“Okay now, don’t go getting me all weepy,” she said, handing the iPad back to her. “I would do this for any best friend of mine whose brother needed a Black female beard.”

  “A Black female beard?” Aurora snorted a laugh. “Is that your new name for it?”

  “If the beard fits,” Kennedy replied as she stroked her chin and then pantomimed tugging at an imaginary beard. Aurora giggled. “Oh, by the way, your brother is taking me out to dinner this weekend, so don’t be surprised if there’s something about that in the papers next week. Although, with everything else going on with our new client, I don’t think our date is going to make news unless it’s a really slow news day.”

  “Some best friendly advice when it comes to my brother—please be careful with him.”

  “Please be careful with him?” Kennedy repeated, utterly bemused. If Aurora had said watch out for him, she’d understand.

  “You just got out of a relationship and...well, you know.” Aurora ended with a shrug.

  Kennedy was having a hard time understanding what she was getting at. “Hold on a sec—you think I might do something to him?” And not the other way around? Something like taking a meat tenderizer to her heart again?

  Aurora gave her the who do you think you’re fooling? look. “C’mon, Ken. You have to know by now that he has a thing for you. Has for a long time. Why do you think he’s always been kind of standoffish with you?”

  Mind blown, Kennedy sat there, eyes wide and mouth at risk of catching flies. “I don’t understand,” she croaked once her shock wore off. Where was this coming from? Had he told his sister about them?

  “He used to ask me about you all the time. Pretended it was about our parents and that he wanted to make sure you weren’t trying to use me to get to them.” Aurora huffed a laugh. “It’s a good thing he’s good at what he does, because he can’t act his way out of a paper bag.”

  “I—I’m sure you’re wrong,” Kennedy protested. Not the part about him being attracted to her—maybe still was—but that she had the ability to hurt him. No way did she hold that much sway over him.

  Aurora planted her hand on her hip, arm akimbo. “Believe me, I know my brother.”

  Kennedy’s pulse pounded loudly in her ears. She swallowed hard before asking, “Why didn’t you say anything about it before?”

  “Because you were going out with Xavier at the time. And then remember I told you about the one and only time he went out with one of my friends? Jessie and I stopped speaking after they broke up. It completely destroyed our friendship, and I didn’t want that to happen to us.”

  Of course she remembered. Which was why a year later when she and Nate got together, she hadn’t said a word about it to Aurora.

  “Well, I can guarantee you one thing—it isn’t like that with Nate. We’re cool and everything, but that’s it,” Kennedy assured her.

  Lies. All lies.

  “All right, if you say so.” Aurora didn’t appear entirely convinced. “Anyway, I’ve got to get going. I have a meeting in less than an hour. See you in a bit,” she said before exiting with a breezy wave.

  Moments later, Jonathan poked his head in as if he’d been waiting for her to leave. “Roger O’Brien is here. He’s early, so do you want a few minutes to get your notes together, or are you ready to see him now?”

  Roger O’Brien was the NHL player who’d been caught on tape uttering a racial slur. After the video surfaced, he lost two endorsement deals and his coach announced his one-month suspension. A loud and vocal minority didn’t think that was good enough. That was when the assistant coach had contacted her. She’d been recommended to him by Phil Draper, one of the executives she’d worked with at ECO Apparel, who’d gone as far as to tell them she’d be able to quiet the throng demanding Mr. O’Brien be kicked out of the league.

  Kennedy checked the time, then took a quick look around her office. She wouldn’t call herself a neat freak, but she appreciated an organized space, which was how she strove to keep her workspace. Today it would make her neat-conscious mother proud. Tidy home, tidy mind and all that.

  “Go ahead and send him in.”

  “Roger that,” Jonathan deadpanned.

  “Very funny.”

  He responded with a deep laugh. “Thought you’d enjoy that one.”

  After he left, Kennedy came to her feet and smoothed the flyaway curls around her face. Moments later, the starting left wing for the New York Scouts entered her office.

