Parker (Face-Off Series Book 1)

by Jillian Quinn

  My first three years at Villanova, I was on the fast track to a professional basketball career with the WNBA until I tore my ACL, destroying any chance I had of going pro. That was also how I became a sports agent. Mickey discovered me while he was attending a home game to see another player on the team. We hit it off the first time we met and became close over time. After my injury, he offered to pay my tuition if I agreed to work for him, with the caveat that I first graduate from college.

  I was a poor kid with no family and no money. And I had zero options. A job offer from Mickey Donoghue was like winning the lottery. Most people would kill to work for him. For the last four years, he’s taken me under his wing, given me a job, and helped me become the ruthless agent I am today.

  With Mickey at my side, I walk out of the conference room and down the hall to my office.

  Instead of following me inside, he lingers at the entryway. “One more thing. I leased your vacant apartment to Alex Parker.” My jaw just about hits the floor as he continues, “Alex is too damn irresponsible to make any adult decisions, and I need you to keep an eye on him. I’m going to work out of the New York office for about a month or two. I’m in the middle of closing a few deals there, and I want to stay local. Do you think you can hold down the fort and deal with Alex for me?”

  The last person I want living in my apartment is a man-whore like Alex. A flash of anger rushes through me, a brush of fire burning my skin, at the thought of him bringing skanks into my building. Of all the things for Mickey to request, it has to be this, the one thing I would never agree to if it were anyone else.

  But I would never say no to him, not when he’s having one of the worst days of his life and can use a little help. He feels responsible for Alex now that his father is gone. Turning down Mickey is impossible.

  I feign a smile and then turn to gather documents and memos from the metal organizer on my desk. “Of course. Just have Veronica give him a call to set up a time for them to meet for the keys.”

  Disappointment registers on his face. I swear, he’s aged another ten years in the past week, making him look far older than fifty-five. “I was hoping you would personally handle this for me. I’m not sure what kind of shape he’s in, and I’d rather keep this matter within the family.”

  A slight pang of guilt hits me in the stomach, like a sucker punch to the face. He stressed the word family, as if we were all related. But I know that Alex and I are all he has left, and in some ways, I guess that makes us some weird-ass sports family.

  I walk toward the door, papers in hand. “When I get to Chicago, I’ll give him a call to arrange everything.”

  He pats me on the back. “Excellent. Now, go get us our client back.”

  Alex

  I’m packing my entire life into a Bauer hockey equipment bag, which is somewhat pathetic. Everything I own literally fits inside. But I don’t have to think too long about it because my soon-to-be former roommate and teammate walks into my bedroom with two Heinekens.

  Perfect timing.

  Tony sits down next to me on the bed, an iPad tucked under his arm, and hands me a bottle that I gladly accept.

  What’s one more beer?

  One usually turns into ten more—though my preferred method of inebriation is hard liquor or anything strong enough to make Bacardi 151 look like children’s cough syrup. My teammates have hidden my vices for me well over the past few months, but now, I’ll have to start over with a new team and a new set of personalities. Not everyone will be so tolerant. It takes time to build that kind of camaraderie. Based on my previous encounters with the Flyers, they don’t have the same cohesion on their team that I had with the Caps. I’m not looking forward to the change.

  “What’s up? Are we having movie time?” I laugh and motion toward the iPad.

  “I guess you could say that.” He slides his finger across the screen, and the YouTube app is already open.

  I take a swig as I wait for him to show me what I can only imagine is another embarrassing video. This shit never ends. Anymore, it’s like I’m a walking punch line.

  As if my nightmare of moving to Philadelphia on one-day notice isn’t bad enough, Tony flips through viral videos of me with loads of girls—what the news channels call the Puck of Shame. There’s even a banner with the same name across the top of some of the videos.

  I thought Rebecca was exaggerating to get more money from me. Students have posted full-length videos of me on the Internet, exposing how much of a mess I truly am. What a fucking disaster. I’m even naked in some of them.

