Page 26 of Lucky Puck

“I get it. We’re planning to leave as soon as possible.” I hold my tongue, not mentioning that fifteen minutes is the max time I’ve allotted.

“Great. As long as he’s okay to handle the promotional shoot tomorrow with Cavalaro Motors. Frank Martino, the VP of promotions, will be there. Play extra nice with him.” I almost interrupt him, and I’m surprised to feel Brody tensing up next to me at Jett’s words.

Jett pauses, then lowers his voice, and I take that as a signal to turn away from my listening companions, cupping my hand around the phone as if that’ll matter.

He says, “Martini’s taking a leap of faith with Brody that he’ll live up to the hype.”

“We’re taking a chance on Cavalaro Motors, too,” I insist. “They’re not established like Ferrari, in spite of their recent awards. They’re still an upstart in the Italian luxury car market.”

“Point taken. But he’s shelling out a helluva hunk of moola, and I don’t need to remind you that this agency—which by association means you—stands to do extremely well, especially if we can make it a long-term arrangement. It has to be mutually beneficial.” He heaves out a breath.

“How’s the family?” I risk the question in the name of distracting him. Asking whether his wife has given birth yet seems too personal. I shouldn’t assume that he would have led with that information at the top of the call since he’s all work and talks little of his personal life. Hamish Jett is notoriously private about his personal life.

He might not even have mentioned the impending birth of his first child if it wasn’t happening on NHL All-Star Weekend, necessitating that I take his place as the agency’s representative.

“We’re still waiting for the bundle of joy’s arrival, but I’m told it won’t be long.”

“Then what are you doing talking—” The alarm in my words has Brody and Sabien staring at me with concern, like they’re ready to defend me from my boss—which is sweet but not needed since I can take care of myself.

“We have hours, not minutes.”

“Still,” I say, my heart rate not slowing in the least as Brody watches me, holding my eyes with his.

“You just make sure Brody is good to go tomorrow. Talk again soon.” He ends the call, and I can see that Brody heard his parting words, and guilt clogs my throat because Jett made him sound like he didn’t care about the concussion. Is he exploiting Brody? Am I exploiting Brody?

Shit. Does this make me as bad as Stubby and the NHL execs?

No. Brody pays the agency to make money for him, doesn’t he? It’s my job to…

My conscience doesn’t allow the platitudes to be any more effective than the band-aid over the wedding band had been.

The guilt is still there, and I can feel it looming large, my justifications about to fall off like the band-aid did, any second now, exposing me as a greedy, money-driven hypocrite.

Jett always warned this was the hardest part of the job—weighing what’s best for the client’s wallet against what’s best for their well-being. The weight is crushing me right now, especially since the short-term gain of money is more important to me than it is to Brody.

Am I letting my financial emergency get in the way of my judgment? Should I cancel his participation in the commercial shoot⁠—

Brody leans in, patting my arm as if he’s read my expression. Of course he has. He can probably see my guilty conscience like it’s dressed in neon.

“Jett’s right,” he whispers.

Shit. “How much did you hear?”

“All of it.”

I squeeze my eyes shut like I can will a replay, but he pats my arm again and as his hands slide down to my knee, I go still and open my eyes.

He’s wearing a tired smile, but it reaches his eyes and suddenly he seems as far away from a wild kid as I can imagine.

Then his dimple pops and he squeezes my thigh, and I swat him, and we’re back to the Brody I know so fast that I might have mental whiplash.

“Don’t worry. I’ll get a good night’s sleep, and after the shoot, I’ll sleep all the way home on the plane. I predict I’ll be good as new by Monday morning.”

My first instinct is to scold him and remind him that the doc said no hockey for two weeks, but I don’t. It’s not my place. I glance at Sabien, and he winks at me.

It’s other people’s job to make sure he follows doctor’s orders, not mine.

But the Whalers coaches and management are biased, his parents are far away in Canada, and he has no girlfriend who cares. His teammates or friends maybe? He hasn’t been with the team long enough to develop that intimate kind of support system like best friends who will truly look out for your best interests.