Chapter 1
Brianna Crawford:
The rhythmic hum of the treadmill’s belt paired with the sharp slap of fast-moving sneakers, echoed through the quiet, empty gym.
It was 4:00 am and I was the only one in the third floor gym.
After hours of tossing and turning and trying to fall back asleep, I finally decided that I was better off getting out of bed. I needed to get an early start on today.
The anticipation of the decisions ahead leered in the back of my mind.
It was Sunday, and what psycho thinks about work on a Sunday for god sakes?
But you’re looking at her—I’m the psycho that I’m referring to.
I’m the psycho who thinks about work on a Sunday.
In a few hours I’d hear if I closed the biggest deal of my life.
The chance to work with Hockey star, Frederick Quinn, captain of the Detroit Snow Leopards.
I couldn’t sleep a wink last night thanks to it. It was the deal of a lifetime—one that agents literally salivated over.
Frederick Quinn wasn’t just a hockey team captain, he was the fastest skater in the league, had the most goals under his belt last season, and on top of it was the youngest captain in National Canadian and American Hockey League (NCAHL) history.
In other words, if you didn’t catch it already—- he’s a big deal.
Frederick Quinn is the big deal. He’s the NCAHL at the moment. He’s the most wanted member of the league, and on top of it, he’s the most coveted and talked about player. At just 23 years old, he became team captain to a team on the rise.
That’s a big feat—no— an incredible feat.
And that’s why this is a big day for me. I needed to make sure that Frederick Quinn chose me as his new agent.
A few weeks ago, his old agent really screwed the pooch, literally. His previous agent was skimming money off of Frederick’s salary bonus from the Snow Leopards, and got caught red handed.
Ever since then, Frederick’s been a free agent, and any good agent with a big enough ego and a big enough name was looking to sign him.
And luckily, I had both.
My father was Eddie Crawford, yes—the Eddie Crawford—world renowned sports agent who had a big mouth and took no shit from anyone.
Luckily, my father taught me a thing or two before he passed, and god rest his soul that he never gave me any siblings, because I’m sure we all would’ve taken after him and inherited his competitive nature and his take no shit attitude, along with his ruthless business tactics. We would’ve been at each other’s throats.
And I still miss him everyday. I still remember his essential teachings and methods in my upbringing. It wasn’t conventional by any means, but at the end of the day, he crafted me into the woman I am.
My father died last year, so it’s not like he didn’t get to see his prodigy in action. At 23 years of age I was able to amass a range of clients, tenured hockey players, and fresh green ones too, all thanks to my father.
Now, I’m pushing 30 years old, and have seven years as a hockey agent under my belt and still waiting for my biggest signing yet. That being—-Frederick Quinn.
And now you can see why I’m running at 9 mph on a treadmill at the butt crack of dawn on a Sunday morning—sweating bullets and over-thinking.
It took my father 10 years to get his big break and sign a world renown hockey player that held a humongous amount of prestige and merit. His name was Clark Taylor, and he’s incredible. He won not one—not two—not three—but four Stanley cups and played hockey for over 20 years. Yes, he was an old man when he retired and he still was the best in the league. He’s what people refer to as the ‘GOAT’—The Greatest of All Time. And he was.
I wanted to beat my father’s record and sign my first world renown hockey player after 7 years, instead of 10 years time.
I was his daughter after all— bred to be competitive, cunning, and constantly scheming. I knew he’d be proud if I did.
Running was supposed to calm the mind but for me it did the exact opposite. It only made me more jittery. Call it my undiagnosed ADHD but I just couldn’t stop thinking about it, no matter how hard I tried.
So I ran along the treadmill, hitting mile number 3 at the same 9 mph speed and finally decided that my legs felt enough like jell-o and I was on the verge of passing out, so it seemed like a good enough time to stop.
I pressed the cool down button on the machine, and watched the conveyor belt underneath my feet come to a slowing stop.
My gaze fixated on the worn out belt, staring at it as if it was going to grow eyes and start speaking to me at any given moment before I regained active consciousness and eventually pried my feet off of the machine and slugged a long gulp of cold water.
I lived in New York, big surprise I know. But all the good sports agents live in New York.
First off, it’s an international hub— you can get anywhere in the world on a plane in New York. Second off, it has the best food. Third off, after my father divorced my mother moved us to New York from Chicago and I never looked back. Even though I only spent my teenage years here, they were still formative years that I appreciated.
New York was home to me as much as Chicago was but the only difference was that I actually liked living in New York.
I lived in one of the more expensive buildings in New York City, overlooking the bustle of the upper east side. It’s a luxury condominium with an incredible view and an impeccable neighborhood. On top of it, it has a parking garage and a luxury gym, which is like currency in New York. It’s hard to find either.
I quickly clicked the up button on the elevator and tapped my foot impatiently as I waited for the door to open.
At this hour, luckily most of my condominium mates were sleeping, so I rode the elevator alone until I reached the seventh floor.
It was nearly six am when I finally felt a tad more relaxed than I had a few hours ago. The sun was beginning to rise over the New York skyline and paint the city yellow, orange, and pink under its early morning light.
