Talk Hockey to Me, page 1
Talk Hockey to Me
Kelly Jamieson
This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer’s imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locale or organizations is entirely coincidental.
* * *
Talk Hockey to Me © 2021 by Kelly Jamieson
All Rights Are Reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews
Contents
1. Hunter
2. Kate
3. Kate
4. Kate
5. Kate
6. Hunter
7. Kate
8. Kate
9. Kate
10. Hunter
11. Hunter
12. Hunter
13. Hunter
14. Kate
15. Kate
16. Hunter
17. Kate
18. Kate
19. Kate
20. Hunter
21. Kate
22. Hunter
23. Kate
24. Kate
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Excerpt - Must Love Dogs…and Hockey
Other Books by Kelly Jamieson
About the Author
1
Hunter
We got our asses spanked.
Tampa Bay just eliminated us from the first round of the playoffs.
We played six games of a seven-game series. We needed to win last night to hang on, but we had nothing left. The tank was empty. The juice was drained. Now our season is over.
The team is gathered in the Red Roadhouse, a popular Hoboken eatery. We reserved a bunch of tables at the back, where there’s a long black leather banquette. Worn wooden tables are pushed together with wood chairs pulled up on the other side. Considering our season just ended, we’re a noisy, jocular group. What else are you going to do? Sit at home and cry?
We’re deep into the Don Julio and beers, along with numerous orders of crab dip and calamari, steaks the size of a dartboard on order. We’ve debriefed about the season and the game, bitched about the reffing, and possibly put a bounty on the head of Tampa Bay’s asshole Dman, Dave “The Rat” Buzinski, for next season. He injured two of our players and never got a single penalty either time.
Yeah, yeah, we know we’re responsible for how things went. Coach drills it into us that bad reffing doesn’t lose games, poor play loses games. Still, sometimes it feels good to vent in a safe place with buddies.
At one point, Alfie pulls out a bottle, shakes a pill into his mouth and swallows it with a big gulp of water.
“What’s that for?” Disco Dan asks. “Your ED?”
Alfie rolls his eyes. “It’s an antihistamine, asshole.”
“Sure.” Dan smirks. “Didn’t know you had that problem, my dude.”
“Too much riding the bike,” Hakim says. “It can cause nerve damage in the uh, nutsack region.”
“Fuck off.” Alfie frowns.
“Seriously.” Hakim nods. “Do you have any loss of sensation there?”
“No! I told you, it’s an antihistamine.”
“Crusher might have problems,” I put in. “He’s on the bike all the time.”
Hearing his name, Crusher peers down the table. “What? What problems?”
“Erectile dysfunction,” Hakim calls to him cheerfully. “From too much bike riding.”
“Jesus.” Crusher shakes his head. “I don’t have any erectile problems. My last girlfriend called me Redwood.”
We all guffaw, including him.
“No more spin classes for me,” Dan says with a laugh.
“Viagra,” I say. “Strong enough for a man but made for a woman.”
They all roar with laughter again.
“Nah, he’s telling the truth,” Dilly says. “Look at his hair. Bald men are more virile.”
Crusher’s hairline is receding and is often the target of our jokes. This year he shaved it all off. “With a body like this, who needs hair,” he boasts.
I’m laughing, but still I swallow a sigh. I’m going to miss these assholes.
Once the season ends, everyone packs up and leaves. Almost everyone, anyway. Lots of guys head home to spend time with their families or travel. I haven’t made my plans yet. And next season, the team could look totally different.
Absently, I pull out my phone to check it and see a missed call and a voice mail. From Vern.
My heart jolts in my chest. Jesus. Is this good news? Or bad?
I quickly check the voice mail. But it’s not Vern, it’s Effie, his assistant, asking me to call her at Vern’s number. What the hell?
She answers. “Hi, Hunter.”
“Hi. What’s going on?”
“Hi.” She pauses to clear her throat. “I, um, have some bad news. Vern had a heart attack this afternoon.”
I blink and sit up straight. “What? Holy shit.”
“Yeah, holy shit is right. He’s okay,” she says quickly. “Well, sort of. He’s alive. He’s having surgery as we speak.”
“Jesus.” I don’t know what to say.
“I’m just letting his clients know. We’ll keep you posted about his condition, but…he’s likely going to be out of commission for a while. Assuming he makes it.” Her voices catches.
“He’ll make it.” He has to. I rub my chest. “What can I do?” Vern lives in Toronto, so it’s not like I can zip up to the hospital to see him.
“I don’t think there’s anything. Gail’s at the hospital with him, and his kids are both flying home. As for business things…we’ll figure that out.”
“Okay. But if there’s anything, let me know. I can fly up there.”
“Stay put for now. He’s probably not going to be in much shape for visitors for a while.”
“Right.” I exhale a long breath. “The important thing is making sure he’s okay.”
