If there’s one thing she’s right about, it’s that I need to get back on track. A midseason trade to Philadelphia should be a wake-up call. Instead, it’s making me want a drink.
Coach
“Excuse me, miss.” The flight attendant snaps her fingers at me.
I ignore her for the third time and continue to scroll on my iPad, not completely shocked but definitely appalled by the ESPN newsfeed on my screen.
She taps her heel hard on the floor, but I don’t bother to look over.
Irritated, she clears her throat and speaks with an angry tone, “The captain announced that we were making our descent five minutes ago. You need to turn off all electronic devices, move your seat back into the upright position, and stow your bag in the overhead compartment or under the seat in front of you.”
“Fine,” I huff, blowing a chunk of my long caramel hair away from my face, “keep your bra on. I’m turning it off now.”
The junior agent sitting in the first-class seat next to me chuckles. He tries to cover it with a cough that turns into choking.
I hand Chuck the bottle of water from the cup holder, and he chugs it down, some of it spilling from the corner of his mouth and down his cheek.
“Thanks, Coach,” he croaks, his eyes filled with tears, as he crushes the plastic in his hand.
Then, he looks up at the flight attendant, whose lips part expectantly when he winks. His mouth pulls into a crooked smile as he waits for her to take the bottle from his hand. A blush spreads to her cheeks when she takes the bottle, and then she makes her way toward the front of the plane.
In the short time we’ve known each other, I’ve learned that all Chuck has to do is wink or smile at women, and they will do as he commands. It’s as if they can smell the money on him. I see it all the time with the professional athletes I represent. That part of my job gets old, but it will always remain the same.
The woman returns a few seconds later with a glass of water that Chuck takes from her. They eye-fuck each other while he sips his drink.
I can’t wait to get off this damn airplane. After five hours of breathing recycled air, the stench of so many bodies crammed together in such a small space is starting to make my nostrils burn.
We started off with a crying baby for the first hour, followed by the old man behind us who wouldn’t stop farting in his sleep, and now, I’m stuck watching these two mentally grope each other. Not to mention, I’ll be walking into a shitstorm when I get to the office. Alex Parker—my boss, Mickey’s, favorite client, all-around pain in the ass, and one of the best NHL defensemen—had to go and screw up my day even further.
“We’ll be landing in ten minutes,” the stewardess mumbles to Chuck. She hands him a piece of paper, whispers something in his ear, and then sets off to take her seat.
“Barf,” I say to my skanky companion, keeping in my mind the waitress and front desk manager at our hotel that he banged in Los Angeles. “You’re such a whore.”
He leans over, his bulky frame invading my personal space, and he plants his elbow down on the armrest between us. “It’s better to be the player than the one getting played.”
I snicker. “Sounds like you’re just afraid of getting hurt. I get it. Always the player…”
He’s fresh out of college, still mentally living in a fraternity house, but he has the build and jawline of someone in his late twenties, which seems to help him with the older ladies. The flight attendant has to be at least five years older than me, so she must be in her early thirties, give or take a few years.
If you like the preppy, self-entitled rich kids who wear polo shirts, khakis, and freaking cardigans around their necks, then Chuck is your man. I’m more into the ruggedly handsome, rough-around-the-edges type. Break me off a piece of Tom Hardy or Charlie Hunnam, and now, we’re talking.
But it’s not like I have any time for a personal life, not even a booty call. My sex life downright sucks. I spend most of my time around athletes who have overinflated egos they want to boost by having their way with a young and determined agent like myself. And, since I don’t date clients—the one rule I strictly enforce—the pickings are slim.
“So,” Chuck says, moving back to his side of the row, “what are we going to do about Alex Parker?”
I fold my arms across my chest and look out the window as the stadiums off Broad Street come into focus. Philadelphia is so close, I can practically taste my next cheesesteak. “We’re not going to do anything.”
“Mickey expects us to do some damage control,” he challenges, his voice stern.
