Only One Touch (Only One 4)

He puts his hands in his pockets and looks over at Erika, who just smiles. “I don’t know. Maybe ten.”

“I had four,” I say. “Do you think something is wrong with the server?”

“What time did you go home last night?” he asks, and I just look at him. “Just answer the question.”

“A little after seven,” I say.

“Well, it could be that you answered everything before you left. You don’t have to be busy all the time, Becca,” he says, and I gasp.

“Don’t jinx me. And to answer your question, yes, I have to be busy all the time. It’s how I function.” He shakes his head and walks out of my office.

“What do you need me to do?” Erika asks. “I can start on a list of things that we need to tackle next month and see if I can get it going now.”

“Yes.” I point at her, and she smiles and walks out of my office. I pull out my chair when my phone rings, and my eyes light up. I pick it up and see that it’s Nico. My heart speeds up just a bit, and the smile doesn’t leave my face. “Well, well, well.” I turn in my chair and lean back, looking outside. “To what do I owe the pleasure of this phone call?”

“Well,” he says, his voice coming out gruff. “For one, I’m calling to thank you for the care package.” When he laughs, I hear the rustling of sheets, and I wonder if he’s still in bed. I wonder if he’s dating anyone. Oh my God, he’s probably dating someone. I’m going over everything in my head, and I’m not liking any of it.

“Well, you are more than welcome,” I say, sitting up. My stomach flips and flops at the thought of him with someone else. “I figured the hat was going to a good home.”

“That fucking hat,” he says, laughing. “You were not joking.”

I grab my coffee, taking a sip. “I told you.”

“I would have called you yesterday, but something came up.” He sounds tired.

“Are you okay?” I ask, and I sit up even straighter. “Is everyone okay? What happened?”

“We had an injury,” he says, and my heart sinks. “None of your guys.”

“I mean, thank God but …” I shake my head. “How bad?”

“Bad enough I’m calling you for a favor.” His voice is soft. “Definitely not the reason I wanted to have to call you,” he says, and I wonder what he means by that, “but I need help.”

“I mean, I can try,” I say. “What did you have in mind?”

“I need a right-winger,” he says, and I look up at the ceiling.

“It’s November,” I say. “You know that teams are just starting to get into their groove in November.”

“There has to be someone somewhere who isn’t happy,” he says. “Don’t tell me you can’t do this.”

I laugh. “Are you trying to get me fired up?” I ask. It’s his turn to chuckle, and I can picture what color his eyes are now.

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” he says.

“I can reach out to a couple of my guys to see, and we can go from there,” I say. “I know of two who would love to get traded but—”

“From where?” he asks, and without telling him who, I name the team. It doesn’t really matter because I have at least one client on each team.

“Tampa and Detroit,” I say. “Let me make a few calls and then you do the rest. But you have to know that I have no say in any of these. I deal with the contracts, not the trading.”

“I know the GM for both those teams, and we are on good terms, so you never know. You just get me the names of the players who are interested in trading, and I’ll do the rest from here.”

“Okay,” I say. “Give me a couple of hours.” I disconnect from him and call Graham, who plays for Detroit.

“Hey,” he says, answering right away. “What’s up?”

“Not much.” I play it cool. “You know me, just calling to check in. How is everything?”

“Meh,” he says. “My game is stuck at a standstill when I’m playing on the fourth line.” He starts to complain, and this is what I need.

“What do you want me to do?” I ask. “I can talk to Martin," I mention the team general manager, “and see what he says.”

“I don’t want him to get pissed at me and send me down to the farm team,” he says, and I shake my head.

“If he wants to send a five-million-dollar player down to the farm team when his team is going on a six-game losing streak …” I laugh. “I’ll call you back.” I pick up the phone and call Martin, who answers after four rings.

“Hello?” he says, and I almost roll my eyes. I know damn fucking well he has my number stored in his phone. Last year, he wanted one of my players, a free agent, and he called me nonstop for two months.