  Good lord, he was big. Broad shoulders, big arms, thick thighs, and a jaw that resembled a bristled block of wood. He wasn’t bad looking, if you liked blunt features, spiky blond hair, and a wide forehead.

  “Good morning, Mr. O’Brien. It’s nice to meet you.”

  They shook hands. His was only slightly damp, and she hoped that was the result of nerves.

  “Likewise.” There was a wariness in his brown eyes, conveying a level of uncertainty.

  Kennedy added more teeth to her smile. “You don’t need to be nervous. I’ve been told I’m fairly harmless.”

  Only then did he respond in kind, displaying a mouthful of pearly whites. Whether they were the originals, she couldn’t tell. Most hockey players had to have their dentists on speed dial, an oral surgeon if things got really bad. It was the nature of the game featuring a piece of vulcanized rubber that could reach speeds up to one hundred miles per hour. She’d done her research before agreeing to take the young left winger on as a client and was now as well versed in hockey jargon as she would ever be.

  Once they were both seated, Kennedy opened with, “Feel free to call me Kennedy.”

  He merely nodded, his unease still evident.

  “Before we start, do you have any questions for me?”

  “I just want you to know that I’m not a racist. You can ask any of my friends. I don’t have a racist—”

  “Okay, Roger, I’m going to stop you before you complete that statement.” The phrase should be struck from the English language, if for no other reason than it was nonsensical. “I’m going to let you in on a little secret. Bones aren’t racist and the only organ you need to worry about regarding that is your brain. Now, I know what you’re thinking—that it’s a saying and you didn’t mean it literally?”

  He gave a cautious nod as he watched her intently.

  “Right, because what you’re really trying to say is how much of a racist you’re not, and I get that. But the truth is you’re a white man born and raised in this country, which means at the very least, even if we could attribute racism to any of the 206 bones in your body, the probability is pretty high that at least one of them is a tiny bit racist. In any case, saying you don’t have a racist bone in your body is always a nonstarter and something I like my clients to know from the get-go. Now, why don’t you start again?”

  A deep red climbed up his thick neck to his already flushed face. “I didn’t call anyone the N-word. Not the way the media is portraying it. I’m not like that. My parents brought me up better than that. I’m not a racist. I don’t care what color you are or your sexual orientation. If I don’t like someone, it’s usually because they’re a fu—jerk.”

  “I agree. No one likes a fucking jerk.”

  That elicited both a laugh and a smile, bringing the tension in the room down a smidgen.

  “Don’t worry about the language. We’re pretty informal around here, and I know how to curse in English, Spanish, and French.”

  “Nice,” he said approvingly.

  “Believe me, it comes in handy sometimes. Okay, I’ve spoken briefly to your coach and I listened to the audio. In your own words, I want you to tell me what happened and anything else you think I should know.”

  The damning audio in question was of Roger calling his friend the N-word but with what some considered the more acceptable “gga” ending, because that wasn’t offensive. Cue mental eye roll. It was like some people never learned.

  “Me and my buddy were playing GTA and talking shit the way we always do. When I called him the—you know—N-word, I didn’t say it in a nasty way. It’s just a name we call each other sometimes. I wasn’t saying it to be racist. How could I—he’s white.”

  That was his saving grace in the entire situation. Had he said it to a Black person, he wouldn’t be sitting in front of her.

  “But why that word when there’s a host of other names you could choose from? My best friend is white, and I call her Ror or Rory because her name is Aurora. What’s your friend’s name?”

  “Weston.”

  “Then why not West or Wes? Or maybe even dickface, if your aim is to be affectionately insulting?” Of course, she knew why, but her job was to get him to understand his own motivation.

  “I’m sorry, but dickface? That’s fucking lame,” he huffed, because apparently that was insulting.

  “Ah, so you think calling Weston the N-word sounds cool?” He’d probably watched one too many rap videos.

