“You have a girlfriend, too?” I ask.
“Yeah. She’s amazing. Look…it just occurred to me that Kate tried to do what Sara did. Sara tried to get Millsy and me to talk and I got pissed at her for interfering. Don’t be pissed at Kate. She cares about you.”
I lift my chin. “She sent you here.”
“Sort of. She asked if we’d be willing to come talk to you.”
I blow out a long breath. “Shit. I already did get mad at her for interfering. I didn’t want her to even talk to the Bears, and she did anyway.”
“Why do you think she did that?” Easton asks.
I turn that over in my mind. The only answer is that it was because she cared about me and wanted to get me everything I wanted in a contract. “I get it.” I pause. “You fixed things with Sara?”
“Yeah. It was terrifying too, making myself vulnerable. But I didn’t want to lose her.”
“Same with Lilly,” Easton says. “She wanted me to do the right thing and I wanted to be a big wuss.” He smiles wryly. “But I didn’t want to be a wuss in her eyes. Or my own.”
“I always told myself I had to be a warrior,” Josh says. “To me, that meant being tough. In control. But hell, falling in love wasn’t something I could control. And you know what? Being a warrior doesn’t mean not having feelings. The bravest thing you can do is talk about your feelings.”
“Men aren’t supposed to,” Easton adds. “It’s how we’re raised. And especially hockey players, right?”
“If you can’t take a hit, get off the ice,” I say, my head moving up and down.
“If you get hurt, walk it off,” Josh says.
“Yeah.”
“Men are socialized to not be empathetic. To not be good listeners. Never ask for help.”
“Look where that got us,” I mutter.
“Hey, we’re doing okay.” Easton bumps my shoulder with his. “We’re young guys. This is heavy stuff. Hard stuff.”
“You gonna be okay, Morry?” Josh asks.
His question could be about so many things. Is my PTSD going to be okay? Am I going to be okay playing with them? Am I going to be okay with Kate?
“I don’t know,” I finally answer. I could have nightmares tonight, flashbacks tomorrow, and Kate may never want to see me again in which case I…I don’t know what the fuck I’ll do. My goddamn heart will be busted up, but…I’ve survived bad things. I can survive again.
I just need to make sure she knows I’m sorry and that I love her and that she’s okay. My busted-up heart isn’t as important as she is.
23
Kate
I wait anxiously for word from Easton or Josh about how things went. Did Hunter kick them out? Did he talk to them? Was it ugly? And…is he mad at me?
He probably is. I already know how he felt about me interfering in his life by trying to tell him he should face Easton and Josh and deal with his feelings about that.
I’m not a psychologist and I probably shouldn’t have gone there. I need to tell him I’m sorry about that.
Would I have done the same for any other client?
I don’t know.
I exhale slowly. Knowing what I know about his past and these players…I think I would have. But I don’t really know.
Probably I’ve overstepped. Again. This could totally backfire and cause even more problems.
Maybe I do get too involved in my clients’ lives. Maybe I should pull back on that. No more bailing them out of jail. No more counseling them on how to apologize to their girlfriends or what to get them for Christmas. No more house hunting for them.
I’ll be like that with Hunter. Even though I care so much about him.
I stand up from my desk and roam my tiny apartment. I’m not getting any work done. I’ve read through a contract sixty-seven times and still don’t know what it says. I check my phone and scroll through Twitter. I’m kind of hungry. There’s a salad in the fridge I could eat, but I don’t feel like salad. I’d like a big bag of potato chips and French onion dip.
What the hell. I grab my purse and my keys and jog downstairs. Out on the street, it’s a gorgeous summer afternoon. I love my neighborhood and I take in the people and the shops and restaurants as I stroll the sidewalk to the nearby store. There, I grab my chips and dip, along with a six pack of Miserable Bastard brown ale (the name fits my mood). I carry my bag home, pausing to listen to a busker on a corner who’s fantastic. The love song makes me wistful, though, so I continue on and climb back up the stairs to my apartment.
I open the beer first and glug back half of it. Excellent.
I’m opening the bag of chips when my phone rings.
I peer at the screen and see it’s Josh Heller calling. Ack! My heart leaps, then races as I try to answer it, my fingers shaking. “Hi!”
“Kate?”’
“Yes.” I close my eyes. I don’t usually answer so unprofessionally.
“It’s Josh Heller. Listen, we managed to track down Hunter. We’re back now and we’re wondering if we could meet up with you and talk?”
I can’t breathe. “Is he okay?”
After a short pause, Josh says, “Yeah, he’s okay. Can we meet?”
“Um, sure. Where?”
“How about Central Park?”
I frown. “Really?” I guess that’s close to them? But I can get there. “Okay.”
We arrange to meet inside the entrance on Fifth and Fifty-ninth.
“There’s a statue there,” Josh says. “Meet us there.”
“Now?”
“Can you come now?”
I pout at my chips and dip and unfinished beer. “Sure. It’ll take me half an hour or so.”
Should I change? I’m wearing ripped jeans and an old Bayard T-shirt. Nah. They don’t care what I look like. But wait. I’m an agent. I’m not their agent, but I should look somewhat professional. This is sort of a business meeting to discuss a client.
I quickly change into a long flowy skirt, a white T-shirt and chunky white sneakers. I grab a denim jacket and my purse and once more leave my apartment, this time going to the nearby subway station. It’s about a twenty-five-minute ride, during which time I keep anxiously checking my phone and wondering what the hell they need to talk about.
It took me a while to track those guys down. Josh was in Winnipeg visiting family, so he wasn’t far from Calgary, but Easton was still here in New York. I guess they’re both here now? I gnaw on my lips and twist my fingers together until the stop at Fifth Avenue. I cross the street and make my way to the statue of General Sherman. He’s accompanied by Nike, the Greek goddess of speed, strength, and victory. Oddly enough, she’s a symbol I held on to during my hockey career. They both gleam rich gold in the late afternoon sun, and I pause to admire them.
Turning, I spot the two men sitting on a stone bench and start toward them. They look up and jump to their feet. “Kate?” one of them asks.
“Josh?” I smile and extend a hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
“You too. And you know Easton.”