Page 13 of Wild Blades

Read the mood in the room, Wade.

“Why are you doing this for me?” I asked, confused by the whole set up. I’m unworthy of their effort, time, and money. It must be costing the team a fortune to hire all of these professionals. Other than Gretchen, nobody has ever cared about me or my career before.

Leon jumps in to explain. “Wade, you’re out of control. You need saving from yourself before you really mess up. Fights on the ice, fights off the ice.” He points at his fingers as he reels off a list of my misdemeanors. “Arguments with your team, being rude to fans, coming late for press conferences, drinking, late nights, missing practice. If you agree to work with me, that all has to stop. Today.” He cuts his hands through the air in front of him. “I won’t put up with any of your shit. If you agree to my representation, I will not allow you to make a fool out of me, the team, and all of us around this table.” Leon pauses, and I know what he’s going to say. “This is your last chance. Or––” He draws an invisible line with his pointer finger across his neck as if he’s cutting his head off.

“I’ll transfer you to another team. Out of Canada. To an AHL team,” Marcus confirms my worst nightmare.

Holy shit, Leon is going to be my new agent, but fuck no, I will not be transferred to some bumfuck farm team in the AHL.

No fucking way.

“Okay,” I agree instantly.

“No more broken noses.” Leon waggles his finger at me, and I have to force myself not to laugh.

“Thanks, Leon.” I stand up to reach across the wide table and hold my hand out for him to shake it, which he does. “I want you to represent me,” I confirm.

“We are going to do great things together. All of us together will. Lola has the paperwork. You just have to read over the terms, which you will see are pretty sweet. Have a lawyer check them over too. Get back to me with any questions or amendments. Once signed, we can get the ball rolling because I have plans for you, Wade Collins.”

I can almost see the dark clouds above my head evaporating as he pulls my hand into his and pumps it up and down like an excitable hydraulic piston.

Whatever his terms are, I don’t care. I will sign the contract whatever his percentage fee is, although I’ve probably just shook his hand and sold my kidney as part of the deal.Fuck it, I only need one though, right?

“I don’t get into that many fights,” I lie through my teeth as I pull my hand away, and smile through my dishonesty, as I take my seat again.

“I disagree.” A clipped disembodied voice snaps my head in the direction it came from.

The black widow pushes her chair away from the table. Dressed all in black, she stands to her full height, lifts a folder off the table, and walks in my direction. She looks familiar, definitely looks like her… but how can it be? And she’s… getting closer… she has everyone’s attention… she sucks all the air from my chest… she’s… tall, really fucking tall… she’s right beside me, forcing my neck to curve back and look up at her… she’s…

CHAPTER FOUR

Wade

“Kali Roth?” I whisper her name.

“The one and only.” Her mouth pulls to the side slightly, as if amused.

“And Kali will be your new publicist,” Savanna informs me.

“But you’re a model.” I sound like a complete dork as I stare at one of the world’s top supermodels.

Myles had a poster of her on his bedroom wall when we were sixteen.

This is wild.

“Was,” she states matter-of-factly. “Iwasa model. I've owned a public relations agency for the last five years and fully retired from modeling a year ago. Your head’s clearly been up your ass. Although how could you know? Outside of hockey you do nothing in, around, or for the community, and you never attend charity events.”

I get the sense that’s all about to change.

She’s right. I read the sports pages and blogs only. I’m not one for gossip and showbiz news. Since my mother is never out of the damn things, I’m NFI: Not Fucking Interested.

Laying the folder she was carrying on top of the boardroom table, she gets straight to business, while all I can do is wonder how tall she is and why she changed career.

“So, this is not fighting?” she asks as I follow the curve of her long neck, along her elegant arms that are wrapped in expensive black silk, down to her fingertips that are perfectly manicured and painted in glossy red-ish black polish.

She flips open the folder and points to a headline she’s printed off. “And this one… not fighting?” Pointing to another, she flicks through newspaper stories in her homemade ‘Wade’s a fuckup’folder.

As if she poured a bucket of freezing water over me, she snaps me out of my moment of appreciating every inch of her. “So, not this one either.” I read the scathing headline, under which is a surveillance camera image of me grabbing someone by the collar and clearly screaming in their face.

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