1. Finn

Finn

I see the smudge on the marble floor the minute I walk in the front door.

“Penny!” I call over my shoulder, already annoyed. I shouldn’t have to micromanage everything in this damn office. It should be beautiful to anyone else walking in for the first time. With soaring ceilings and light from the expansive windows, my office glows with sunshine. There are plants placed strategically throughout the space—they’re clinically proven to improve mood and function.

Filtered water, kombucha, and local tea are available on tap. The chairs are ergonomic and thousands of dollars apiece. When I catch a glimpse of myself in the shine of my office door, I look right at home in the reflection, wearing a sharp navy suit and holding a vintage leather purse. My shoes match, with all my jewelry and accents in simple, elegant gold.

The only thing that’s off is the oily swipe right in the center of the room, and it itches at the edges of my attention like a smudge on glasses, or a screen with a single pixel missing.

“Yeah, boss?” Penny asks, her shoes clicking as she appears at my door immediately. I glance up at her, taking a deep breath and gesturing at the floor. Penny is young, and it’s not her fault that someone else can’t do their job, so I keep my voice as level as I can when addressing her.

“Would you please do me the favor of firing the current cleaning company and hiring one that can polish the floor correctly ? We’ll hire independently if we have to. Just find someone who knows what they’re doing and pay them to do it.”

“On it.” Penny nods once and disappears from the door, her copper ponytail streaking out behind her.

I settle into my desk, letting out a breath. I don’t need to explain to her why it’s important that the lobby floor is blemish-free. I don’t need to explain to her why it’s important that she and I—and every other person on my team—is dressed impeccably, ready for the day, punctual, and friendly.

Penny knows why. She knows that when our clients come in— my high-paying, high-achieving clients—they expect nothing less than perfection. My job is to maximize their lives, to find their flaws and right them. How can I promise to do that when I can’t even ensure the lobby is clean? There’s no way I can charge for perfection, that I can give Penny such a lavish paycheck and reimburse her college tuition, with a smudge on the fucking floor.

Efficiently, I unpack my purse and arrange my things on the desk before hanging my purse from the small hook on the side.

“Finn?”

When I look up, Penny is standing at the doorway, a sour look on her face. I know that look right away—it’s something to do with Anna.

“There’s a call for you,” Penny forces out, already wincing when I roll my eyes.

“That woman is so creative,” I mutter, tapping my tablet to wake the screen up. Apparently, she will never get the hint that I don’t want to talk to her. “Just hang up and add that number to the spam list.”

Penny lingers for a moment, then nods, “You got it.”

I don’t have time for Anna. There is no time in my jam-packed schedule for people who don’t respect me or my time. Or my pride.

According to my calendar, I have an important call coming in this morning, and I need to be at the top of my game. I never take calls from clients unless I’m in a positive, confident mood.

There’s just enough time for me to hear Penny ending the call outside before the phone in my office rings.

“Yes, hello,” I say, clearing my throat and answering, making sure not to smile, but to adopt an expression of complete confidence. I have emails to go through, plans to draft, and two clients coming in today, but Penny wouldn’t be sending a call through if it wasn’t important. “Dr. Finley Asher speaking.”

Doctor of psychology. Masters degree in anatomy and physiology. Second masters in business administration and management. Certificates in sports medicine management, leadership, and yoga instruction. There is not a person on this planet who could argue I’m not qualified to do what I do.

Though there are plenty of people who are surprised to learn that what I do is , in fact, a real thing. A job title that I hold—elite athlete coach. Sometimes, people assume that means I’m something like a trainer or a physical therapist. While I do, sometimes, team up with those people, what I do is entirely different.

My job is to maximize potential. Take athletes from being okay to being the greatest at their particular sport. Part of my appeal is that I don’t flaunt about my clients, but let’s just say a certain basketball player from Akron has promised me an autographed photo of him holding his most recent Larry O’Brien.

“Dr. Finley Asher,” the voice on the other end of the line says, jolting me out of my thoughts. I immediately recognize the voice as belonging to Grey Aldine, current head coach of the most winningest team in the NHL, the Vermont Vipers, and a former Viper superstar himself.

Aldine has a distinct sound. It’s low and certain, and I recognize it from its constant presence on my TV, and also from the few times we’ve spoken in person.

My mind whirs, and I try to figure out what the Grey Aldine could possibly be calling me for. Sure, the Vipers have recently lost a great player, Devon Chambers, to retirement. But it’s my understanding that Brett Ratcliff—drafted as a rookie—is stepping up.

I tap my pen against the desk and think about Ratcliff’s story. In my opinion, he was brought to the NHL too young, and may have enjoyed some time in the minor leagues to mature.

Last year, while watching him play, I’d felt certain I could have done numbers on that kid. So much potential he was wasting by acting impulsively and making a fool of himself. There were several times I’d gone so far as to draft an email to Grey, but some sort of scandal—I can’t remember exactly what—made it less appealing to go after him as a client, and I dropped it.

Apparently, and to the Viper’s benefit, he managed to grow up just in time.

I know about the Vipers and their current position because I stay abreast of all sports news, not because I’m a Vipers fan, or even a hockey fan. I don’t watch sports for entertainment. I watch for information. Lead generation.

Sitting back in my chair, I tap my mouth with the edge of my pen. Try to determine what—or who exactly—this call might be about.

“Coach Aldine,” I say, voice low, wondering for a moment if he might be calling me about potentially going for a coaching spot with a different team. “To what do I owe the pleasure?”

