Destiny on Ice (Boys of Winter #1)(21)

“Maybe,” Jock murmurs, doubt coloring his tone.

I blow out a breath. “Who should I expect to see at this meeting?”

I’m curious as to how many asses I’m going to have to kiss.

“Just Dolby,” he says.

Mr. Dolby, who we call Dolby, is Director of Player Operations. His lone presence at the meeting begs the question, “Why isn’t ownership attending? If this meeting is so important they should be here, right?”

“Not necessarily.” We step into the elevator, and I ready myself to be whisked up to my possible doom. “Don’t be fooled by the lack of attendees, Brent. This meeting is vital for your career.”

“Sure it is.” I make a face as Jock hits the button for the top level.

My agent isn’t one to hem and haw—he tells me shit straight up—so it’s only mildly surprising when he informs me, “Now that you’re in town, ownership wants you to stay put. That means there’ll be plenty of opportunities for them to talk with you in person.”

Okay, this is unacceptable.

“No, no way.” I shake my head. “I’m going back to Minneapolis the minute this thing is done. I’ll come back to Vegas when preseason training officially starts.”

“Consider it starting for you, as of today.”

“Fuck!”

“About this meeting, Brent, there’s more.” Jock looks uneasy, and that’s a rare occurrence. There has to be something coming up that I absolutely will not like.

“More?” I ask, wary. “What’s that mean?”

He crosses his arms. “There’s someone management wants you to talk with. Maybe even spend some time with her. Well, actually, there’s no maybe about it. You’ll be meeting with a woman today, one who’s here to help you. She flew in from back east, like you, just a little earlier.”

Now I’m worried and confused.

“What are you talking about, Jock? Help me with what? And what’s with the ‘she’ and ‘her’ crap? I thought the team wanted me to stay away from women? Now you’re telling me they want me to hang out with one?”

Jock looks guilty, and that’s never a good sign. “This isn’t some random woman, Brent. You’re meeting with Aubrey Shelburne. She’s worked with a lot of high-profile figures, and she’s very good at what she does.”

“What exactly does she do?” I ask through clenched teeth.

“She’s what’s called a ‘life coach.’”

“A life coach?” I hit the Stop button, and the elevator shimmies to a halt. “My life is just fine, thank you very much. What exactly is going on? Talk to me, Sosarelli.”

“Just meet with Ms. Shelburne, Brent.” Jock hits the button and the elevator resumes its ascent. “This is going to happen whether you like it or not.”

I’m tired of fighting. It’s always a lost cause when you’re nothing more than a commodity. And that’s what I am to the team.

“Fine,” I concede.

I guess I’ll have to meet with this life coach, whatever the hell that means. We’ll just see about spending time with her, though. Maybe if she’s hot I’ll give her a day or two, let her “coach” me, preferably in bed.

Outside the conference room where the meeting is about to take place, I stop so I can say to Jock, “Okay, let’s do this. But for the record, I still think this is total bullshit.”

“Duly noted,” he says, throwing my words from earlier back at me. Smartass bastard.

All things considered, I’m actually in a pretty good frame of mind when he pushes open the door.

I’m good that is, till I walk in the room and see her.

What… the… ever-loving… f*ck?

In a tone betraying my utter shock and horror, I say, “Shit, not you again.”





This is Brent Oliver?





“This is Brent Oliver? That can’t be right. This guy plays baseball, not hockey.”

That remark earns me many confused stares.

“Uh, never mind.” I wave my hand.

I’d like to leave, but I know that’s not an option. This is my job. Though one thing is clear. The guy who threw the party—you know, the one I woke up to this morning, kill me now—does not play baseball.

Damn Lainey. I knew she had it wrong.

What are the odds of this happening? Pretty slim, I’d say. But not for me. Oh no, I have the worst luck.

This is what happens when you’re left in the dark. No one told me anything about this guy before I flew in. If the team had e-mailed me, say, a few photos of the new client I would’ve known last night to avoid him like the plague. I would have seen him at the party and, cute or not, run the other way.

But noooo.

This team is so secretive that even the file I was given when I first came into the conference room contained no photos of the client. Not a single one anywhere in the contents.

There are team logos all over the thing—a profile of a red wolf’s head on a black background—but nothing else in terms of images.

Now that I know what I know, I have to ask myself why would there be a picture of Brent Oliver. The guy is a superstar—a fact stressed over and over again in the file. The implication being that everyone must know his face.