  Apparently, it did not take long for the news outlets to scoop them up, blur out my junk, and plaster my face on everyone’s screens. Like the elevator-sex tape with my former team owner’s granddaughter wasn’t bad enough for my already shattered image.

  Tony sucks in a deep breath and lets it out. If this were anyone else, he probably would be laughing about it. Instead, he’s sad—most likely not just for me, but also for our team and the progress we’ve made over the past few years.

  I zip the bag closed and throw it on the floor to make more room on the bed. No matter how many times I run the scenarios through my head, I still can’t find anyone to blame but myself.

  Staring down at the black duffel, Tony shakes his head once and then looks up at me, disappointed. “I can’t believe you’re leaving, man. It still doesn’t feel real.” He takes a sip of his beer and then pinches his index finger and thumb together, holding them up. “We were this close to the Cup last year. It’s not going to be the same without you.”

  I hate good-byes. This is the worst part of signing with another team. In my professional career, I’ve played for two teams. The Flyers will make number three. Anytime things are going smoothly, I somehow manage to do something to screw it up. That’s always been my MO.

  I pat him on the shoulder. “We’ll still see each other.”

  He scratches his dark beard that’s grown much fuller in the last few months and laughs. “Yeah, we’ll see you all right—when we’re kicking your ass up and down the ice.”

  I smirk at the cocky bastard. He’s been like this since we first met.

  “Right, well, you don’t have to be a dick about it.”

  After he chugs down the rest of his beer, he hops off the bed, surveying the room. “You don’t have much to move, but do you need help with anything?”

  “Nah. Thanks for the offer. I could use another beer though. Since this is my last night in DC, we need to make the most of it.”

  He’s standing in the doorway, holding on to the wall, his head almost touching the frame. Tony was one of my linemates and left winger and a real beast on the ice. Even at six foot four and two hundred twenty pounds, I seem small in comparison to him.

  My bedroom is beyond sad. Even Tony looks around, as if he feels sorry for me. The walls are white with nothing but a few half-naked chick posters on them. Considering my salary, I live in a shoebox—a very unkempt one filled with empty liquor and beer bottles as decorations.

  Anything of any value, I left at my father’s house in Boston. All the trophies and awards I won over the years are still in my father’s study, a meticulous shrine he built to display all my hockey accomplishments. He was so proud that he insisted everyone who stopped by the house had the tour. If only he’d lived long enough to see me hold the Stanley Cup. That was the goal. Now, that dream is no longer a reality.

  My agent is right about everything he said this morning. I need to get back on track and stop messing around. But it’s so much easier said than done. Dad would’ve known what to do. Anytime he saw me slipping—whether it was with booze, girls, or my game—he always knew the right thing to say to motivate me. He wasn’t just my hockey coach; he was my life coach, and I need him now more than ever.

  As my cell phone rings, Tony mumbles that he’s going to grab us a few more beers, and then he disappears into the hallway. I do not recognize the number on the caller ID, but I do know the 215 area code. Philadelphia
.

  I press the button to answer, and before I can even say hello, a woman on the other end of the line says, “Parker, this is Coach. Mickey wanted me to call personally, so here you go. You’ve got me for all of two minutes and thirteen seconds.”

  It takes me a minute to remember the name before I realize it’s Mickey’s girl, Charlotte Coachman. Her voice is so stern and confident, yet she’s exactly what I expected from what I’d heard about her from Mickey and some of her clients. She has made a name for herself in the sports world, and she’s one of the few women who didn’t sleep her way into that position, which is rare in this business.

  “Hello to you, too, sweetheart.”

  At first, she chuckles, but then her laughter slowly turns into a cackle. “Call me that again, Parker, and watch what happens. Let’s get something straight. I’m not one of your puck bunnies. I have a name. That name is Coach or Charlie, but it sure as hell isn’t sweetheart. You got that?”

  This chick is crazy and feisty, and I kind of like it.