“I know you’re a busy woman,” he says, that familiar crinkly laugh in his voice, “but I was wondering if you could do me a favor.”

In an instant, I realize this isn’t about him. Aldine would never leave Burlington anyway—he’s hard at work building himself a little family. Little later in life than what I’d consider to be best, but to each her own.

“You’re going to have to be a little more specific than that, Grey.”

“Well,” he says, and I recognize that he’s winding up in the way he does before a long speech. I’ve watched this man on TV, and met him in person.

We met during a conference for sports leadership and hit it off. I was pleased to meet his wife and daughters, who were very pleasant. Even if seeing his wife holding their third baby made me ache with a deep, unsettled longing.

“As you know, I’m in a position to win the Vipers their fourth Stanley Cup,” he says. “But we just lost Devon.”

Devon Chambers, former amazing right-hand man turned superstar front-runner. Two seasons ago, he went on an outstanding run, single-handedly bringing the Vipers to the championship. I click onto my computer quickly. I’ve been working with basketball players, so I’m not as caught up on the hockey world as I should be.

The moment I Google Devon Chambers , I see article after article about his recently announced retirement. Not only is the internet working up a storm over this, but it looks like Grey called me mere hours after the news broke. Which means he’s feeling some kind of pressure about this. I tap my pen against my lips again and wonder if this was a last-minute decision.

“My,” I cluck, leaning back in my chair again, “people just keep getting older, it seems.”

“Right,” Grey says. “Well, team is weaker without him. We have Ratcliff, but shitty prospects. No room for trades at the moment.”

“Well, I certainly don’t have any great hockey players for you, Aldine.”

“Ah, but you could make one for me. Got this guy—Sammy Braun. Kid wants to be great, still early enough in his career that he could turn it around. I saw what you did for Greggors. I think you could do that for this one, too.”

Typing quickly, I look up this new name—Sammy Braun. An attractive young man pops up. I scroll through his page, scanning over his stats, his achievements—nothing special.

“What makes you think he’s worth my time?” I ask, still scrolling. Without meaning to, I click over to this Instagram, blinking when I see an image of him on his back in the grass, an Australian Shepard curled into his side.

There’s a wide, goofy smile spread over his face, and I stop scrolling for a moment, just staring at it. At him. I don’t realize I’m spacing out before Aldine speaks again, making me jump slightly.

“Just come out here,” Aldine says. And before I can protest, he adds, “ I know you don’t like to leave the coast. But the team will pay for it. And besides, the mountains might do you some good.”

“California has mountains.”

“Not like in Vermont.”

I realize I’m chewing on the end of my pen and scowl, tossing it into the waste basket. That is the last of my bad habits, and it’s been a bitch to break it.

“I’ll think about it.”

“Just name your price, Asher,” Grey says. “We could break league records here. We have sponsorships rolling in on all sides. The administration is throwing money at me, practically begging me to spend it. I want to pay you to make this goalie amazing.”

“You want a fourth cup, don’t you?” I ask, hastily scrolling to another photo on Sammy Braun’s Instagram. It’s him and a young woman standing together at what looks like a syrup factory. I shudder when I think about all the cutesy stuff that will surely be going on in Vermont this fall, with the maple syrup and the mountains.

“I’d be a liar if I said no,” Aldine says, which draws me out of my shudder and makes me smile. Of course I was right. This is something I’m good at—pushing aside the curtains and getting into the heart of what it is a person truly wants. In the past, it’s been a break-through moment for clients, when they realize what they’ve been saying they want isn’t exactly the full truth.

Aldine continues, “But I do think this kid is worth it. I think he’s got exactly the kind of potential you’re looking for.”

I take a breath, staring that the hockey player motionless on the screen, his dark green eyes peering back at me. There’s something about the set of his shoulders, the curve of his mouth. If I’m taking this case, I’ll have to start researching immediately .

It’s usually a months-long process to prepare myself for a client. I have worked with hockey players before, but it’s been a minute. Besides just updating myself on the current information for the league, I also need to learn everything there is to know about Sammy Braun. I’ll have to observe him, discover what his diet and exercise routines look like. Meet with his doctors and trainers. Evaluate and update his plans and schedules, and implement them where they don’t exist.

Sammy Braun still stares at me from the screen.

To do this job right, I’ll have to get to know him the way I do with all my clients. I’ll meet his family, learn about his past issues, talk to his therapist—with permission from him, of course. By the end of our time together, I’ll be an expert on him. I’ll know his friends and family, I’ll know who the young woman in this picture is to him. Sister, friend, cousin—or something more.

“Fine,” I say after a very long moment of silence over the line. I don’t miss the exhalation of relief on the other side from Aldine. “But there had better be a Hilton in that fucking town, Aldine. If I show up and I’m in a log cabin, I’m turning right back around and getting on the first plane home. This will not be the Lifetime movie of the hardcore city girl turned into sweet Vermont maple syrup.”

“You’re thinking of Hallmark,” he says, a laugh in his voice.

I don’t watch TV, so I’d have no way of knowing for sure. What I do know is that if I show up there and a single person makes a joke about me being a “city slicker,” I’m getting on the next flight straight back to L.A..

“I’m thinking ‘no way in hell,’” I retort. “I just want to make sure we’re clear on that. If I leave California for you, it had better be worth my time. I’ll have Penelope send over a proposal with my rate. And I’m telling you, Aldine, that figure is going to take your breath away.”

“A man can only hope,” he jokes, and then, “I have to go—I have to talk to someone about hastily building a luxury hotel.”