Page 5 of Love Lessons
And, yup. It’s even worse than I thought. The photo makes me look like a total hooligan. My hair is too long. My eyes are red, because some girl at my party had been smoking. I’m wearing a faded concert T-shirt with a little rip in the neckline.
I look like a deadbeat. “Ouch.”
“Yeah,ouch.” Hugh snorts. “Fans who search your name are going to find this. Hell, your father is probably reading it right now.”
I groan and sink down in my chair. He’s right, of course, but playing the father card is a low blow. My dad and Hugh had played on the same college team a million years ago. They send each other Christmas cards every year.
God. This is bad. So bad.
“So, let’s review,” Hugh says darkly. “The record of your arrest is out there in the media. And the last time your name cropped up on the blogs, you’d dealt another player a career-ending injury.”
My stomach tenses. That fight still freaks me out. I hit the guy—a rookie from Boston—in the chest. His pads should have protected him. But somehow, they hadn’t. His clavicle broke under my bare-knuckled punch. When I close my eyes at night, I can still feel the pop under my fist as I’d hit him.
His helmet had snapped off, and he’d screamed when he went down, bouncing his head off the ice.
Davis Deutsch was the number-three draft pick, and he might never play again. Clavicles are tricky, I hear. He needs multiple surgeries. There were bone fragments…
I suppress a shudder every time I think about it. A couple times a week I wake up in a cold sweat from dreams about the fight.
And yet I don’t even know what I would have done differently. I really don’t.
“He picked that fight,” I remind my manager. “I would’a never thrown down the gloves with that youngster. Clearly didn’t know what he was doing. But fighting guys whenever I’m challenged isliterally my job. There’s honor in it.”
“Up to a point,” Hugh counters. “But there’s no honor in a drunken arrest.”
I hang my head. And when I do, I notice my khakis have a stain on the cuff, and my Brooklyn Hockey polo shirt is wrinkly. Because of course it is.
“Look,” Hugh says. “You have an image problem. Which means yourteamhas an image problem. It’s also your job to represent this organization in a professional manner. Says so right in your contract.”
I swallow hard. “The lawyer you guys found for me said we can get those charges dropped,” I point out. “The cop overstepped.”
“That’s true,” Tommy the publicist offers. “In fact, the lawyer got the charges dropped an hour ago. It was only the cop’s second night on patrol, apparently.”
Thank fuck. My shoulders drop with relief. “Wow. Okay. So now I can move on, right? I swear the party wasn’tthatdisorderly.”
“Legally, you’re in the clear,” Tommy says. “But nonetheless, we’re going to ask you to work hard on your image this summer. Both the Brooklyn hockey teams are doing well, which is great, but we’re more visible than ever. So I’m going to need some buy-in from you.”
“Sure,” I say quickly. “Whatever you need. And I could, uh, do some extra charity work next season, maybe?”
“Oh, that’s just a given. No more loud parties…”
“No parties,period,” Hugh says.
“I need you looking approachable at all times, in case you’re photographed. Nice clothes. Nice haircut. No beer in your hand.”
“Ever?” I gasp.
Tommy shrugs. “Don’t drink in public. What have you been up to this summer, anyway?”
“Rehabbing the building I bought. Usually, I go golfing somewhere with the guys or hiking in Vermont. But this year…” I hesitate.
“Yeah?” he asks, looking up from the notes he’s taking.
“Drake has invited a bunch of us to his villa in Italy. It’s a house—” I almost sayparty. “Gathering. On some lake.”
“Right. Lake Como,” Tommy says. “I’ve heard that place is amazing. Lots of paparazzi there, though. The place is crawling with the rich and famous.”
Oh shit. “They don’t even play hockey in Italy. Nobody over there cares about me.”