  “One minute and thirty seconds.” She sounds like she’s chewing glass, the words harsh and painful on the tip of her tongue. “In the interest of saving ourselves the headache, I’ve arranged for my secretary to meet you at the apartment building. Please don’t look at her, smile in her direction, or flirt with her because I’m sick of replacing secretaries. I did you a solid with the Philly deal, so I’d appreciate you doing the same and keeping your hands to yourself.”

  She went from intriguing to working my last nerve in a matter of seconds.

  “Give me some credit at least. You make me out to be a total creep.”

  “That’s not entirely off base, Parker. You seem to have a problem with keeping your pants on—or is it finding them?”

  I can hear her covering the phone and chuckling to herself before she returns to being a mega bitch.

  Damn those stupid YouTube videos.

  “Forty-seven seconds.”

  What is her problem?

  She’s so uptight, she might snap in half.

  “Like I was saying, Kayla will meet you at the building with the keys. If you need food, clothes, whatever, just let her know, and she will have it delivered. I put my ass on the line for you. Please make sure you’re at practice on time.”

  “Sure thing, boss lady. Anything else?”

  She sighs loudly into the receiver. “No. My cab is here, and I have to hang up. Mickey said you had the address and Kayla’s contact info. Just call her when you arrive. That’s all.”

  I’m about to speak when I realize she already hung up on me and without even saying good-bye. I guess she sucks with them as much as I do.

  Every second of our phone call replays in my mind as I try to wrap my head around what the hell just happened. It’s not hard to see why Charlotte is Mickey’s favorite agent and close friend. She’s the female version of him.

  Coach

  There’s a few seconds’ delay from the time a player looks for an open man and passes the ball until that person takes the shot. That exchange between two players has to work like a well-oiled machine, never stopping to pause and think about the action. Even the slightest hesitation leads to missed shots and turnovers.

  I never pause. I never break stride. No matter what, I shoot to score and play to win.

  “Defense! Defense!” I hold my hands above my head, yelling at my team. “Hands up, Rico!”

  Packed with screaming parents and kids from the middle school, the gymnasium is at max capacity and starting to smell like gym socks and hot dogs.

  Mmm…hot dogs sound good right about now.

  My mouth waters when I realize it’s been twelve hours since my last meal. I worked through lunch, only stopping for a protein bar and coffee in the airport on my way home from Chicago.

  The buzzer sounds, and my boys come running over to the bench, out of breath but still full of energy.

  “Okay, guys,” I say, looking up at the time on the scoreboard before returning my gaze to the team. “We have five minutes to turn this game around. You can do this. We’re only down by ten points—”

  Tommy, the one boy on my team who complains about everything, interrupts my planned pep talk, “Coach, we can’t beat the Warriors. They crush us every time we play them, and I can’t guard my player. He’s too good.” He constantly doubts his abilities.

  “Tommy,” I say with a loud sigh, “‘you have to expect things of yourself before you can do them.’ Do you remember who said that?”

  “Michael Jordan,” Rico calls out with enthusiasm, a big smile on his face, as he tugs at his basketball jersey. He purposely selected number twenty-three, the same number our idol wore while playing in the NBA.

  “Right,” I say, proud of Rico.

  He’s the one kid on the Gladiators with natural athleticism and the talent to go along with it. His mother is a nurse and works a lot, and I often help Rosario out when her babysitter bails, leaving poor Rico unattended. He’s like the son I always wanted—if I had time for a family or even a date.

  “All right, boys,” I say, bending down to their eye-level, “listen up! We have the rest of the game clock to make up ten points. You can do this.

  “Rico, keep those hands up on D, and defend the basket.”

  “Tommy, you’re not guarding a player tonight; you’re guarding the zone. Remember that. Keep your feet wide and your stance low. Don’t dive for your opponent. If someone enters your zone with the ball, what are you going to do?”

  “Block the shot, and defend the net,” Tommy says with a smile.

  “What did we come here to do tonight?” I say, putting my hand in the center of the circle.

