Page 15 of At First Smile
“Do you have runners in your luggage?”
“Runners?” My forehead scrunches.
“Sneakers.”
“Yeah. Why?”
Mischief radiates off him. “I thought we could go on an adventure.”
CHAPTER FOUR
Claimed
Rowan
“Get your shit together, or you’ll no longer wear gold and black,” Greg grumbles. His pursed lips and puckered forehead fill the laptop screen.
“What Greg is saying”—a smiling Sasha leans in, her expression soft in contrast to her husband’s hard one— “now is the opportunity for us to rebrand you from hockey’s bad boy to its nice guy. I’m working with some reporters to capture images of your volunteer work at the shelter and?—”
“No.” My protest is gruffer than I intend, but the warmth in Sasha’s onyx eyes doesn’t falter.
In five years, Sasha Ortiz Lawson, Greg’s go-to publicist and wife, always meets my borderline curt responses with patience. Despite the sweetness, she might be more formidable than her bulldog husband. With a bat of her long dark lashes and flash of that radiant smile, she disarms anyone’s bluster, including her husband.
“Watch the tone with my wife, Iverson. You’re not so big that I can’t kick your ass,” Greg growls.
I wouldn’t put it past him to do just that. No doubt I’d get a swift punch to my gut from the former college football player-turned-agent. At twenty-one, NFL scouts salivated at the prospect of All-American Greg Lawson wearing their team’s jersey. A bad tackle during a conference title game resulted in a spinal cord injury that stole Greg’s prospect to play in the NFL but not his love of the game and sports in general. Instead of the NFL, he went to law school. After graduation, he joined the third best sports management firm in the country as a junior agent.
Despite his reputation as a relentless linebacker, he was an untried agent. Blinded by his wheelchair and tragic story, few athletes signed with Greg. Enter me. At twenty-two, some agents worried I waited too long to go pro, opting to complete my degree at university before entering the NHL draft. I wasn’t the sexiest of players. I wasn’t drafted until the sixth round. But Greg believes in me, and I believe in him.
There’s a strange kinship between us. We started our careers together. Our relationship is reminiscent of teammates in the locker room – no punches pulled and a lot of colorful language.
“Sorry, Sasha,” I offer with an apologetic grin.
Flashing a huge smile, she waves me off. “No apology needed. You have boundaries and I can respect that.”
“I know what you want to do, but I don’t want my volunteer work exploited. That’s separate from hockey Rowan. They’ve put trust in me and I won’t take advantage of that.”
Annoyance lines Greg’s face. “If the journalists that dubbed you Rowdy Rowan knew you spend your free time working with shelter dogs and kids in foster care, they’d call you ‘Really Nice Guy Rowan’ or some shit like that.”
Sasha places a manicured hand on her husband’s bicep. “Valiant attempt, but let’s focus on your strengths, and I’ll worry about the branding.”
“Doesn’t matter if the stubborn ass won’t let us use it.”
“Remember”—she squeezes his arm— “we promise our players that they give all to the game, but not all of themselves for it.”
It’s almost the unofficial motto of Greg’s agency. It’s why I stayed with him when he opened his own shop five years ago. So many players lives are consumed by the factory-like assembly line of the sports world. They become less athlete and more product. Greg expects us to give our all on the field, court, track, or rink that is our stage but never to give ourselves to the game. There’s a difference between the sport and sports’ industry. One is playing the game and the other simply a game.
The clear line between me on the ice and me in real life has never been an issue. I’ve always been okay with the reputation I have. I’m aggressive. I’m relentless. I’m focused. But that reputation now chafes against my skin since the disappointed stares from my coach, my brothers, and my mam.
How will Pen see me?
I slump in the chair, snapping my eyes to the clock. I’m meeting Pen in the lobby in ten minutes. I’d promised her an adventure. As soon as the clerk at the check-in counter winked at Pen trying to play matchmaker for her Ed Sheeran-lite nephew, jealousy surged in me. Like a child calling dibs, I wanted to claim Pen for my own. Even though she’s not someone to possess. It didn’t stop me from asking her out.
God, I’m like Pisser.
Something akin to the nerves I’d had as a sweaty-palmed-teenager going on a first date flips in my stomach. It’s not a date. Not technically, but there is an insistent pulse inside me that it could be. That this may be the start of many more adventures.
Women aren’t an unknown concept. I’ve not spent the seventeen years since my first date at fifteen living like a monk. There’s been women. A lot of women. Mostly one-night stands, mutual agreements for repeated good times, and that regretful relationship with Emma Sinclaire. I’ve not been someone pining away for “the one.”