I turn my head so that we are facing. “That’s where you’re wrong. You will not be speaking with anyone about Alex, not even to him, understand?”
Confusion scrolls across his face. I don’t elaborate, shutting down the conversation with a look that says, Don’t start with me. Then, I return my gaze to the tarmac as we touch down at Philadelphia International Airport.
My boss forced me to take Chuck to Los Angeles with me to meet with the general manager for the Dodgers, for what he was hoping would be a “training exercise” for Chuck. It was more of a hassle than it was worth.
The dude doesn’t know shit about baseball, and he made a fool of DMG with his silly questions. When the GM used the word tater—a slang term for a home run—Chuck thought that he was talking about tater tots. Um…no, he wasn’t talking about a damn potato.
Then, to make matters worse, he opened his stupid mouth during our tour of Dodger Stadium and asked about a player who, one, never played for their team, and two, didn’t even play the position he asked about. Then, he followed up the awkward silence by asking him what kind of grass they used on the field. That was the most embarrassing business meeting I’d had in the past four years of working for Mickey.
I’m a lone wolf. And I sure as hell don’t need a man at my side to close a deal. Hiring Chuck was a favor for one of Mickey’s fraternity brothers from Princeton. Apparently, Daddy needed a job for Little Chucky.
Because what does a twenty-two-year-old who barely graduated from college do with himself when he’s not interested in working for his father? Chuck thought Jerry Maguire was an awesome movie and decided that becoming a sports agent was what he wanted to be when he grew up.
Lucky me!
Mickey insists I train new agents to see how much they’ll crack under pressure. Mickey used to be a no-nonsense, bend-you-until-you-break kind of person, but he hasn’t been the same since the loss of his best friend, John, who was also Alex Parker’s father.
As one of the leading sports agents in the country, there’s not a player I can’t handle or a deal I can’t close. But, because of my success, my boss turns to me instead of other agents at the firm, and he’s been working me harder than a hooker on Hollywood Boulevard—except I get my rocks off when I sign another player, turning a high school nobody into the next Kobe Bryant.
Once we’re informed the doors are open and we can leave this floating death trap, I reach for my messenger bag tucked under the seat in front of me and accidentally kick it with my foot. I sigh in frustration as the contents spill onto the floor. With me diving to collect them and Chuck bending down to help me, our foreheads collide, adding to the massive migraine I already have from Alex Parker.
Chuck hands me a whistle on a chain that also has a silver charm that has Coach—my nickname since college hoops—inscribed into the metal. “What do you use this for, drill sergeant?” He gives me a cocky smirk.
“If you must know”—I take the whistle from his hand, annoyed that I have the need to explain myself—“I coach a youth basketball team over at the rec center near my house.”
He chuckles and slaps me on the shoulder like we’re old pals. “I would’ve thought you ate kids for breakfast.”
“Ha! How do you know I don’t have Hansel locked in a cage to fatten him up before I eat him?”
Chuck makes a gagging sound. “You’re insane.”
I shrug. “Maybe, but I’m
trying to make a point. If you make stupid remarks, you will get equally stupid responses.”
Using both hands, I scoop my wallet, tampons, and miscellaneous items back into my bag and sling it over my shoulder. Then, I stand and nudge him to move into the aisle, so we can get off this mother-Chuck-ing plane.
He falls forward, giving me a tiny hint of satisfaction. He reaches for something to hold on to and ends up clamping down on the breast of a middle-aged woman. She should look mortified. Instead, she seems intrigued. Embarrassed, Chuck opens his mouth in horror, and he mutters a quick apology before he stomps down the aisle toward the exit.
After we have pulled into the parking garage in Center City Philadelphia and are riding the elevator up to our office located at 15th and Market Streets, Chuck finally looks in my direction, after avoiding me the entire ride. We have an incredible view of Philadelphia City Hall, one of the tallest masonry buildings in the world and quite possibly one of my favorites.