  A look of discomfort contorted his face. “I don’t know.Maybe. I mean, that’s what some of the Black guys I know call each other.”

  Kennedy wrinkled her nose in distaste. “I know. And I’m not a fan of that either.” She really wanted to say if they jumped off a cliff, would you? but wisely refrained. There was a graveyard of recalcitrant youth at the bottom of that cliff. No need to add to the ever-growing body count.

  However, in the good-news category, he knew some Black guys. “All right, then. How many Black men do you know and how well do you know them?”

  Two or more would be a godsend, but she’d settle for one.

  He shifted in his seat and started drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair. “There’re a few guys who hang out at a sports bar downtown. I usually see them there when I go out with my teammates.”

  Hmm. What initially sounded promising was beginning to look less so.

  “Would you consider them acquaintances?”

  “Not exactly,” he hedged.

  “Ever talk to them?” Kennedy picked up a pen and held it poised over her notepad as she continued to regard him.

  “Maybe once or twice.”

  She bet the number was closer to a lonely one. “Could you pick them out in a lineup?” she asked dryly.

  Dark brows furrowed in contemplation, he answered with the solemnity of a murder witness under oath. “I think I’d recognize them if I saw them.”

  He only thought he could pick them out of a lineup. The suspected murderer was walking for sure.

  Kennedy carefully placed her pen on the lined pad. “So let me get this straight. You don’t know these men, you wouldn’t consider them acquaintances, and you aren’t one hundred percent sure you’d recognize them if you saw them again, but you’re suggesting they influenced you enough for you to pick up their slang?”

  With each incriminating point, the NHL left winger seemed to sink lower in the chair. Only four years separated them, yet his chastened expression made her feel much, much older.

  “I think the word know is doing a lot of heavy lifting here, wouldn’t you agree?”

  He grimaced. “I guess I don’t technically know them.”

  “Technically or otherwise, I’d say.” Picking up the pen again, she absently jotted his name at the top of the page. “Do you have any Black friends?” Despite enormous skepticism, she had to make sure to cover all the bases.

  Roger hesitated before reluctantly shaking his head.

  She treated him to what she hoped was an encouraging smile. “Don’t be embarrassed. There are no wrong answers. I’m simply trying to get a lay of the land. Get an idea of what I have to work with. Now, have you ever had a Black friend?”

  Despite her assurances, he responded with more sheepish head shaking and red-tipped ears.

  “How about any friends of color. Ever?” In his case, ever was twenty-five years. Maybe he’d had one in preschool she could leverage.

  Sighing, he sent her a chagrined look. “There weren’t many where I grew up, and in college, hockey was my life and there weren’t any on my team. It isn’t that much different in the national league either. Although, there’s a Black guy with Tampa who seems pretty nice.”

  “Right. I understand.” And she did, completely. What this meant, though, was she’d have to employ the fake Black friend card. And when that was employed, actions had to speak louder than words. Especially as the phrase I have a Black friend in all its varied iterations was henceforth stricken from his repertoire, as stated in the company handbook on page three in the Show Don’t Tell section.

  “Hold on a sec—I did know a couple. They were Black—I mean, African American. They lived five or six houses down from us when I was growing up. In the first year of high school, I used to mow their lawn. I wouldn’t exactly call them friends and I haven’t seen them in a while, but...that’s something, right?”

  Squee! An older Black couple whose lawn he used to mow. She’d hit the character-witness lottery. “That is more than something. They’re the perfect place to start. Do you have any idea if they still live there?”

  Nodding, Roger returned her smile. “I’m pretty sure they do. My mom would’ve told me if they’d moved. She keeps track of all that stuff. The neighbors call her their one-woman neighborhood watch.”

  “Perfect!” she exclaimed, relieved by how quickly things were coming together. “We’re going to need to get in touch with them and hopefully get them to provide a statement on your behalf. Do you think they’d do that? I assume you were on friendly terms the last time you were in contact, correct?”

