Talk Hockey to Me (Bears Hockey #3) - Kelly Jamieson Page 0,1

table. Then I rest my elbows on the table and sink my head into my hands.

“What’s up?” Hakim asks.

I blow out a long breath, lift my head and tell the guys what just happened.

They’re all concerned of course, but I’m the only one here who has Vern as an agent.

“Oh man! How old is he?” Dan asks.

“I think he’s about sixty.”

“Has he had heart problems?”

“Not that I know of.” I make a face. “I guess he wouldn’t tell me. The guy likes his food. And drink. He’s heavy, but he’s a big guy.” I feel disoriented, with a weight in my gut.

“This is bad timing,” Hakim says slowly.

“Shitty timing.” I grimace. As of June thirtieth, I’ll be an unrestricted free agent. That’s ten weeks away. Not that I’m counting. Okay, I am. “I feel guilty even thinking that. It’s not about me. The dude’s having heart surgery right now.”

“It is about you,” Hakim says. “I mean, yeah, we hope for the best, but it’s pretty natural for you to be concerned about what’s going to happen. It’s your career.”

I nod.

I like it here in New Jersey. I’ve been here three seasons, although my first year I mostly played for the farm team. Last year and the year before, the team signed me to one-year contracts. But this year…I think I’ve proved myself. This year I deserve more than that. This year I want stability. I want long-term. I want big money. The kind of money I deserve. It’s taken me too fucking long to get here.

The only problem? Two little words: salary cap.

I wasn’t too worried about it, because Vern is a shark—tough, determined, a predator. But now…holy crap.

I’m concerned for my contract, but I’m also scared for Vern. There aren’t many people I care about in my life, but he’s one of them. He’s been my agent since college, unofficially while I was in school and then formally once I graduated. He helped me get my NHL start after I single-handedly trashed my chances.

This is why I don’t care about many people. This is what happens.

“I need to get wasted.” I lift my hand to get the waitress’s attention. “More Don Julio!”

2

Kate

I get the call at nearly midnight. I fumble around for my cell phone, plugged in and sitting on the nightstand. I’m a deep sleeper and it takes me a while to become conscious, so I don’t even know what I’m doing as I answer the call and mumble something.

“Kate. It’s Kevin. Beaven.” One of my clients.

I don’t even have my eyes open. “Kevin. What…?”

“I need your help.”

“What help?” I fall back into my pillows, fighting the sleep that’s trying to overtake me again.

“I’m in jail.”

My eyes fly open. “What?”

“I got in a little trouble tonight. I need help. I need to be bailed out.”

I’m still confused. “What kind of trouble? What the hell did you do?”

“I’ll tell you about it when you get here.”

“Oh my fucking God.” I fight through the bedclothes to sit up. “Where are you?”

He tells me which precinct he’s at and the address. I click on the lamp and enter it into my phone.

“Okay. I got it. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”

“Thank you! I really appreciate this.”

I end the call and close my eyes again, my shoulders slumping. I can’t believe this.

Well, this is my life now. I’m a sports agent. This is what I wanted. I throw back the covers and quickly find some clothes—a pair of jeans draped over the chair in the corner, a T-shirt from a drawer, socks. I shove my feet into short, low-heeled boots, grab my phone, purse, and a jacket, and leave my Greenwich Village apartment. Out on the sidewalk, I pause with my phone to figure out where the hell I’m going.

Despite the late hour, the neighborhood is busy. The Amber Crown Jazz Club on the first floor of my building is still open, music drifting through the door as it opens and closes, and the pizza restaurant across the street is also busy.

It’ll be quickest to get a cab, but I’m going to have to hike down to Houston to find one. Or I can call an Uber if I can’t find a taxi. I set out, my mind clearing from the sleep fog but now jumbled with thoughts.

Luckily, I hail a cab quickly and give the driver directions to the precinct. “Don’t judge me,” I mutter. I know I don’t have to say it. New York taxi drivers have seen