Page 18 of Lucky Puck

My goal? Partner in the firm. Do I have the best credentials? While I’m no slouch with my law degree from Pepperdine—a whole other mountain climbed before I got here—which is ranked 16th on the list of 17 law schools known for sports and entertainment law. I’m no Harvard grad, but I have that steely-eye thing—the same thing that the most successful athletes have, the ones who start with the same kind of mountains to climb as I have because they’re not statistically the best or don’t fit the mold; instead, they start from the bottom of the pack.

The exact opposite journey of the highly vaunted—and lucky as hell—Brody Holden.

As soon as I reach the security guard at the elevator, I pull my credentials from inside my suit jacket—something like a note from the principal saying it’s okay for me to wander the halls, only encased in plastic and hanging on a lanyard—and flash it for the security guard.

“Sorry, ma'am. This is a restricted area⁠—”

“I know that. I have credentials. I’m Brody Holden’s agent and⁠—”

His brows furrow, and he aims a lethal dose of skepticism at me. “Brody’s represented by Hamish Jett⁠—”

“I work for the Jett agency.” I wave my plasticized card at him, holding it up as high as I can without taking it from around my neck for him to see. Did I mention I’m not very tall? I’m on the shorter side of average… okay, I may be considered short by some.

Alright, alright, everyone thinks I’m short. Except me. I’m over five feet tall. By half an inch. In my book, that’s officially not short.

Never mind that I’m wearing four-inch heels to a hockey game. In spite of the boost, this security guard looms over me and squints at my credentials, then studies my face as if it’s a struggle to match me up with my photo.

With great reluctance and his mouth flat, he gives an almost invisible nod. I rush past him before he can think his next words and get on my way. Always prepared, I know exactly how to get to the training room at this arena.

Maybe I can get the trainer to help us get the wedding band off Brody’s finger while he’s in there. That could be important because we’ll have to deal with a media circus, which will be even bigger now that he’s been injured. If we don’t handle it right, the fact that he scored the first goal of the game could get lost in speculation about his wedding band, let alone whether his injury is serious.

Then it hits me. Maybe his injury is serious. Shit. I start running and almost turn my ankle as I turn the corner and aim myself at the door marked TRAINING. Pushing through into the room, I careen forward the last few steps until I reach Brody, stumbling to a stop. Needless to say, my heart is galloping so hard I feel like I just won the Kentucky Derby.

Chapter Ten

BRODY

Iwince as the trainer closes the cut near my eyebrow with a butterfly bandage. He only applied a topical antibacterial cream, noting to numb the area, mumbling something about stitches. Then my eyes catch a flurry of movement and dart to the door as Bianca Brooks comes flying in like she’s sliding into the boards, skidding to a stop almost on top of me before she rights herself, tugging at her too-tight suit jacket.

“Here to look after your star property?” I say as I breathe in the scent of vanilla cream like she just came from an ice cream parlor. Maybe I’m being unfairly cynical about her motives because she does look a little pale, possibly with worry. But in my defense, lately I’ve felt like a piece of property owned by my team, the sponsors, and most of all, my agent.

For example, she’s the one who set up last week’s appearance on the cover of a sports magazine, which should be great, right? Except they featured me as the rising stud of the NHL. That’s right, rising stud, not rising star, not rising rookie, not rising scorer—no, I’m known as the fucking rising stud.

Brooks aims her standard displeased librarian look at me. Then she asks the trainer, “Is he going to be okay?”

“The doctor will answer that. He should be here any second, ma’am.”

Ooh, she did not like being called ma’am. I suppress a laugh at her cringe. She avoids looking at me. Maybe she’s queasy about blood. I wouldn’t want to be watching my bloody face get poked at.

“That should do it,” Lou says as he plasters the last butterfly bandage in place.

I swing my legs over the table and make a move to jump down. “I’m ready to play.” I nod at Sabien. “Let’s go.”

Of all the people to stop me, Brooks is the one to put her hands out and push back, not Lou, not Sabien, and not the assistant trainer gawking from the corner of the room.

“You can’t go back into the game,” she says.

“She’s right. You need stitches as soon as the Doc gets here,” Lou says, wearing something between a grimace and a grin.

Ignoring him, I turn to Brooks. I’m aware of her hand against my chest and raise mine to pull it away. Not that her touching me is nasty—more like the opposite. I’m enough of a degenerate bastard to find her concern a total turn-on, even though she’s not my type at all.

Maybe the attraction is that she’s an older woman, though admittedly not by much, and ever since that stint with my older sister’s friend, in spite of the fact that it ended badly, I still have a thing for older women. I like to play cat and mouse and other games with no strings. The hard-learned self-preservation lesson taught me to make sure I’m the one to walk away first.

Too bad Brooks is not someone I can play games with, not cat and mouse or any other kind. Jett, her boss, made damn sure I got that message. Not that I needed to be told. I remove my hand from hers carefully.

Lou’s eyes go wide as he stares at me, and I almost ask him what the hell is wrong when I realize he’s staring at my hand.

Shit. One quick glance and I see the band-aid covering the ring is shredded, and the gleaming gold band shows through, exposing it plainly for what it is—a wedding band.