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’m good at that stuff—otherwise, I would be tearing my hair out right now.
I mean, I guess it makes sense that a financial advisor would be pretty organized, right? It would be weird if I was really good at analyzing market performance and investment strategy and then not be able to figure out how to organize a few files.
When Harold told me I would have the opportunity to rebuild the business here in Vegas, I jumped on it in a heartbeat. Harold once had really good market share here among sports and entertainment professionals, but he’s got big clients in San Francisco now and he can’t get 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 stomach seeing the guy and Harold can’t stomach losing me from the team, so this is our compromise. See how that works?
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 is 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?
I push my glasses up and gaze out on the street below. It’s busy with 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 knucklebusters 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 making much better money.
“Sorry for the mess,” I say, looking around and realizing I don’t have a chair to offer him. 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?” he asks. “This place is like a little, tiny prison? You get promoted or put in prison?”
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 career and a career purgatory that serves 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 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,” he says. “Expect a few calls in the next week, for sure.”
“Yay! How’s Shai?”
“She’s good,” he says. “And the girls are good. They’re having their seventh birthday party in a month and they literally won’t stop talking about it.”
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 specific realities when it came to his long-term financial plans.
“So, I want to hear all about the party and see pictures afterward, but I have good news and I can’t wait to share it with you,” I say. We go over his financial statements and I show him a recent change-up I made to his investment portfolio, pointing at various line items as we go along. “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 sort of 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!” Imari exclaims. “I didn’t know portfolio advisors could be so nimble. What a great strategy.”
“Well,” I say, grinning, “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. 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 be 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 Imari a playful wink and he pushes his fist out for a fist-bump 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 that he’s like a foot taller than I am, and then heads out into the afternoon sun.
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 accounts I want to change up with other clients. 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 walking distance of the office. I like living in a busier area, 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 a frozen meal and 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 that is separated from the main living space by only a small buffet bar and two stools. I’ve got a chaise lounge, my favorite chenille blanket and two full bookcases. It works for me.
I eat and read and then read and read some more. I keep nodding off but I can’t stop and eventually I just fall asleep with LuLu and the open book on my chest, and my glasses still on my face.
Chapter 3: Don’t Drink the Water
Boris
“It’s so good to see you, dvoyurodnaya
sestra,” 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 haven’t ever had an American woman?”
“I am not a monk,” I answer before trying 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 these days, I hear.”
“That is true. Why didn’t you go back home for summer league?”
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 slight concussion at the end of the season and was advised not to play summer league. 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, she does not want them. 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 friend. I hope I never knock her up. I’d be a terrible role model.”
My friend 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 good 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 a lady here. They have a baby on the way, as well.”
“He is a bit of a shithead, isn’t he? She must be a saint, his wife.”
“Oh, they are not yet married,” Georg gossips. “He knocked her up before they could have the wedding. She says he passed out cold when she told him.”
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. “When have I ever been known to take random women to bed?”
“Oh yes, I forgot you’re boring as hell.”
“Meh.” I give a shrug. “So what if I am boring?”
“You’re a closet romantic,” Georg says. “There are so many fish in the sea. So many tasty, tasty fish.”
“Do you regret settling down?” I ask.
“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 suppose I 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 and he peers at the clock. “Speaking of which, I’m supposed to meet Pam for lunch in a little bit.”
Georg runs off toward the locker room, leaving me shaking my head in disbelief. It’s hard to believe that any woman could have had such an effect on Georg Kolochev. He was a wild man when we played together in Sochi. Drunken, sex-crazed, and wild. His wild life 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.
I stick around the gym to finish off with jump rope and box jumps before finally grabbing my bag and wandering out into the searing hot afternoon. I’m thankful my apartment is only a few blocks from the arena. It means I don’t really need a car, which is good since I sold mine when I got traded from Austin. I’ll have to get one eventually because the practice facility is twenty miles away out of downtown, but for now I can just Uber to practices.
