Slouched on the couch, I stare out the big windows at the glittering view of Manhattan across the river.
Goddammit.
Now I’m thinking about Josh and Easton. I don’t want to think about them. I’ve avoided thinking about them for years and it’s been working fine.
I knew I should have tried to go see Josh in the hospital after the accident, but I just couldn’t. Hell, I couldn’t get out of bed some days. And Easton…well, he’d clearly moved on.
If I don’t get that contract I deserve, everything I’ve done up till now is a waste. If I don’t get that contract, I’ll be back where I started—my life and career fucked up.
Just because Kate’s my agent doesn’t give her the right to tell me what to do with my life. I can fuck things up well enough on my own. And I know that playing for the Bears will fuck me up. I know what’s best for me. I’ve made it this far—through college, into the NHL, and now I’m right on the edge of signing the kind of contract I want—I can’t relapse.
She wants to keep our relationship business. So what? Now we can’t even be friends?
I feel like I just took a hard cross check. I groan and lean my head back onto the cushions.
Was it a mistake signing with Kate as my agent? I wanted her because I know she’s good at what she does.
No. That’s not the only reason. I could find a bunch of good agents if that was all I wanted. I wanted her. It’s always been more than friendship with her. She gets me. In college, she was the one person I could confide in, and not be looked at differently. When Vern had his heart attack and I worried about losing him, she was who I needed. Kate.
And yet, for the first time it seems like she doesn’t really understand me. That’s why I’m so angry. Okay, I guess I’m actually more hurt than angry. Goddammit.
I can’t fire her. I need her. I need a contract. And like she pointed out when we first met, there’s more to the player-agent relationship than contracts. My agent is part of my life. And…fuck it, I want it to be her. I don’t want to fire her.
Doing that would be the shittiest douchehole move in the history of doucheholes.
Or maybe I am a douchehole anyway. Because…fuck…I care about her. And I don’t want to lose her.
14
Kate
I’m doing my job. The job he hired me to do. And he questions my judgment?
That stung when he said I should know better. That this was about his mental health.
I understand that.
Am I pushing for something he shouldn’t do? Would it truly be harmful for him to play for that team, with those two players?
I trudge into my bedroom, kick off my ballet flats, and throw myself on the bed.
I’m not a psychologist. Maybe I should be listening to him. He knows himself and what’s best for him.
Yes, I think I can negotiate a damn good contract with the Bears. I can sense their interest in him, and based on their recent moves, he’d be an excellent forward for them. Isn’t that what Hunter wants?
There are other options. If he wants me to forget about the Bears, I can do that. I’m not as confident in offers we might get from Long Beach and Toronto, but I can bust my butt to try to get the best deal for him I can.
I roll onto my stomach, squeezing my eyes shut. I’m his agent, but I don’t want to lose him as a friend. A lump constricts my throat. I want to pick up the phone and call him and apologize, but I know I’ll cry and it pains me to admit it, but he was right. We both need some time.
So I get ready for bed and crawl under the covers. It’s impossible to shut off my mind. I keep going over and over our conversation. I could have handled it differently. Maybe I could have avoided getting him upset. I know that a lot of men don’t respond well to strong women. That got me in trouble at Pinnacle. Guys in college who couldn’t handle dating me, who were pissed off because I knew more about hockey than they did and didn’t try to hide it.
But Hunter’s not like that.
Or is he?
He wasn’t like that in college. He was proud of me for being captain of the women’s team. He never got annoyed at me for being bossy or knowledgeable. He liked it.
But now it’s his life, maybe he feels differently.
I get up, have a drink of water, attempt to read a book for a while to distract me. This time when I go back to bed, I manage to fall asleep, but when I wake up in the morning, I feel exhausted.
But calmer.
I have work to do. Phone calls to make. There are a couple of other young guys in the draft this year I’ve been talking to. I arrange meetings in Newark the week of the draft. I know they’ll be talking to a bunch of agents. They aren’t going to be signing multi-million-dollar contracts, but that’s okay. It’s a long game and signing them now will pay off down the road.
Shortly after lunch, I check my phone and there’s a text from Hunter. My heart caroms in my chest at seeing his name.
Hey. Can I come over tonight to talk?
Relief spills through me like water in a fountain and every muscle in my body goes soft and weak. I slump in my chair, my head bent forward. I guess I didn’t even realize that I’d been terrified he might take me up on my offer to end our friendship. Or worse…fire me as his agent.
I suck air into my lungs and tip my head back. That could be what he wants to talk about.
If so, I have to give him credit for being mature enough to do it face to face.
I text him back. Yes. What time? Should I offer dinner?
7 okay? I’ll bring food.
My breathing goes shaky. Okay thanks. See you then.
Now I have to fucking concentrate for the rest of the day. Ha. Good luck with that, Bridges.
Hunter arrives a few minutes after seven. His thick waves are tousled, the stubble on his chin and jaw a bit rough, and shadows under his eyes indicate he’s as tired as I am. He’s wearing jeans and a T-shirt and he’s carrying a big bag from Shake Shack that smells incredible. It also makes me laugh.
“What’s so funny?”
“I love Shake Shack.”
He smiles but I can see the guardedness behind it. “Good.”
“Also, I’m starving.”
He sets the bag on the island and turns to me. “I’m sorry about last night.”
I gaze up at him. He holds my gaze, his eyes steady and warm.
At this moment, I feel calm. Reassured. Safe. “I’m sorry, too.”
“Let’s eat and then talk more.”
“Okay.”
We devour our burgers and fries and lemonade. My stomach was a mass of knots before he got here, but now I really am hungry. I haven’t eaten all day.
“Two burgers?” I lift an eyebrow at him as he unwraps another one.
“I’m a growing boy.”
“Ha ha.”
“Well, some parts of me are growing.” He winks.
“Oh my God.” I roll my eyes, even though heat flashes through me and I’m happy he’s relaxed enough to make dirty jokes.
I gather up the wrappers from my meal and shove them into the bag, then slurp down the rest of my lemonade as he finishes his second burger. Then we move to my couch.
“Okay,” he begins. “Again, I’m sorry. I overreacted.” His eyes tighten. “I was triggered.”