Page 36 of Token

Of course she remembered. Which was why a year later when she and Nate got together, she hadn’t said a word about it to Aurora.

“Well, I can guarantee you one thing—it isn’t like that with Nate. We’re cool and everything, but that’s it,” Kennedy assured her.

Lies. All lies.

“All right, if you say so.” Aurora didn’t appear entirely convinced. “Anyway, I’ve got to get going. I have a meeting in less than an hour. See you in a bit,” she said before exiting with a breezy wave.

Moments later, Jonathan poked his head in as if he’d been waiting for her to leave. “Roger O’Brien is here. He’s early, so do you want a few minutes to get your notes together, or are you ready to see him now?”

Roger O’Brien was the NHL player who’d been caught on tape uttering a racial slur. After the video surfaced, he lost two endorsement deals and his coach announced his one-month suspension. A loud and vocal minority didn’t think that was good enough. That was when the assistant coach had contacted her. She’d been recommended to him by Phil Draper, one of the executives she’d worked with at ECO Apparel, who’d gone as far as to tell them she’d be able to quiet the throng demanding Mr. O’Brien be kicked out of the league.

Kennedy checked the time, then took a quick look around her office. She wouldn’t call herself a neat freak, but she appreciated an organized space, which was how she strove to keep her workspace. Today it would make her neat-conscious mother proud. Tidy home, tidy mind and all that.

“Go ahead and send him in.”

“Roger that,” Jonathan deadpanned.

“Veryfunny.”

He responded with a deep laugh. “Thought you’d enjoy that one.”

After he left, Kennedy came to her feet and smoothed the flyaway curls around her face. Moments later, the starting left wing for the New York Scouts entered her office.

Good lord, he was big. Broad shoulders, big arms, thick thighs, and a jaw that resembled a bristled block of wood. He wasn’t bad looking, if you liked blunt features, spiky blond hair, and a wide forehead.

“Good morning, Mr. O’Brien. It’s nice to meet you.”

They shook hands. His was only slightly damp, and she hoped that was the result of nerves.

“Likewise.” There was a wariness in his brown eyes, conveying a level of uncertainty.

Kennedy added more teeth to her smile. “You don’t need to be nervous. I’ve been told I’m fairly harmless.”

Only then did he respond in kind, displaying a mouthful of pearly whites. Whether they were the originals, she couldn’t tell. Most hockey players had to have their dentists on speed dial, an oral surgeon if things got really bad. It was the nature of the game featuring a piece of vulcanized rubber that could reach speeds up to one hundred miles per hour. She’d done her research before agreeing to take the young left winger on as a client and was now as well versed in hockey jargon as she would ever be.

Once they were both seated, Kennedy opened with, “Feel free to call me Kennedy.”

He merely nodded, his unease still evident.

“Before we start, do you have any questions for me?”

“I just want you to know that I’m not a racist. You can ask any of my friends. I don’t have a racist—”

“Okay, Roger, I’m going to stop you before you complete that statement.” The phrase should be struck from the English language, if for no other reason than it was nonsensical. “I’m going to let you in on a little secret. Bones aren’t racist and the only organ you need to worry about regarding that is your brain. Now, I know what you’re thinking—that it’s a saying and you didn’t mean it literally?”

He gave a cautious nod as he watched her intently.

“Right, because what you’re really trying to say is how much of a racist you’re not, and I get that. But the truth is you’re a white man born and raised in this country, which means at the very least, even if we could attribute racism to any of the 206 bones in your body, the probability is pretty high that at least one of them is a tiny bit racist. In any case, saying you don’t have a racist bone in your body is always a nonstarter and something I like my clients to know from the get-go. Now, why don’t you start again?”

A deep red climbed up his thick neck to his already flushed face. “I didn’t call anyone the N-word. Not the way the media is portraying it. I’m not like that. My parents brought me up better than that. I’m not a racist. I don’t care what color you are or your sexual orientation. If I don’t like someone, it’s usually because they’re a fu—jerk.”

“I agree. No one likes a fucking jerk.”

That elicited both a laugh and a smile, bringing the tension in the room down a smidgen.

“Don’t worry about the language. We’re pretty informal around here, and I know how to curse in English, Spanish, and French.”

“Nice,” he said approvingly.

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