My apartment here isn’t much. It’s just a one-bedroom place, smaller than my place in Austin, and nothing special. Despite my fat contract with the Crush, I’m just not doing as well financially as I could be. I mean, I haven’t gotten a paycheck on my new contract yet, so that’s part of it, but I had a decent deal in Austin and I’m not a high roller at all. My life is pretty simple and I don’t spend money frivolously. Much of my wealth is tied up in financial investments, not liquid, but as I look over my most recent financial statements, I’m feeling as if something just isn’t quite right.
The problem is that I’m not the greatest at deciphering numbers. The numbers on the page might as well be hieroglyphics, the way they jump around and blur on the page in front of me. My investment guy is in Russia. With a little pit of anxiety welling in my stomach, I look at the clock. They are eleven hours ahead, so it’s about midnight there. They are probably awake. Still, they have managed my money since I was much younger and I am still not doing well, so maybe it’s time to have an American advisor take a look.
I call Scott Rose and explain that I’m not the best at deciphering investments and strategy, and that my new contract is big enough that I am concerned about it not being invested well with my current portfolio manager.
“Do you know anyone who could take a look at things for me?” I ask.
“Actually, I know just the person to call,” he answers.
Chapter 4: No Nathaniel Here
Talia
“How’s the weather in Los Angeles today?” I ask my client by phone. And then again, since he’s elderly and hard of hearing. “I said, how’s the weather out there today?”
“Oh, just fine, just fine,” he says. “Praying for rain as usual. You? You’re where now?”
“Las Vegas. Harold moved me out to build the sports business out here.”
“Sports, shorts,” Mr. Riddle says. “Live fast, die young when it comes to longevity. Making money in sports is no good long-term strategy. You know what’s been a good long-term strategy for me?”
“If I had to guess, I’d say you did pretty well in utilities and energy.”
“Utilities and energy,” he says, as if I didn’t just say that exact thing.
“Right, you’ve done very well there, that’s for sure. Hey, Mr. Riddle, do you like the package I drew up for t
his next wave of investments?”
The little bell on my office door rings as it opens. I’m not expecting anyone so I don’t look up right away, figuring it’s just a delivery person. However, when I do look up, I’m slightly taken aback. Enough so that I forget what I was about to say to Mr. Riddle, who is still babbling about utilities and energy. I manage a, “Can I call you back, Mr. Riddle?” and he agrees, so I hang up and try to remember if I got that lunch lettuce out of my teeth from earlier.
The man in front of me? Hulking. Huge. And not terrible on the eyes. He’s got short, dark hair and a sexy five-o’clock shadow. He’s in jeans and a T-shirt—a T-shirt that’s clearly well-loved as it clings to his muscular frame, filling out the bicep region quite nicely. A big, colorful tattoo snakes down one arm. I am not going to lie—I find this very, very attractive. Yes I do. Which is very bad, because I promised myself I would not think sexy thoughts about clients ever again after what happened in San Francisco.
He bites his bottom lip like he’s nervous or shy or something and I realize I’ve been ogling him like some very unprofessional creep for like a minute now. Not a good start.
“Hi,” I say, clearing my throat. “Sorry. I wasn’t expecting anyone today.”
“Should I come back?”
Oh good lord, he’s got a super sexy accent. Okay, take a deep breath and get your shit together, Talia. He’s probably here to deliver something.
“No,” I say,” managing to get out of my chair. “How can I help you?”
“Scott Rose said Harold said to come here.”
“Oh! Oh, okay,” I say, scrambling around the desk to move the box that once-again occupies my lone guest chair. After I put the box on the floor, I gesture that the guy should sit. He looks at the chair, then at me, as if he’s not sure he’s in the right place. Honestly, I get that a lot with new clients. I look too young and they think I can’t possibly be the person who will help them with their sizable fortunes, especially if they’ve already met Harold, who is the quintessential slick financial guy.
Red Rocket: A Hockey Love Story Page 21