  “Sure,” he said with a shrug. “They were always nice to me. Mrs. Simmons sent homemade cookies when I was drafted.”

  She quickly jotted their name down under FRIENDS. “Next question—are you currently dating anyone?”

  “Not anymore.”

  “Does your ex-girlfriend know all your friends?”

  “Some, not all.”

  “Would any of your family and friends be surprised by the fact that you have a Black friend?”

  “Maybe a little, but they also realize that living in the city and being on the road a lot means I’m always meeting all types of people.” His tone became subdued and his eyes downcast. “You know what the fucked-up part of this whole thing is, though?”

  “No, what?”

  “My mom blames herself. She said if she’d made sure I had a wider circle of friends and exposed me to different cultures, this wouldn’t have happened.” He let out a bitter laugh. “The day before yesterday, she sent me a book called White Fragility and she’s also trying to get everyone in her book club to read it.”

  Kennedy’s heart squeezed. Poor woman. “Mothers, they do carry the world on their shoulders, don’t they?”

  “My dad told her it wasn’t her fault I was a dumbass because it can’t be inherited.”

  Kennedy couldn’t help but laugh. “Fathers, they tell it like it is, while accepting only the credit for their children’s successes and none of the blame for their failures.”

  A faint smile curved his lips. “Yeah, that sounds like my dad. He sure won’t be going around bragging about me being a professional hockey player.”

  “Hey, all isn’t lost. You’re going to be back on the starting lineup this fall.”

  She couldn’t say when exactly, as that wasn’t up to her. Her job was to rehabilitate his reputation enough to tamp down calls for his job, and the key to that was keeping his name out of the news. The public had the memory of an amnesiac, and in any moment another scandal was certain to kick him off the front pages of the tabloids. A leader in the Black community had outright dismissed the idea that he should lose his career over something he believed equated to poor judgment, not racism. His was a lone voice now, but it carried a lot of weight, and she hoped more would join.

  “For now, getting me back on the roster is good enough.”

  Kennedy agreed with him, but she liked to shoot for the stars. “I’ve put together a plan to do precisely that. First, I’m going to have you meet Zion. He’s twenty-six, from Buffalo, and played a little hockey growing up. Best of all, he’s a Scouts season ticket holder. I’ve made arrangements for you two to meet up sometime this week at a sports bar by the name of All Bets Are On. It’s not far from Central Park. Do you know it?”

  Roger nodded, then added, “A season ticket holder, huh?”

  Kennedy wasn’t surprised that of everything she’d said, that impressed him the most. “Yes, huge hockey fan.”

  If someone had told her a year ago that she’d need a young Black hockey-loving Scouts season ticket holder willing to contract for Token, she’d have called it mission impossible. Then about nine months ago, during a particularly boisterous office happy hour, she’d learned Jonathan’s brother-in-law, Zion, lived and breathed hockey. And basketball. And football. All right, the man loved his sports. Getting him on board with the plan had been child’s play, or so Jonathan claimed.

  “Do you think it’s going to work?”

  “This one is solely for you. Like many men with your upbringing, I think there’s a stereotype of Black people you carry around in your mind that’s been shaped by what you see on TV and the movies or hear on the radio. It’ll be good for you to get some firsthand experience, and that’s what I hope making friends with Zion will do.

  “Having said that,” she continued, “diversity in your personal relationships can only help your predicament as long as people believe you’re being authentic.”

  Roger did something she didn’t expect. He looked at her and grinned, a chuckle not far behind.

  Kennedy’s smile faltered. “What’s so funny?” She was always up for a good joke, as long as she wasn’t the butt of it.

  “Nothing. It was nothing,” he said, shaking his head, his smile still in place.

  “Oh, come on. Tell me,” she coaxed. Now more than ever she needed to know. This cat wasn’t dying of curiosity.