I wrapped my hands more tightly around the warm coffee cup, letting it’s comforting aroma drift up and calm me even more.
A few more hours, Bri, and you’ll be the next top wanted agent in the entire city. You’ll be envied. You’ll be the top dog. You’ll be that bitch.
Yes, I called myself a bitch, sue me.
I’m aggressive and I can be a bit crude, but it’s always served me well in the ruthless world of hockey agents. I know what I’m doing and I own it. I’m unapologetically me.
My assistant tells me some can find it unsettling or abrasive but it’s worked for me so far. I have a total of fifteen players signed, and seven of them who have been with me from the beginning. No one’s left me so far, so that’s a good sign.
Another hour rolled around so I indulged myself in a second cup of coffee as I waited for the inevitable—a call from my assistant and my best friend Natalie, which would be either good or bad. Either way I’d get a call.
I finished the second cup of coffee and decided that I needed to make myself something to eat before my stomach ate itself.
A few eggs and some toast would do.
I ate in a hurry, eyeing my phone intently the entire time, waiting for the notification to pop up onto the phone screen but nothing, at least yet.
After a good thirty minutes of staring intently at my cell phone in agony, it finally lit up and the notification with the name Natalie.
Finally, I thought, hastily bringing the phone to my ear in a hurry. “I’ve been up since 3 am Nat, and before that I don’t think I even slept a wink,” I quickly babbled out.
The other end was silent.
And that’s when I knew I was completely and utterly fucked.
This was going to be bad news, wasn’t it?
“Shit! Fucking shit!” I yelled, almost slamming my phone against my face in anger.
“It’s okay Bri,” Natalie began, trying to calm me.
But it wasn’t helping. Nothing would help. I was pissed.
She didn’t even have to speak, I knew what her silence meant.
“We’re fucked, aren’t we? This is such an embarrassment!” I groaned.
“Uh—well, we’re not fucked. We’ve still got fifteen great signed agents. We’re still on top, Bri.”
“We’re anywhere from the top, Nat!” I laughed with anger. “We’re thrashed. We didn’t get chosen as the agent for Frederick Quinn!”
“It’s not a big deal, Bri. You have other signed players and you’ve never been dropped before,” she consoled me.
“Rejection hurts worse.”
“I swear we’ll find another prospect to sign in a weeks’ time, trust me Bri. You know I have a knack for finding talent.” Her tone was relaxed even through the chaos.
I got to my feet and started pacing back and forth in irritation. “This is disastrous, I’m not sure how we’ll recover.”
“We’ll recover just fine,” she reaffirmed.
“Who did he pick then?” I asked frantically.
“Bri…” Natalie pleaded.
“Tell me, Nat!”
“I don’t think you want to know. I’ll only make you more pissed,” she let out a heavy breath.
“It’s not like he could pick Vance Dalbert, so you might as well tell me. Nothing could make me as angry as that would,” I sighed.
“Bri…” Nat’s voice was lower.
“Don’t even tell me, Nat. Don’t fucking tell me. How is that even possible? Vance is fully booked, he couldn’t even open a space if he wanted to, not unless he did some restructuring or dumped a player,” I babbled on. “Don’t tell me…. Please…”
“I won’t tell you,” she affirmed.
“No! It’s rhetorical! Tell me!” I all but begged.
“You’re going to flip out.”
“Just tell me. Get it over with,” I muttered.
“It’s Vance Dalbert.”
“How is that possible?” I yelled at the top of my lungs. I was squeezing the dear life out of my phone, I felt it heat in my grasp.
“He dropped a player from his roster yesterday,” he squeaked out in a whisper. “I think he was planning to do it all along to make room for Frederick. We were blind sided.”
“You bet your ass we were!” I seethed. “Who? What poor soul did he drop to make room for his precious, Frederick?”
“Ty LeFleur,” she whispered.
I mean, I don’t blame Vance for dropping him. Tyler LeFleur was a fuck up beyond fuck ups. He was older, pushing at least 33 years old, which is very old for a hockey player but he’s actually quite a decent player—-quick on his skates, good at goals, but he’s a PR media disaster. If he’s not fucking someone’s wife then he’s getting kicked out of a bar.
“I’m surprised he didn’t do it sooner, but it looked like he planned it appropriately. Damn it, Nat we should’ve seen this one coming,” I told her.
“But we didn’t. And now we have to move on, Bri. It’s not good beating yourself about stuff like this.”
She always was the rational one.
“You’ll sign someone better.”
“Sure,” I laughed.
“Don’t sulk around all day, please?” she asked.
“Oh, I am planning on it.”
“I know but I have a great idea! Why don’t we go to Sabel’s tonight? For a nice dinner and drinks? You deserve it.”
“Good luck making a reservation,” I told her.
She and I both knew Sabel’s was booked up for months ahead of time. It was the place for anybody and anyone in New York to go.
“How about this? If I get us a reservation then you promise you’ll go?” she pleaded.
“Sure, I guess after we lost one, we might as well lose another,” I told her. “Bye Nat.”
I tossed the phone onto the floor then hauled myself onto the couch.
