Petra squeezes my hand in a silent show of friendship, and my eyes drift over to the table where my moms’ group sits. They’ve all got their phones out and seem to be showing each other photos and videos, which is par for the course when we’re together.Look at my kid going down the slide for the first time. Look at this DIY project I completed entirely during my kid’s naps. Look at this sweet thing my husband did for me.Watching them, I feel lost—does any of that even matter anymore?
As Aleksandr tells Petra about a text they just got from their nanny, I let my gaze continue to slide across the room until I find Jackson and Sierra. They’re standing at the bar with their husbands, talking to a man I don’t recognize from behind. He’s as tall as Jackson’s husband, Nate, with dark hair that’s closely cropped along the back and sides, and slightly longer and wavy on top. His black suit jacket shows his very broad shoulders tapering to a thin waist.
“Hey,” Petra says as Aleksandr walks away from us, toward the bar. “What’s wrong?”
I haven’t got a poker face—something that Josh always teased me about—so I’m sure my confusion is written plainly across my features. This man is at my husband’s funeral, and talking to my friends, so why can’t I place who he is?
And then he turns toward Sierra’s husband, Beau, and I suck in a sharp breath as that perfect smile spreads across his face and recognition dawns. I gasp, and as Petra turns toward me, I mutter, “What ishedoing here?”
“Who?”
“Josh’s agent.”
“Why wouldn’t Josh’s agent be here?” Petra is right to be confused. She doesn’t know him, or know that we go way back—back to before I knew Josh.
Aleksandr approaches the group at the bar, walking right up to Jameson and they shake hands. No, no, no. Of all the people in this restaurant, how has Jameson found my closest friends to talk to?
“I ...” I stutter, not knowing how to answer her question. “It never occurred to me that he’d come all the way from Boston.”
“Of course he’d come if he’s Josh’s agent. Which one is he?” she asks, her eyes roaming the room.
I note the way Jameson and Aleksandr have their heads tucked into conversation, almost like the larger group isn’t there. “The one talking to your husband.”
She sucks in a breath. “Jameson Flynn was Josh’s agent?” she asks.
“Wait, how do you know him?”
“He’s Aleksandr’s agent,” she says, and now that she mentions it, it rings a bell. I think Jameson was already his agent when we both worked together at Kaplan Sports Management years ago. Back then, Alex Ivanov was still relatively new to the NHL, having played in the Kontinental Hockey League before that. “In fact,” she continues, “he’s responsible for getting me into the Honda Center for that playoff game last year. He kind of saved our relationship and my husband’s career.”
“Yousaved your relationship and his career,” I remind her. And apparently Jameson helped.
I turn toward Petra, making sure to keep my back to him. The fact that he’s here has knocked me off-kilter, and I will avoid looking at or talking to him as long as I can.
“You don’t seem too fond of him.”
“Because I’m not. He’s arrogant, competitive, and self-absorbed.” I only mention the qualities I observed at work and keep everything else out of the story.
“You know him that well?”
“We worked together at Kaplan. I was in sports marketing and he was an agent, obviously. All we did was fight.” The statement is mostly true. For years, he was my work nemesis, and then one night that all changed. And the next night he introduced me to my future husband. “He’s the one who introduced me and Josh, actually.”
Petra takes a sip of her drink and eyes me skeptically. “Why would he do that if you two disliked each other so much?”
I shrug. “It wasn’t like he set us up or anything. We were just at a work function together, and he was Josh’s agent, so he introduced us.”
The idea of Jameson beingjust“Josh’s agent” is almost amusing. He was a big deal even then—not yet as powerful in his career as he is now, but he’d only been out of the NHL for about five years at that point, so there was still a lot of star power behind his name. Everyone in the hockey world knew who Jameson Flynn was. And for reasons I still don’t understand, Josh was the only athlete he represented who wasn’t a hockey player.
Petra glances over to where Jameson stands next to Aleksandr, and when I turn my head in their direction, I see that her husband is motioning us over. “We have to go over there,” she insists. “You can just say hello, thank him for coming, and never see or talk to him again.”
It’s not like there’s much choice in the matter at this point. But as we walk over, the last words he said to me—almost five years ago, on my last day at Kaplan—are running through my head and turning my blood to fire. I don’t anger easily, but when I do—watch out. I have that temper redheads are known for, and unfortunately, Jameson Flynn has always known how to rile me up.
As Petra steps up next to her husband, I’m left between her and my former nemesis. I nod toward him. “Thanks for coming.”
“I’m so sorry this happened, Lauren,” he says. His face is somber and his voice matches, and the way he says my name lacks any of the vitriol it once had. He sounds ... truly sorry.
I press my lips between my teeth, willing myself to not start crying again, especially not in front of this man. I take a deep breath through my nose before I speak. “Thank you. I see you’ve already met my friends, so I won’t bother introducing you.”
I look away right as Petra elbows me in the side.
