive. Especially guys drowning their sorrows in too much liquor in a seedy bar, somewhere between Chelsea and the Village.
I loosened my hair and did a quick check of my reflection in the mirror behind the bar. When I tapped Jake on the shoulder he turned back to me and I saw a flash of irritation in his eyes. Undeterred, I simply smiled and asked, “How about I buy you a drink?”
* * *