Parker (Face-Off 1)

Lucky me!

Mickey insists I train new agents to see how much they’ll crack under pressure. Mickey used to be a no-nonsense, bend-you-until-you-break kind of person, but he hasn’t been the same since the loss of his best friend, John, who was also Alex Parker’s father.

As one of the leading sports agents in the country, there’s not a player I can’t handle or a deal I can’t close. But, because of my success, my boss turns to me instead of other agents at the firm, and he’s been working me harder than a hooker on Hollywood Boulevard—except I get my rocks off when I sign another player, turning a high school nobody into the next Kobe Bryant.

Once we’re informed the doors are open and we can leave this floating death trap, I reach for my messenger bag tucked under the seat in front of me and accidentally kick it with my foot. I sigh in frustration as the contents spill onto the floor. With me diving to collect them and Chuck bending down to help me, our foreheads collide, adding to the massive migraine I already have from Alex Parker.

Chuck hands me a whistle on a chain that also has a silver charm that has Coach—my nickname since college hoops—inscribed into the metal. “What do you use this for, drill sergeant?” He gives me a cocky smirk.

“If you must know”—I take the whistle from his hand, annoyed that I have the need to explain myself—“I coach a youth basketball team over at the rec center near my house.”

He chuckles and slaps me on the shoulder like we’re old pals. “I would’ve thought you ate kids for breakfast.”

“Ha! How do you know I don’t have Hansel locked in a cage to fatten him up before I eat him?”

Chuck makes a gagging sound. “You’re insane.”

I shrug. “Maybe, but I’m

trying to make a point. If you make stupid remarks, you will get equally stupid responses.”

Using both hands, I scoop my wallet, tampons, and miscellaneous items back into my bag and sling it over my shoulder. Then, I stand and nudge him to move into the aisle, so we can get off this mother-Chuck-ing plane.

He falls forward, giving me a tiny hint of satisfaction. He reaches for something to hold on to and ends up clamping down on the breast of a middle-aged woman. She should look mortified. Instead, she seems intrigued. Embarrassed, Chuck opens his mouth in horror, and he mutters a quick apology before he stomps down the aisle toward the exit.

After we have pulled into the parking garage in Center City Philadelphia and are riding the elevator up to our office located at 15th and Market Streets, Chuck finally looks in my direction, after avoiding me the entire ride. We have an incredible view of Philadelphia City Hall, one of the tallest masonry buildings in the world and quite possibly one of my favorites.

On days when I can spare an hour for lunch, I grab a coffee and doughnut from Dunkin’ Donuts, and then I sit on a bench along the west side of City Hall at Dilworth Park. It’s relaxing, a place I frequent as much as possible, though I haven’t had much time lately.

When the elevator doors open, Chuck mumbles, “This can’t be good.” His eyes are wide with surprise when he sees a receptionist running down the hallway that leads to Mickey’s office.

The phones are ringing, one after another, as the secretary pool and junior agents scramble to answer. Despite being one of the top sports agencies in the United States, DMG is never this busy, and I highly doubt all of this has anything to do with Alex Parker’s trade to Philadelphia.

I shake my head. “No, this is definitely not good.”

I charge past the reception desk, and for the first time in years, Linda doesn’t look up from her computer to greet me. Her blonde locks cover her face as she pounds on the keyboard in front of her, speaking so fast that I can barely understand a word. A group of agents is crowded around her desk, some of them spilling into the hallway that leads straight to Mickey’s office.

Glued to each of their faces are cell phones while papers pass between them. A senior agent is standing outside of his doorway, adjacent to Mickey’s, typing fast and furious on his cell phone and biting down on his lower lip.

With Chuck in tow, I march straight into Mickey’s office where I find more agents and secretarial staff perched on couches and seated at his conference table. A few are by the wall of windows that overlook City Hall.

Mickey has his palms pressed down hard onto his desk, the color fading from his knuckles, as he yells into his Bluetooth headset. Pulled into ten different directions, his dark hair is a mess. Without noticing me, he steps out from behind his desk to hand a notepad to an agent.

Mickey has a slightly crazy look about him, but he’s not completely disheveled in his thousand-dollar navy suit and dark brown wingtips. Although that’s not entirely true because his blue-and-white-striped tie is hanging loose around his neck while the buttons of his vest are open, exposing a white oxford with a coffee stain on it. He’s a hot mess.

The last time I saw him looking this bad was when we—

No! We must have lost a client. Judging by the current state of Donoghue Media Group, it’s a big one.

Using my hips, I give a few agents a gentle shove and move through the throng. I wave my hand in front of Mickey. He glances up from his desk, taking a break from whomever he’s been laying into, to acknowledge my presence.

“Charlie,” he says, relieved. “Finally! Why didn’t you answer any of my calls?” He sounds angry.

Confused, I fish my phone from my purse and see that it’s dead. No wonder our car ride from the airport was so quiet. I hold it up to show him, and he grunts in frustration.

Then, he peels the headset from his head and hands it to a tall man behind him, whom I think works in the television department. “Deal with this.”

Instead of demanding everyone to leave, something he does often, he cups my shoulder with a strong hand and leads me out the door. He doesn’t speak a word until we get to the end of the hallway.