“Yes.” Her voice quivers. “That’s right. I’ll let you go. And I’ll be in touch.”
“Okay, good. Keep me posted how he’s doing.”
“I will.”
We end the call and I drop my phone to the table. Then I rest my elbows on the table and sink my head into my hands.
“What’s up?” Hakim asks.
I blow out a long breath, lift my head and tell the guys what just happened.
They’re all concerned of course, but I’m the only one here who has Vern as an agent.
“Oh man! How old is he?” Dan asks.
“I think he’s about sixty.”
“Has he had heart problems?”
“Not that I know of.” I make a face. “I guess he wouldn’t tell me. The guy likes his food. And drink. He’s heavy, but he’s a big guy.” I feel disoriented, with a weight in my gut.
“This is bad timing,” Hakim says slowly.
“Shitty timing.” I grimace. As of June thirtieth, I’ll be an unrestricted free agent. That’s ten weeks away. Not that I’m counting. Okay, I am. “I feel guilty even thinking that. It’s not about me. The dude’s having heart surgery right now.”
“It is about you,” Hakim says. “I mean, yeah, we hope for the best, but it’s pretty natural for you to be concerned about what’s going to happen. It’s your career.”
I nod.
I like it here in New Jersey. I’ve been here three seasons, although my first year I mostly played for the farm team. Last year and the year before, the team signed me to one-year contracts. But this year…I think I’ve proved myself. This year I deserve more than that. This year I want stability. I want long-term. I want big money. The kind of money I deserve. It’s taken me too fucking long to get here.
The only problem? Two little words: salary cap.
I wasn’t too worried about it, because Vern is a shark—tough, determined, a predator. But now…holy crap.
I’m concerned for my contract, but I’m also scared for Vern. There aren’t many people I care about in my life, but he’s one of them. He’s been my agent since college, unofficially while I was in school and then formally once I graduated. He helped me get my NHL start after I single-handedly trashed my chances.
This is why I don’t care about many people. This is what happens.
“I need to get wasted.” I lift my hand to get the waitress’s attention. “More Don Julio!”
2
Kate
I get the call at nearly midnight. I fumble around for my cell phone, plugged in and sitting on the nightstand. I’m a deep sleeper and it takes me a while to become conscious, so I don’t even know what I’m doing as I answer the call and mumble something.
“Kate. It’s Kevin. Beaven.” One of my clients.
I don’t even have my eyes open. “Kevin. What…?”
“I need your help.”
“What help?” I fall back into my pillows, fighting the sleep that’s trying to overtake me again.
“I’m in jail.”
My eyes fly open. “What?”
“I got in a little trouble tonight. I need help. I need to be bailed out.”
I’m still confused. “What kind of trouble? What the hell did you do?”
“I’ll tell you about it when you get here.”
“Oh my fucking God.” I fight through the bedclothes to sit up. “Where are you?”
He tells me which precinct he’s
“Okay. I got it. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
“Thank you! I really appreciate this.”
I end the call and close my eyes again, my shoulders slumping. I can’t believe this.
Well, this is my life now. I’m a sports agent. This is what I wanted. I throw back the covers and quickly find some clothes—a pair of jeans draped over the chair in the corner, a T-shirt from a drawer, socks. I shove my feet into short, low-heeled boots, grab my phone, purse, and a jacket, and leave my Greenwich Village apartment. Out on the sidewalk, I pause with my phone to figure out where the hell I’m going.
Despite the late hour, the neighborhood is busy. The Amber Crown Jazz Club on the first floor of my building is still open, music drifting through the door as it opens and closes, and the pizza restaurant across the street is also busy.
It’ll be quickest to get a cab, but I’m going to have to hike down to Houston to find one. Or I can call an Uber if I can’t find a taxi. I set out, my mind clearing from the sleep fog but now jumbled with thoughts.
Luckily, I hail a cab quickly and give the driver directions to the precinct. “Don’t judge me,” I mutter. I know I don’t have to say it. New York taxi drivers have seen everything.
It takes about ten minutes to get to the precinct.
I walk in and look around. Lovely. I always enjoy new experiences.
They tell me Kevin’s still being booked but should be done soon and then will appear in front of the judge in night court.
I can’t fucking believe this.
I sit in an uncomfortable chair and check out the room with uneasy glances. This is quite a collection of characters…a dude in a hoodie with his head covered slumped forward as if he’s sleeping; a woman in a tight sequined dress and dangerous looking platform shoes; a short man in a suit and a bow tie talking in low tones on his phone in the corner. I sigh.
I pull my phone out, to do what I don’t know. Google is always my friend. Apparently, booking Kevin involves taking pictures of him, fingerprinting him, and doing paperwork.
After an excruciatingly boring hour which I mostly spend scrolling through Twitter and Instagram searching for any mention of Kevin’s arrest, I agree to be responsible for Kevin’s one-thousand-dollar bail and he’s free to go.
