It was exhausting to manage my own turbulent headspace, let alone worry about someone else’s.
It hadn’t been like that with Cooper. No bullshit, no sugarcoating, no pretense. So fucking refreshing.
But I was back to reality now, and Cooper’s name on my cell was so unexpected that pleasure was accompanied by a flash of suspicion. What did he want? Why now? Was he planning to screw me over somehow? Maybe he’d taken secret photos or an incriminating video, and it was time to pay up.
Okay…no.
It was terrible that I was wired to assume the worst in people. Sure, everyone wanted something, everyone had an agenda. Cooper, though? Nah. It was just a snowman.
Mysnowman, I corrected, my lips curling into a reluctant smile.
Frosty’s lookin’ good. Except for the Boston hat. WTAF?
Red Sox fans here. Sorry.
You should be, I typed, adding five angry emojis for the hell of it.
Three dancing dots appeared and then faded once, twice, then…nothing.
“Hey, sorry about that.” Ger slapped my shoulder and slid into the private booth tucked in the corner of his favorite West Hollywood eatery.
“No prob.” I flipped my cell upside down, thanking the server for the beer and the plate of tofu nachos…or something equally unappealing. “What did you order?”
“Vegan nachos. Try one. I swear you can’t tell the difference,” Ger insisted, scooping a heap of faux cheese and veggies onto a chip.
“Yeah fucking right.”
His boyish grin split his face in half and made him look ten years younger than the big four-oh he’d been griping about for months. Ger was an attractive guy with short dark hair, the physique of a swimmer, the personality of a game-show host, and the instincts of a seasoned politician.
He’d been my agent from the beginning when we’d both been total newbies. Now he had an impressive clientele, a knowledgeable staff, and a fancy office on Wilshire. I was happy for him, and I knew that Ger viewed me as a friend and an integral part of his success. And Ger took care of his friends.
“They have a great filet mignon. Get the works. The twice-baked potato is fuckin’ unreal. They’re small, though…so ordertwo. And the creamed spinach. You’ve had that, right? Amazing. Get that,” he urged.
“Are you eating vicariously through me or something?” I snorted.
“I am. My doctor wants me to watch my carbs. My cholesterol is through the roof. He suggested a diet change…and exercise. I hate exercise.”
“I wouldn’t admit that to your other clients.”
“Only you, baby. Only you.”
I chuckled as I pushed the menu aside. “So…what’s your big news?”
Ger widened his eyes theatrically. “One more year in the pros.”
“Huh?”
“You heard me.”
I frowned. “Yeah, but you’re not making any sense. I retired, remember?”
“Like it was yesterday. Thing is…you still got it, Si. Everyone thinks so. Listen up.” He shoved the nachos to the end of the table and leaned in. “Your numbers last season were good, you’re fast, you’re smart, and just ’cause the writing was on the wall with the Devils doesn’t mean it has to be over.”
“We talked about this, Ger, and?—”
“I know, but that was before the Rangers came calling.”
“The Rangers?”
