Page 26 of Shootout Daddies
Harold Halpern. Senior managing partner. Forty years with the firm, razor-sharp, unshakeable.
“Landon,” he says when I enter. His voice is clipped, businesslike. “Come in.”
He doesn’t ask me to sit. That’s fine. I prefer standing when I don’t know if I’m being praised or gutted.
“We’ve picked up a new client. High profile. Time sensitive.”
I nod once. “Alright.”
“You’re being assigned to represent the Miami Icemen.”
I blink. “The hockey team?”
His brow lifts like he’s already bored. “Yes. The hockey team.”
I process that. “Sir, I don’t know anything about hockey.”
“You don’t need to. They’ve got PR. Marketing. Coaches. You’re not there to check their stats. You’re there to handle contracts, compliance, and any legal issues that arise. Think of it as babysitting with a JD.”
I pause. “May I ask why me?”
He leans back slightly. “Because you need a change of scenery, Landon. Everyone knows it. And this firm”—his eyes pin me, sharp now—“doesn’t operate like a therapy clinic. You’re valuable. But you’ve been drowning. And now, you get air. We want you sharp again.”
Ah. There it is. Not pity, exactly. Not concern. Just business. They’re shifting the broken piece to a less visible shelf so it doesn’t mess up the display.
“Besides,” he adds, reaching for a folder, “you’re being placed with someone who knows the territory well. Allyson Chen. She’s been embedded with the team for two years now. She’ll be your point of contact.”
Allyson. Of course. The firm’s golden child. I’ve never met her, but I’ve read enough firm-wide updates to know she’s fast, efficient, and absolutely doesn’t tolerate bullshit. If I’mbeing assigned to her, it’s because she asked for someone who wouldn’t slow her down.
Halpern hands me the folder. I flip it open. Training schedules. Media briefs. A basic compliance matrix. And a keycard envelope tucked into the back flap.
“What’s this?”
“Penthouse condo. South Beach. Temporary housing. You’ll be flown out tonight on the red-eye. Pack light, wear something that doesn’t scream midwestern funeral.”
I glance up. “This is for my entire stay?”
“Until October, yes. Then the permanent team will rotate in.”
I manage a nod. “Understood.”
He waves a hand, already turning toward his next email. “You’re dismissed. Contact Leah if you need help arranging transport.”
I leave the office slower than I entered. My mind is already calculating the pieces I need to move—cancel the gym trainer, put my place on the sublet market, let my mom know I’ll be gone.
And then, of course, there’sher.
Teresa.
My ex-wife.
The firm might not be a therapy clinic, but everyone sure as hell acted like mine was the most fascinating train wreck they’d ever seen. Partners whispering in elevators. Associates trying not to look too curious in meetings.
Leah—sweet, professional Leah—being asked by some prick from mergers whether she “felt safe” working under me during my “emotional period.”
The divorce was bad. Public, messy, and sensational. Made worse by the fact that Teresa chose to hire one of our rival firms. That made it front-page fodder in every legal gossip circle in the city. And she made sure everyone knew why.
“He’s emotionally repressed. He has no vision. He wouldn’t let me grow.”