He looks a little rough but appears to have sobered up. I’m assuming he was drunk.
We get out of the police station and walk half a block away in the dark. “What happened?” I ask tersely.
“We were out celebrating.”
The New York Bears made it to the second round of the Stanley Cup playoffs last night. Kevin plays defense on the team. Celebrating is understandable. I nod. “And…?”
He drops his head forward. “I grabbed the waitress’s ass.”
“Jesus Christ.” I pull in a long breath through my nose.
“I know, I know. We were flirting…or, I was.” He grimaces. “I got carried away. Little too much Jack Daniels.”
“Is that all you had?” I hold his gaze fiercely.
“Yeah.” He holds his hands up. “That’s it. They kicked me out of the restaurant, but…then I went back. I swear it was just to apologize, but the girl freaked out and called the cops.”
I want to cry. I rub the spot between my eyebrows. “Who knows about this?”
“Just the guys who were there. And the police.”
I shake my head. “Okay, I’ll figure out what to say. You say no comment, if anyone contacts you. I didn’t see anything on social media yet.”
“I was with Wendy and Cookie and Jammer. They know not to say anything.”
“I hope to hell they do. Okay, let’s get you home.”
“I’ll call an Uber.”
“Good.”
I wait until he’s in the car and on his way, then call my own car, since we live in opposite directions. Around three-thirty in the morning, I fall back into bed.
Of course, I can’t sleep now.
As a relatively new sports agent, I don’t have many clients.
Yet.
I will. I’m determined. I know this is what I was meant to do. Only, I never knew I’d be bailing clients out of jail, officiating at a wedding, or talking a big hockey player through a meltdown after finding out his girlfriend was cheating on him.
I shouldn’t worry so much about my guys. But caring about them is part of what makes me a good agent, I believe. That, and I’m an excellent negotiator. Also, I love the sport of hockey.
I’ve been a sports agent for just over a year, including my time at Pinnacle Sports Management and now on my own after that ended up in a fustercluck. As a little girl, I loved hockey and always wanted to be at the arena with my dad when I wasn’t playing. I was also fascinated by the business and legal aspects of the league. I spent hours reading the Collective Bargaining Agreement and talking to my dad about it, which made me a huge nerd. I didn’t care. Growing up, my dad was the assistant GM of the Chicago Aces, and I got to know a lot of people in the business, obviously the management of the Chicago team, but also players, agents, managers of other teams, and even the commissioner of the NHL. These connections have come in handy.
My love of hockey and my law degree brought me here, although this wasn’t originally what I planned to do with my life. But I love it. I love taking care of my clients, taking care of things so they don’t stress about them and can do what they’re paid to do—play hockey. And with a couple of female clients, I hope I’m increasing visibility for women in the hockey world, as agents and players.
It’s nights like this, though, that make me wonder if my old boss was right. Am I too mothering? Ugh. I put a lot of hours into my clients because I care about them, but that can lead to burnout and cynicism. Will my unique brand of agenting pay off?
My alarm goes off at seven because I have a Zoom meeting at eight. I just have to swipe on some lipstick and make sure I’m wearing a nice top. Working from home is great that way. Some day I’ll have a fancy office on Lexington Avenue, but right now, I don’t need it. I can meet with local clients at coffee shops or the arena, and my other clients are spread out over the country, so I usually travel to their cities to meet.
Before my meeting, I call Kevin and arrange to meet again later to put together a statement for the media.
When Kevin slides into the booth across from me in the coffee shop, I have my lecture prepared. Just call me “mom.” Ha.
“Okay,” I begin. “First of all, tell me why what you did was wrong.”
He chews on his bottom lip. “Um. It was…wrong.”
“It was assault.”
“It wasn’t that bad. I didn’t hurt her. And nobody’s gonna know about this.”
My eyes widen. “That doesn’t matter! The woman knows about it!”
He grimaces. His naïveté about this is concerning.
“It was that bad,” I continue. “You did hurt that woman—she didn’t want to be groped. You need to own what you did and apologize. Sincerely.”
He nods.
“This could be an important moment, if we handle it right. But…it’s not only about PR.” I lean forward. “I want to make sure you understand what happened.”
“Of course I understand.”
I’m not convinced. “It’s not okay to touch women without their consent. Ever. The ‘boys will be boys’ thing is a myth. You’re not a boy. You’re a man. What you did wasn’t blatant assault, but it crossed an acceptable boundary.”
“I wasn’t thinking at all,” he mutters, looking down at his hands. “I was hammered.”
“You know what I mean.”
“Yeah.”
“You were flirting. Even if she was friendly to you, that’s not an invitation.”
He nods.
“Look, Kevin.” I lean forward. “I know you’re a good guy. But I want to make sure you’re aware of your male privilege, so this never happens again. As a professional athlete, you’re held to a higher standard. We all know the guys in the league who’ve gotten in trouble for worse than this, right?”
