Page 12 of Perfect Playbook

Reggie

Your PA said you’re in Vegas at the Firenze?

What’s my agent chasing me for?

I text back.

Yeah. What’s up?

Reggie

I’ll be in the VIP bar nearest the entrance in twenty. Can you meet me?

Before texting back, I take one more hard scan of the room. It’s full but still so empty.

Yup. See you then.

When I arrive in the VIP bar, impressively on time, sadly, Reggie doesn’t look like he’s here for any sort of celebration. For the past three years, the only news Reggie has shared with me is good news, but his strained features are as if he’s in the process of getting a colonic.

“Were you already in Vegas, or do you just miss me?” I greet him. Maybe I can lighten the mood. Hopefully his tense expression isn’t because of me.

“I thought we better talk about this one in person.” He shifts in his seat and takes a sip of the drink he got while waiting for me.

Oh, it’s me, all right. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“You came all this way to talk?” I ask casually.

“Not really. I’m watching Carl’s fight at MGM tonight so I thought I could kill two birds with one stone.” He sitsback and throws his foot over his knee. “But Carl will win, which leaves me with only one bird to kill tonight.”

I glance around for a server so I can grab a drink, but a nearby guest is flirting with her. I only have a few minutes with Reggie anyway. I should get back to the wedding reception.

I stroke my top lip. “Judging by the fact you look constipated, I guess you’re not about to have me sign another million-dollar endorsement offer?”

A sarcastic laugh leaves his lips along with an equally cutting comment. “You’re lucky you do have your face, Logan, because that’s the only thing I can count on these days.”

If anyone else would have suggested I’m prettier than I am talented, I’d have taken offense. But Reggie and I have been working together since I first got drafted to the NHL. We’re not friends, but we’re straight. So this can only mean something has gone south.

He perches elbows on his knees, leaning over toward me. “Logan, I told you over a year ago to clean up your act.”

“You’re the one getting me these gigs in Vegas.” Are we seriously regurgitating this conversation? He didn’t have to talk to me face to face for this. “If Coach is banging on about these appearances again, you’re as much to blame. My image is your doing.”

“Me?” His eyes light up with surprise.

“Yes, you. I get the publicity is good but I told you a year ago these hired hands and fake dates needed to stop.”

He’s flabbergasted. “You think having a new woman on your arm every day is the problem? My job is to make you money. Not be your moral compass. The ladies and resulting publicity aren’t the problem, Logan. Shutting down clubs every time you’re out is your problem.”

I check my watch.

The smallest amount of pink shows under his light-brown skin, and I’m not sure it’s from the vodka tonic. I annoyed him.

His nostrils flare when he speaks. “Are you checking your watch because you’re busy? You won’t be so busy if you get traded and find yourself playing third string on some shitty team.”

My hand lowers slowly to the armrest, and I grip the leather. “Traded?”

The word liquifies my stomach, and I guess my response is visible because Reggie clears his throat and composes himself almost apologetically. “Yeah, man. That’s the rumor.”

Traded?

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