Page 43 of At First Smile
I scoop up the little human and swing him in a big hug. “Damon.”
The seven-year-old is the perfect blend of his parents. His black curls are all his mother but his hazel eyes, with the mischievous glint that’s almost always present, are one hundred percent his father.
“He’snotyour uncle,” Greg drawls, appearing in the large foyer. “He’s my bonehead client.”
“Bonehead?” I arch an eyebrow.
He gestures at his son. “Little ears.”
“Mom told dad that if he doesn’t stop saying bad words, she’s going to invite grandma to stay with us for the summer,” Damon whispers.
“Which grandma?” I whisper back, enjoying the annoyed expression on Greg’s face.
“Grandma Lawson.” The kid’s huge smile emphasizes his apple cheeks.
Laughter belts out of me at the pained look on Greg’s face. My no-nonsense agent cowers only for two people, his mother and wife. Having met Mrs. Lawson at Sasha and Greg’s wedding I understand the fear. The barely five-foot tall southern lady ensured I ate all my vegetables that night and some of hers. With Sasha, Greg is more a lovesick man who pretends to be exasperated but is powerless to do anything but make her happy.
A sharp ache pulses in my chest at the memory of Pen’s watery eyes at baggage claim. Setting Damon on his feet on the hardwood floor, I scrub a hand down my face. “Can we talk?”
“Let’s go to my study.” Greg tips his head to his son. “Buddy, let mom know Rowan is here.”
His little face turns up to me. “Oh, if dad wants me to get mom, then you are in trouble.”
“He sure is,” Greg snarks, spinning his wheelchair and motioning for me to follow.
Greg leads me down a long hall towards the back of the house. His guidance is unnecessary. I know this path, having walked it many times since he and Sasha bought the house six years ago. Not all of Greg’s clients are invited into his inner sanctum. Somehow over the last decade, I’ve become one of the select few he’s invited in. Though that may have been more Sasha’s doing. Before being traded to the Bobcats three years ago, Sasha had me over for homecooked meals each time whatever team I was with played in the L.A. area.
Since moving to L.A., I’m here a few times a month. The only other house beside my condo that I have more meals at is Coach Carlson’s. He has team members over regularly for BBQs and invites those without families for the holidays. It’s the first time in ten years I’ve had a regular semblance of family and home.
I follow Greg into his study. The pre-sunset light streams into the room from the double patio doors that lead out into the large back garden.
“Grab a seat.” He motions to the two rich chocolate-colored wingback leather chairs opposite of his oversized dark oak desk.
I check out the office as he wheels behind the imposing desk. Matching bookshelves filled with leather-bound classics, athletes’ memoirs, legal texts, and an entire row stocked with children’s books for Damon. While Greg’s agency office in downtown L.A. is decorated with framed photos of the sportsworld’s biggest names – team owners, players, and reporters – this space is littered with pictures of Damon and Sasha.
“I figured you’d be coming here. Sasha has been fielding calls from reporters all morning.”
“How the fuck did they know I was going to be at LAX?” I growl and plop onto one of the chairs.
“Watch your tone in my house.” He wags a thick finger. “Also, what the hell are you talking about? Who was at LAX?”
“Reporters ambushed us at baggage claim. I assumed that’s why you thought I was coming.” I yank off my hat and rake my fingers into my hair.
“No. I thought you were here because Landon was announced as the NHL Man of the Year this morning.”
“Is it true Landon is pressing charges?” I lean over, placing my elbows on my knees.
It’s the first time the idea that I might facerealconsequences, beyond a possible trade, my five-game suspension, and impact on my reputation –what reputation– for punching Landon. I still don’t regret what I did, but just picturing my mother and Finn’s expressions and Gillian’s “Not surprised, bro” causes a lump to form in my throat.
“Nah.” He waves a dismissive hand. “I spoke to Landon’s executive team this morning. Also, he gave this whole speech about forgiveness, moving on, and hopes it sets a good example about sportsman-like behavior. The media fucking ate it up.”
“Prick,” I mutter under my breath.
“Well, that prick’s giving you a lifeline.”
A furrow notches my forehead.
“When I spoke with his team this morning, they tossed out the idea of you participating in this charity event he’s hosting next month.”
