Working for one of the top agents in the business has its perks, but being one of the few women in a male-dominated field also has its downfalls. No matter how much I do to prove that I’m just as capable as the men who run this industry, there is always someone who thinks I don’t know my job just because I have a vagina.
Last year, I brought thirty million dollars into DMG, and I’m projecting close to forty this year. I didn’t have to sleep with anyone to get it. I hate when men assume I suck off general managers to make deals.
Once we reach the bottom of the stairs, I find Rico and Jamie behind the Flyers bench. I thank Murph for walking me to my seat, and he waves to Jamie and Rico before heading back up to the ground level. I can perfectly see the players from our seats. They’re facing the ice, completely focused on the game.
Jamie pulls me into his arms and plants a kiss on my cheek. His cologne and laundry detergent smell good, a spicy scent mixed with cotton. He’s tall, like me, but only an inch taller with his short blond hair gelled into spikes. Jamie is nerdy cute and the best person I have ever known.
“I was starting to think you’d never make it,” he says, releasing me from his grip. “Rico was about to eat your food. This kid can bust a grub. We’ve already eaten three soft pretzels, nachos, and two hot dogs.”
I look down at Rico with a smile and mess up his dark hair with my hand. “Damn, kid. Slow your roll.”
Rico chuckles, his arm swatting at mine. He is wearing a Kane jersey and jeans, the same outfit as Jamie. “I’m a growing boy, Coach. That’s what my mom always tells me.”
“Because you have a mom who can cook.”
I turn to Jamie and whisper, “Thanks for doing that for him.” He clearly bought the jersey Rico has on, something I would have done if I had made it to the game earlier.
“Don’t mention it. I was happy to do it.”
When we were kids, Jamie would save all the change he’d found on the ground just so he could buy us each an ice cream from the deli down the street from the school. We were lucky if our foster parents fed us dinner, so dessert was not a luxury we had at home.
In some ways, we were technically like brother and sister for the years we slept across from each other. Jamie was the person who encouraged me to play basketball. We used to pass the ball my father had given me back and forth in the dark when we couldn’t sleep, making a game out of who would drop the ball first. Most of the time, he lost.
Unlike me, Jamie is not very athletic, more of the computer-geek variety. But he kept me focused on school and sports, worked on my game with me at the court behind our elementary school, and made sure I kept my grades up for Villanova.
My dream of crawling out of the gutter to make a name for myself was also Jamie’s—until it all came crashing down one winter night. Jamie was by my side as they carried me off the court when I tore my ACL. He even slept in the waiting room at the hospital. Other than Mickey, Rico, and Rosario, Jamie is the closest I have to family.
“Sit down already!”
I look to the row behind me and find a bald middle-aged man yelling at us.
I raise my hand to tell him to chill out.
Jamie apologizes, and we take our seats.
My two favorite boys are next to me. This is perfect. Rico leans on my armrest to get a view of the players on my left. The chair is rock hard, and the man who complained is talking loudly about how the Flyers are lucky to have Alex Parker on the team and how he’s their only shot at making the playoffs after a ten-year drought.
Obnoxious does not even begin to describe our seatmate, but I’m just happy to be here with Jamie and Rico. And, for once, my cell phone is not ringing off the hook.
“Do you think you can get me an autograph after the game?” Rico points to the bench in front of us, separated by Plexiglas. His finger lands on my client and captain of the Flyers, Tyler Kane.
“Sure, buddy. How about I ask Kane to sign your jersey after the game?”
“Really?” Rico squeals. He flashes a broad grin that reaches up to his hazel eyes. “This is the coolest day of my life. Thanks, Coach.”
Tyler Kane is one of the few hockey players I represent and one of the most versatile players in the league. For someone with his talent, he’s underrated because of the terrible team rankings. But Tyler grew up in South Jersey, watching the Flyers, and it was always his dream to play for them if he ever made it pro. I could easily get him traded to a Stanley Cup winning team if he wasn’t so loyal.
I recently landed him huge endorsement deals with Under Armour and Bauer. On a team of mediocre players, Tyler really stands out, but now, he has hotshot Alex Parker to compete with for attention. Both men are womanizing pigs. I bet the two of them will get along nicely.
Jamie slides his arm across the back of my chair, and I lean back against him. He hands me an American hoagie—known as a sub sandwich to everyone else in the country—wrapped in white paper. My freshman year of college, I discovered the magical lunchmeat sandwich Philadelphians call a hoagie and have been eating at least one a week ever since.
“I had them put extra oil on it this time. I didn’t want to hear you moan about it being dry again.” He smirks. “Better eat up before the roll gets soggy.” Nodding at the soda in the cup holder attached to my chair, he says, “That’s for you, too.”
I unwrap the paper and lift one half
of my hoagie, holding it up to my mouth. “No chips? I’m a cheap date but not that cheap. Hand them over, Jameson.”
“Oh, you wanna play that game, Charles in Charge?” He laughs and then reaches under his chair to hand me a small bag of Herr’s potato chips that he retrieved from a Wawa convenience store bag.