My phone buzzes with an incoming email before I’m even finished speaking.
"You’ll have him cornered there," he adds, ignoring my concern about the cold. "Or we cancel the deal."
The word ‘cancel’ makes my stomach turn. If Randolph cancels the deal, I’m out of a job in more ways than one.
"You can’t be serious," I say.
"I am. I don’t have time for you to wait for my client to make his way back to the States. Sponsors are calling me every day with concerns. New endorsement deals are drying up as we speak. Have you seen the gossip magazines lately or the post-game interview from yesterday?"
I don’t bother to tell him that I was there in the flesh and witnessed it. Or that his client told me off after I scared away his ‘entertainment for the night’. As he so eloquently put it.
"If you’re not willing to pursue him, I’ll have to find someone else, because he’s not going to fix it from a ski lift," Randolph says.
If he finds someone else to chase after Luka, that will mean that Carey wins, and I’m back out in the job market.
I swing my legs out of bed, feet hitting the carpet. My head is already calculating flight times, travel windows, and costs I can’t afford.
Good thing I thought to bring my passport when I flew out here.
I scroll through the emails. The place Luka travels to every year is a luxury alpine resort. The kind of resort that’s going to wipe out the rest of my credit cards if the flight alone doesn’t do it.
He doesn’t run like a man who fears consequences. He runs like a man who doesn't seem to care about them at all.
"I’ll go," I say before I can second-guess myself.
"Good," Randolph says, relief bleeding into his tone. "I’ll expect updates."
The call ends.
I sit there in the quiet for exactly ten seconds.
Ten seconds to breathe and pretend that I still have options. Then I stand up. I won’t let Luka’s little runaway stunt cost me my job. Now I know why Gabriella didn’t want to take him on and why Carey was so happy when I took it.
I pack every layer I have, but even I know that I didn’t pack for a Swiss Alps ski vacation.
Then I remind myself… I’m not going skiing. I’m not hiking glaciers. I’m walking into a resort bar, finding one arrogant hockey player, and dragging him back home, by the ear if I have to, so that I can get him out of this mess he got himself into.
I check my bank balance and wince. It’s enough to get there. Along with my credit cards, I’ll make it work, but just barely. The sooner I convince him to come home, the better it will be.
I’m not chasing him because I want to.
I’m chasing him because I have to.
The airport is in its usual state when I walk through the automatic doors, which is absolute chaos, babies crying, oversized luggage being carted around, and TSA yelling at the next passenger to move along.
"One ticket to Zurich," I tell the agent at the desk. "As soon as possible."
She types, frowns, and types again. "There’s one seat left on a flight leaving in an hour," she says.
"How much?"
She tells me the price and I don’t react. I just hand over my card before my brain can do the math.
The machine beeps—Approved, but my stomach drops anyway. This better work.
I jog to security, shoes half off, laptop out, shoving my bags into a grey bins with more force than necessary. I don’t breathe properly until I’m through the gate and walking down the gangway towards the airplane door. The stewardess smiles as I pass through the entrance.
I take my seat, wedged between two men at least six feet tall who have already claimed the armrests like territorial beasts. This twelve-hour flight is starting out splendidly already.