On days when I can spare an hour for lunch, I grab a coffee and doughnut from Dunkin’ Donuts, and then I sit on a bench along the west side of City Hall at Dilworth Park. It’s relaxing, a place I frequent as much as possible, though I haven’t had much time lately.
When the elevator doors open, Chuck mumbles, “This can’t be good.” His eyes are wide with surprise when he sees a receptionist running down the hallway that leads to Mickey’s office.
The phones are ringing, one after another, as the secretary pool and junior agents scramble to answer. Despite being one of the top sports agencies in the United States, DMG is never this busy, and I highly doubt all of this has anything to do with Alex Parker’s trade to Philadelphia.
I shake my head. “No, this is definitely not good.”
I charge past the reception desk, and for the first time in years, Linda doesn’t look up from her computer to greet me. Her blonde locks cover her face as she pounds on the keyboard in front of her, speaking so fast that I can barely understand a word. A group of agents is crowded around her desk, some of them spilling into the hallway that leads straight to Mickey’s office.
Glued to each of their faces are cell phones while papers pass between them. A senior agent is standing outside of his doorway, adjacent to Mickey’s, typing fast and furious on his cell phone and biting down on his lower lip.
With Chuck in tow, I march straight into Mickey’s office where I find more agents and secretarial staff perched on couches and seated at his conference table. A few are by the wall of windows that overlook City Hall.
Mickey has his palms pressed down hard onto his desk, the color fading from his knuckles, as he yells into his Bluetooth headset. Pulled into ten different directions, his dark hair is a mess. Without noticing me, he steps out from behind his desk to hand a notepad to an agent.
Mickey has a slightly crazy look about him, but he’s not completely disheveled in his thousand-dollar navy suit and dark brown wingtips. Although that’s not entirely true because his blue-and-white-striped tie is hanging loose around his neck while the buttons of his vest are open, exposing a white oxford with a coffee stain on it. He’s a hot mess.
The last time I saw him looking this bad was when we—
No! We must have lost a client. Judging by the current state of Donoghue Media Group, it’s a big one.
Using my hips, I give a few agents a gentle shove and move through the throng. I wave my hand in front of Mickey. He glances up from his desk, taking a break from whomever he’s been laying into, to acknowledge my presence.
“Charlie,” he says, relieved. “Finally! Why didn’t you answer any of my calls?” He sounds angry.
Confused, I fish my phone from my purse and see that it’s dead. No wonder our car ride from the airport was so quiet. I hold it up to show him, and he grunts in frustration.
Then, he peels the headset from his head and hands it to a tall man behind him, whom I think works in the television department. “Deal with this.”
Instead of demanding everyone to leave, something he does often, he cups my shoulder with a strong hand and leads me out the door. He doesn’t speak a word until we get to the end of the hallway.
“I don’t know how this happened.” He shakes his head, a dejected look on his face, as he walks, staring down at the white marble floor. “Everything was going so well. He’s been with me since he was in high school. I’m the one who found him at that little hole-in-the-wall gymnasium in Alabama, not Kevin fucking Tomlinson. I knew he’d be a star…”
We step into a conference room that has a huge flat screen television, an overhead projector, speakers, and all the state-of-the-art technology we use for big presentations. The room boasts a massive mahogany table with DMG emblazoned into the wood and a row of never-ending chairs that could seat an army.
I shut the door behind us and take a seat at the head of the table. “Mick, what is going on? Spit it out.”
He sits next to me and folds his hands on his lap, afraid to make eye contact for a few seconds. With a loud sigh, he glances up at me, and his hazel eyes are red-rimmed and glassy. “I need you to fly to Chicago to talk to Dante Fisher. He called about an hour ago to tell me that he decided to go with Kevin Tomlinson and those jerk-offs over at ASG. After all the strings I’ve pulled for him, this is how he repays me? Hell, I’ve even had him at my house for Christmas dinner. That kid is like family to me.”
Mickey has a habit of taking people in and treating them like he’s their father, especially his clients. I know that firsthand. He’s acquired the name Mick the Dick because of the tenacity he uses to fight for his clients.
