Twelve years of representing some of the nation's top athletic talent had earned Dexter Brantley a reputation as a lucky bastard. The epithet was sometimes shouted in anger as in the time when a lucrative endorsement deal with a new shoe company—founded by a former college roommate—earned him and his clients tens of millions. Sometimes the moniker was spoken in dazed wonder, as in the time a snooty skating star had been reluctant to sign with him for fear of sacrificing her precious art for the sake of fat professional contracts—until she'd seen exactly how much money Dexter could flood into her bank account.
After one of the most successful rises to the top of sports agenting imaginable, Dexter didn't mind the nickname no matter how it was used. In fact right now, as he sat in a nine car pileup on the George Washington Bridge during the morning rush hour with a hundred cars honking behind him, he decided he'd give anything to feel like a lucky bastard again.
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