He hates it when I use my lawyer over the agency's lawyers, but I don’t care. They have a client to please—Randolph—whereas my lawyer has my best interests at heart, first and foremost. Another useful thing my father taught me.
"Son… you never bargain shop for lawyers, hit men, or tattoo artists. You pay for the best of the best, or those mistakes will follow you for life."
"Yes."
"And?" he asks, annoyance dripping as if he shouldn’t have to ask me to explain further.
"And he told me to shut up."
"Luka—"
"I signed an NDA," I cut in. "If I say one word about the magazine and my experience, they can bury me in a defamation suit before the Olympic Committee even finishes sharpening its knives."
Randolph swears under his breath. "Why didn’t you tell me this?"
Because your job is money, and mine is to make my father’s life a living hell whenever and however I find the chance. Randolph would have acted too fast and in a panic. My lawyer told me not to tell my agent… and he was right.
But I don’t say any of that.
"Because my lawyer told me not to," I answer.
"Two PR firms flew out to help you," he snaps. "You ghosted them. Now you’re gaining a reputation as being difficult to work with… not that your reputation was pristine to begin with, might I add. Now I’m out consulting fees that I’m taking out of your commission… by the way."
"Bill me."
"This could cost sponsors," he warns.
"I don’t care."
"The Hawkeyes have a no-scandal clause, Luka. They can bench you if this becomes a full-blown disciplinary issue."
I pause, my hand on the steering wheel. He knows he hit me where it really hurts—the idea of getting benched. The only thing I can think of now is how I need to be out on the ice helping my team win a Stanley Cup. I can’t get benched. Not this season.
"What was this for?" he demands suddenly, voice raw with frustration. "Was it women? Attention? Because if it was, you already have them lining up outside the arena to be with you—"
"I have my reasons," I say, clipped and annoyed.
I put the phone on speaker and then drop it on the center console next to me as I put my truck in reverse, backing out of my space.
There’s a beat of silence, which means I’ve finally exhausted his attempts to break through. At least for this attempt. He’ll try again in a couple of days when he thinks I might have thought it through and come to my senses. I won’t.
Randolph exhales hard. "That was a stupid call you made."
"I didn’t ask for your opinion."
"No," he snaps. "You didn’t. You just went behind my back, doused your career in gasoline, and lit it on fire."
I smile without humor as I turn out of the players' lot. "My career is not on fire."
"It could be if this continues to get bigger and we don’t get ahead of it," he warns. "And when it does light on fire, Luka, don’t expect me to put it out with my bare hands if you keep cutting me off at the knees."
"Noted."
"You can’t keep ignoring this."
"Watch me."
"Luka—"