My stomach knots at the thought of going back to Chicago. Mickey knows how much I avoid going there because of my past. But we cannot lose Dante Fisher, the highest-paid player in the NBA. Mickey scored him a contract so big, Mickey could live off the commission for the next few decades and never have to lift a finger.
He rolls his chair closer to me and clamps his hand down on mine, pinning it to the table. “Dante likes you. You were a baller. He relates to you more than me. You’re not just a suit to him. Maybe you can help change his mind. He hasn’t signed the papers with ASG yet.”
Most people would assume Mickey was insinuating that I should have sex with our client, except he would never suggest such a thing. Maybe if it were another agent, but he would never do that to me. Over the years, we’ve developed a strong foundation. Our relationship is more like father and daughter than owner and senior agent.
“When do you need me to leave?”
He pulls back the left sleeve of his jacket and inspects his watch. “Two hours from now. Veronica already booked your flight. I was hoping to catch you while you were still at the airport.”
“I’m not taking Chuck with me. That’s my only stipulation.”
He nods. “That bad, huh?”
I laugh. “The worst. Just find him a desk and give him the crossword puzzle from The Philadelphia Inquirer. All he does is chase anything in a skirt and make stupid comments.”
He cracks a tiny smile, but the sadness in his eyes is still present. Despite his nickname, he actually cares about his clients and will do anything to help them. Underneath the tough-guy exterior he presents to the world, Mickey is a good man and honest to a fault. I learned everything I know from him, and it has served me well.
I’ve never seen him this upset. Well…except for maybe after Alex Parker’s father passed away from cancer. They had been best friends since childhood, which led to Mickey eventually signing his son. DMG closed its doors for a week after John’s funeral this past summer, the only time Mickey ever shut down and turned off his phone. Unlike Alex, John was a good man and probably one of the most inspirational coaches I’d ever met. Knowing him through Mickey was a real pleasure, and his death was hard on all of us.
Nothing has been the same with Mickey since. It’s as if he lost his edge, relying on me more than he used to, in turn making my life much more complicated. I have zero personal life outside the spo
rts world. Even my morning news comes from ESPN and Bleacher Report. Years ago, Mickey would’ve gone to Chicago himself and made a complete spectacle to keep a client. Now, I’m the closer for DMG.
Most of Mickey’s clients have no idea how much I do for them, including Alex, the world’s biggest pain in my ass. I haven’t even met him, a fact that seems strange, considering everything Mickey and John have done for me over the years.
The only time I’ve seen a fire lit under Mickey’s ass in the past six months was when he had to negotiate a deal for Alex. Except I was the one who closed that deal, not Mickey. One of my clients plays hockey for the Flyers, and it didn’t take much to get him on board with the idea and to help me convince their management.
I lean across the table and tap a few buttons on the conference phone. Veronica, Mickey’s assistant, answers on the first ring, and I interrupt her standard greeting, “V, it’s Coach. I need a car to take me to the airport, and if someone can grab me a hoagie from the deli down the street for the ride over, that would be great. I’m starving.”
“No problem. I’ll have your car pulled around with food waiting in twenty.” She hangs up without another word, probably scrambling to call in an order and have the garage attendant Mickey has on his payroll pick up my sandwich on his way here.
Mickey stands, and I follow suit.
“Thanks. I can always count on you, Charlie.”
“I’ll make sure Dante remembers who made him the star player he is today.”
He opens the door and holds it for me. “You never let me down.”
I hide my nerves with a forced grin. I’m not sure how I’m going to convince Dante to stay with us. I owe everything I have to Mickey. Failure is not an option. From one baller to another, maybe I can reach Dante in a different way.
I moved to Pennsylvania from Chicago after I graduated high school with a full basketball scholarship to Villanova University, only to luck out and score a job while I was in college, which is the reason I stayed. It’s not like I had anything to go back to in Chicago, not when I was raised in the foster care system.
Parker (Face-Off Series Book 1) Page 2