  The boys layer their hands on top of mine. They get excited every time we have a team huddle, and I love seeing the happy grins on their faces.

  “Win!” we all say in unison.

  “What are we gonna do right now?”

  I can see them glowing as the buzzer sounds, alerting us that the time-out is over.

  We all shout, “Win!”

  Moving my hand up and down, along with theirs, I say, “One, two, three, Gladiators!”

  The boys mimic my words and then run onto the court.

  I love coaching the Gladiators in my spare time. It’s one of my favorite things in the world and even more rewarding than signing another professional athlete. Maybe, one day, I will be lucky enough to sign a kid like Rico. But a good sports agent doesn’t worry about closing one deal. By signing a player, I am committing myself to their entire career and future.

  But, despite my advice, we lose the game by five points. Our ball-handling on offense was horrific, leading to several turnovers. I make a mental note to go over different drills during our next practice.

  I tell the boys that they must have expectations of themselves before they can set goals. Although no one gives better basketball advice than Michael Jordan, I’m also responsible for teaching them the skills they need to build that confidence.

  With enough work, losses eventually lead to wins, and wins lead to championships. It’s all a part of the game. Pro athletes aren’t born great; they are made into great players.

  After I speak with some of the kids and their parents, I exit the gymnasium with Rico at my side, dribbling a basketball through the parking lot. Rico and his mother live down the hall from me. I volunteer to bring him home from the game when Rosario can’t make it, which happens more often than she would like. She’s a good mother, always inviting me over for a home-cooked traditional Puerto Rican meal. I love her cooking. Growing up in foster care, I had no idea what a real home-cooked meal was until I met Rosario.

  As we make our way through South Philadelphia and to our apartment building that faces the Camden Waterfront, the city is congested. Cars are whipping past us in a feverish pace, horns beeping and people screaming out their windows. This is typical for Philly traffic, something I have grown accustomed to over the last four years of living in the city.

  On o
ur way home, I stop at a fast-food restaurant. Rico and I eat burgers and fries out of the bag as I drive, chatting about the game and what our team can do to improve their chances next week. He’s a good kid, always offering to help out his teammates.

  Once we’re parked beneath our building and on the elevator, I click the button for the twenty-fifth floor. I set our gym bags on the floor as the doors close, and I lean back against the mirrored wall. We are the only people in the car.

  I close my eyes for a second, desperate for a nap, before Rico says, “Coach, look!”

  I open my eyes to see Rico spinning the basketball on the tip of his index finger.

  “Show-off,” I say with a grin, remembering the day I taught him that move.

  He dropped the ball in my apartment as soon as it made its first rotation and broke a crystal vase I’d received from a client’s wife last Christmas. We stopped playing basketball in my apartment after that.

  As the elevator doors open, I grab our bags from the floor and sling them over my shoulder. Rico runs into the hallway and crosses the ball in front of himself, the rubber slamming hard against the tiled floor.

  “Hold up, kid! Don’t go running down the hallway, or Mrs. Prendergast is going to come out with her cane again.”

  “Mrs. Prendergast is just jealous of my mad skills,” he says, laughing. “Think fast, Coach.”

  Rico passes the ball to me, and I catch it with my right palm and bring it down to the floor. I dribble with one hand, our gym bags weighing down my shoulders, and I drop them on the floor, so I can get a better stance.

  “Remember what I taught you,” I say to Rico.

  He nods. He widens his feet and lowers his body as he waits for me to attack.

  “The trick is reading your opponent. You want them to think you’re going to their left,” I say, moving the ball from my left to my right hand, “but you only want them to think that.”

  Rico smiles as I move forward, handling the ball like I’m passing a piece of fine china between my legs. Back in my days as a shooting guard at Villanova, I was unstoppable. I had grown up with nothing, orphaned by my parents at thirteen. Basketball had kept me from falling apart. It was my love of sports and team activities that had made me feel whole, as if I were part of a family.