Page 17 of Lucky Puck

Someone’s hands grab me by the shoulders from behind to lift me from the ice. It’s funny because what the hell am I doing lying flat on the ice? I don’t remember falling, but my forehead feels like a cracked egg a la Humpty Dumpty, and as I come to a stand, dizziness spins the world around me. There’s blood blurring my double vision, and I barely recognize the guy asking me if I’m okay, but his voice tells me it’s Sabien.

A couple of guys wearing shoes walk onto the ice and join Sabe to help me to the gate. Someone I don’t know says, “Give Brody some space.” Then, under his breath, he mutters to Sabe, “What a shit-show. The fucking rookie phenom gets injured. I hope to god he doesn’t have a concussion. All hell will break loose.”

“What?” No one answers my question before I end up in a training room I don’t recognize, flat on the table. I close my eyes against the growing pounding in my head—and think—or try to.

Then it comes back to me like I’m waking up from a dream. This is the fucking NHL’s All-Star game, and we’re at the arena nicknamed The Fortress.

“I gotta get back out there.” I try to sit up, but the swift movement almost makes me vomit.

“Hold on, Brody,” Sabe says, pushing me back down without much force. “I told you to watch out for the flashy lights, glitz, and glamour of Vegas, kid.“ His voice is low as he leans in close to me, talking in riddles like he's some old sage. He's only six years ahead of me. I open my eyes and look at him. He grins. ”Looks like you made a rookie mistake. Don’t believe the bullshit hype about being a phenom.” He flashes a glare of accusation at the trainer who gets to work removing my helmet. He prods at my head and face and wipes the blood away.

“What mistake?” They both ignore me, and I wonder if maybe I’m mute and don’t know it because my brain is being crushed in a vice by this killer headache, now throbbing out of control.

“It’s not me who labeled the kid,“ the nameless trainer says. ”It’s the big story of the weekend. I don’t want to think about what’ll happen if he can’t get back in the game. The media will have a field day and--”

“Of course I’m going back out there to play.” I sit all the way up this time, gritting my teeth against the dizziness and shake off the trainer’s hand while I try to ignore the gut-roiling nausea. Both Sabien and the trainer look at me, and I have their full attention. Relieved that I’m not mute after all, I tell the trainer, “Just stitch me up and I’ll finish the game.” I hold in the sudden lurch in my stomach and the stabbing pain that seems to pierce my eyeballs. Fuck.

The trainer shakes his head as he continues to examine me, using his thumbs to raise my eyelids and flash a light in my eyes. “Can’t do it, kid. That’s up to the doc. He’s on his way now.”

“Big fucking mistake,” Sabien says, taking a big bracing inhale of the sweaty training room air.

I want to shout what mistake, but the trainer pulls out a needle and stabs me with it somewhere near my eyebrow. I might have yelled I hate fucking needles, or the words might have got caught in my throat because I don't hear them.

Great. Now I really am mute.

Chapter Nine

BIANCA

As Brody crashes to the boards and lands in a heap, I jump to a stand and almost topple forward from my seat in row five hundred gazillion. “Shit.”

The guy next to me says, “Amen.” The crowd lets out a universal oh no then settles into a low nervous buzz.

Not wasting time, I push past him to the steep stairs leading down and out of the stands. Taking a quick glance at the jumbotron, I see the close-up of blood on Brody’s face and cringe. It looked like if he didn’t have three guys holding him up and helping him off the ice, he would have collapsed into a heap. They’re taking him to the training room, and absently crossing my fingers as I pick up my pace with my stupid heels clicking to the staccato beat of my heart—way too fast—I hope all he needs is stitches.

God, please don’t let it be a concussion.

Swearing under my breath as I reach the bottom of the nosebleed section, I rush to find the elevator that’ll take me down to the ice level and the locker rooms. I can’t believe Jett didn’t get me a seat in the luxury box, but at least he got me the official credentials hanging around my neck encased in plastic. The agency has several seats in a luxury box, but they were all taken by family members of clients. Jett himself didn’t even come to the game.

He sent me. Why? To watch out for the kid, in his words, because Brody Holden is too young to drink and the exact right age to get into trouble.

Jett still doesn’t know how right he was. I need to call him, but not now as I push past fans and kiosks peddling NHL All-Star gear.

I knew Brody was trouble, even before last night. I did my research. Not that it matters since he is a legitimate, once-in-a-generation or maybe even two, phenom on skates. He’s one of those players who make you believe in magic when you watch him on the ice, blinding everyone to his flaws.

The thought of his number one flaw makes my hyperventilating heart skip high and catch air while I mentally will it back down my throat.

The twenty-year-old treasure of the NHL is our prized client, so dazzling a player that of course we had to fight against a horde of rabid wolves, aka, sports agents, to get the dazzling hockey wonder to sign with us. Every certified sports agent and some only pretending to be legit had been in the hunt to sign him.

Not that I can take even a morsel of credit for the major coup of landing him. That was all Hamish Jett’s doing. My esteemed boss took years to nurse the deal into bearing fruit, and I had nothing to do with it.

Jett, founder, principal, and president of the Jett agency, managed the coup de grâce of signing the universally regarded mega talent, often compared to Gretzky and Bobby Orr by experts and fans alike.

Brody Holden was a phenom, alright, and in agent speak, the client of a lifetime.

My big accomplishment was landing a job with the Jett agency and working my way up from a contract review position to assistant agent, mainly on the strength of my doglike work, as in I would fetch the paper for Jett if he asked me to, and my 24/7 availability.

I’d like to say it was due to my brilliance and stellar personal charm, but it’s not. It’s plain old hard work and hard-headed determination. No one can outwork or outlast me. Plus, I’m laser sharp in my aim, eschewing anything that doesn’t get me to my goal.