Luka Popovich. Twenty-seven years old–only a year older than me. NHL first-line winger for the Seattle Hawkeyes. Six-foot-four of what the press calls raw talent and zero impulse control. He’s got the stats—points leader on the team, All-Star selections, and a PR nightmare, just like all the greats before him.
I stare at his Hawkeyes head-shot paper-clipped inside the file, those intense blue-gray eyes fixed in a cold, icy glare.
Russian mobster? Yeah. Maybe I can see where the rumors come from.
And then there are the scandals.
Bar fights. Social media tirades. A legendary reputation for sleeping with anything that moves. And the latest incident, the one that landed him on my desk… a nude photo shoot for a high-end women’s magazine where he posed with his Olympic medals.
The Olympic Committee is furious. His endorsement deals are evaporating. His agent is desperate.
Carey and Molly were right. This is a nightmare client.
I flip through page after page of documentation. There are screenshots of inflammatory social media posts, tabloid photos, and legal warnings from the Olympic Committee about the violation.
My phone buzzes. A text from Carey.
Carey Von:Good luck in Seattle. You'll need it.
I stare at the message, my jaw tightening. She couldn't even wait until I'd left the building to twist the knife.
I backed out of the text without responding.
Then I pull up my contacts and call my mother.
She answers on the second ring. "Natalia? Is everything okay?"
"Hi, Mom. Yeah, everything's fine. I just have a work thing. I need to come to Seattle for a client. Would it be okay if I stayed with you?"
"Of course, sweetheart," she says, warmth coating her voice. "You're always welcome here. When are you coming?"
I tap my mouse to wake up my computer. I need to research flights and get something booked. "Probably tomorrow if I can get a flight. I'll let you know the details once I get them."
"I'll get your room ready," she said. "It'll be good to see you."
My childhood bedroom. The one I haven’t stayed in since I left for college eight years ago. Most of my visits with my mother have involved her coming to see me. Between college, trying to win my internship, and then working every available moment to work my way up at Legacy PR, I haven’t taken much time off since I left Seattle.
We chatted for a few more minutes before I hung up.
I lean back in my chair and stare at the folder again.
Relocation to Seattle. A cocky hockey player with a God complex. A pissed-off Olympic Committee. A client no one can tame.
Not to mention a consultant who'd love to see me fail and an assessment clock ticking loudly in the background.
There’s no backup plan, and certainly no safety net. If I fail, it’s over for me.
I glance down at Luka Popovich’s Hawkeyes head-shot for the second time, studying him more closely this time, as if it might give me more clues about how I’m going to get him to cooperate when two other agents have failed.
Sharp jaw. Crooked nose, like it’s been broken at least once. A faint scar splitting his upper lip. He isn’t conventionally handsome in the polished, billboard-model way.
But his eyes. Those piercing icy blue-gray eyes are almost too striking to look away from. There’s something in them that feels dangerous—not reckless or chaotic. Almost assessing in an unapologetic way. Like he knows exactly how much damage he could do and chooses when to do it. Not unlike the rumored son of a mob boss.
I can see why that’s catnip to half the female fanbase.
The longer I study the photo, the more I understand it. It isn’t confidence. Confidence can be manufactured. This is competence.
There’s an ease in the way he holds himself. Not a smirk exactly, but the ghost of one. Like he’s already three steps ahead and mildly amused that you’re still on step one.
