She tuts. “It’s notyourbinder, Cade. Every client I work with is in here. I lug it everywhere because I could get an urgent message that needs to be answered.” Pink nails tap against the pages. “What is the purpose of a player development meeting?”
Usually I’d censor myself, but I don’t. “To tell me everything I’m doing wrong.”
My brain jumbles when a feathery touch lands on my forearm, light yet demanding. Then I forget how to breathe when she squeezes.
“I’m not sure where you got that idea, but I’m not here to rip into you, lecture you, or beat you while you’re down, Cade. I’ll never do that. You’re the athlete.Myathlete. Player development meetings are for discussing your career, on and off the field, and to check on your well-being. As your agent, my job is to support you. Can you tell me you understand that?”
Every part of me is desperate to cling to her words. Before I went pro, that’s what I assumed these meetings were for, but Jon used them to dig into every mistake.
Giving her my best smile, I nod. “I’m trying. I promise.”
Her usual level of disappointment in me seems to dwindle as she releases me and sits back on her stool. “I originally wanted to talk about your long-term career plans, but I don’t think that’s best today. I do have two questions though.”
My shoulders loosen. “Shoot.”
“Why haven’t you told the media about what happened with Jon?”
I think of the messages Jon sent when Summer’s article went live.
Jon Sweeney
You’re fucking kidding, right?
Call me back. We need to talk.
Telling people about the hell I went through with Jon—that I’m still going through without him—would be too much. I’m not supposed to be the guy who makes people worry. Mom is supposed to have a dependable son who can make it through anything. Mallory and Kenneth need a friend who won’t weigh them down with heavy feelings and emotions. The thoughts swirling around in my head aren’t easy to deal with, but it’s easier to hide than to explain.
“I don’t have anything to say. It just didn’t work out.”
She scribbles something down. “Your silence looks bad for him, but people still love you.”
“Then there should be no problem. If they’re happy with the golden boy, that’s all that matters.” It physically hurts to say, but I choke out the truth.
The amber flecks in her dark eyes blaze to life. Pressing her palms against the table, she leans forward until our faces are only a foot apart. “Other people’s happiness isn’t what matters, Cade.Youare what matters. You are theonlything that matters. So when you’re ready to talk about whatever is going on, I’ll be here.” It’s only when she sits back down and dives into the second question that I stop holding my breath. “What did you do this week foryou?”
Forming sentences seems impossible with all that sadness looking back at me, so I keep it short. “Watched film. Studied scouting reports. Got in extra lifts and batting practices.”
Pink fluff from her pen shakes in the air. “I asked what you did foryou, so no baseball.”
I shrug. The few things that were for me got canceled. Last night’s dinner with Kenneth was rescheduled because I didn’t get through scouting reports in time. I skipped today’s team lunch to sneak in extra practice. Instead of joining Marcus for a drink tonight, I’m ditching to readJon’s notes.
“Sometimes,” she continues, “stepping away from the job isn’t a bad thing. It’s okay to just be.”
As if she sees right through me, I feel myself unravel.
Growing up, baseball was the love of my life. I enjoyed every second of it. Playing. Watching. Learning. Studying. Getting better. Before I knew it, baseball had evolved into something less fun. Instead of setting goals for myself, I started focusing on living up to the expectations of others. High school state trophies? Got it. College scholarship? Done. National championships for CLU? Did that too. Drafted professionally? Yup. Playing in the majors? I’m there.
Just beingisn’t something I can do, and I think we both know it.
But I smile anyway, ready for this meeting to end.
Chapter Twelve
“Men like me aren’tmeant to be flexible.”
I look down at the elite athlete starfished on the ground. He blindly searches for his water bottle, chest heaving from our exercise. Sweat sparkles like glitter across his forehead, and I hold back a laugh as he struggles to catch his breath. The last round took it out of him.
Physical therapy is no joke.
