Only One Touch (Only One #4) - Natasha Madison Page 0,16
we can go from there,” I say. “I know of two who would love to get traded but—”
“From where?” he asks, and without telling him who, I name the team. It doesn’t really matter because I have at least one client on each team.
“Tampa and Detroit,” I say. “Let me make a few calls and then you do the rest. But you have to know that I have no say in any of these. I deal with the contracts, not the trading.”
“I know the GM for both those teams, and we are on good terms, so you never know. You just get me the names of the players who are interested in trading, and I’ll do the rest from here.”
“Okay,” I say. “Give me a couple of hours.” I disconnect from him and call Graham, who plays for Detroit.
“Hey,” he says, answering right away. “What’s up?”
“Not much.” I play it cool. “You know me, just calling to check in. How is everything?”
“Meh,” he says. “My game is stuck at a standstill when I’m playing on the fourth line.” He starts to complain, and this is what I need.
“What do you want me to do?” I ask. “I can talk to Martin," I mention the team general manager, “and see what he says.”
“I don’t want him to get pissed at me and send me down to the farm team,” he says, and I shake my head.
“If he wants to send a five-million-dollar player down to the farm team when his team is going on a six-game losing streak …” I laugh. “I’ll call you back.” I pick up the phone and call Martin, who answers after four rings.
“Hello?” he says, and I almost roll my eyes. I know damn fucking well he has my number stored in his phone. Last year, he wanted one of my players, a free agent, and he called me nonstop for two months.
“Martin”—I tap my nail on the desk—“it’s Becca.”
“Hey, Becca, what can I do for you?” he asks.
“Well, I’m calling to ask you a couple of things,” I say. “I was just talking to Graham, and we were wondering where you think it’s going.”
He huffs out, and I don’t give him a chance to speak. “I’m just asking. He’s going to be a free agent at the end of the year, and if you keep him on the fourth line, chances are his numbers are going to go down.”
“You telling me how to run my team?” he says with a tone I don’t care for. It’s the tone all men use for I have a bigger penis than everyone. It’s also a tone that I know means I’m right.
“I’m just worried about my client,” I say. “At the end of the day, I don’t care if you play your goalie as a forward.” I sit up. “I care that if you aren’t going to play him, then why don’t we look at getting him on another team, and you can both be winner?”
“What the fuck does that mean?” he says.
“Martin, his contract is for five million a year,” I say, something he already knows. “When he becomes a free agent, I’m going for more. I mean, that isn’t a surprise. His numbers have always been good. He’s always been the top scorer even when he was with Pittsburgh.” Something else he already knows. “But if you are looking for a fourth-line player, you can get two players for the price of that one contract.”
“You have brass balls, Becca,” he says, and I smirk, knowing that I have him right where I want him.
“I heard some talk out of Dallas that they would like him,” I say, cutting to the chase.
“Have Nico call me,” he says. I throw my hands in the air and smirk, but he disconnects before I have a chance to thank him. I couldn't care less how hurt his ego is.
I dial Nico, who answers right away. “It’s been less than an hour.”
I smile when I hear his voice and ignore all my feelings at the moment. This is business. This is what I’m made for. “Well, what can I say? I’m good at what I do.”
“What do you have for me?” he asks.
“Graham Burns,” I say. “His contract is five million. He’s a free agent at the end of the year. His numbers are good, not great because he’s playing the fourth line,” I say what I told Martin. “I’m going for more when his contract expires.”