“Men like you?” I chug half of my water bottle. “You mean seven-foot-tall basketball players?”
Deshawn Miller lifts his head off the turquoise yoga mat. “Exactly. We can’t all be tiny agents in pink who have soccer-level flexibility and strength.”
“I’ve done my fair share of physical therapy. When slide tackling is your favorite move, you become injury-prone and a danger.”
“Angel Devil,” he jokes, and our fists bump.
My thighs tremble as I grab two resistance bands for standing hamstring curls. Even though Deshawn isn’t my client, Trevor designated me as his go-to person after his injury. He needs someone in his corner, and joining physical therapy is the least I can do.
Plus, since quitting the preprofessional soccer team, I need the workout.
I hand over a stretchy red band. “How does it feel today?”
His fingers trace the small incisions on his right knee, pale against his deep skin. “Better. Don’t tell Doc, but I took the stairs this morning. The elevator was slow, and I’m tired of crutches.”
“Good thing I’ve decided to clear you for unassisted walking today,” Dr. Pope says, poking her head out of her office. Her silver-blonde bob sways with laughter. “It’s been two weeks since your partial meniscectomy, and you’re healing well. I’d like to get you in the pool next week if you’re feeling up to it.”
My cheeks tighten at the good news. “Flutter kicks?”
She nods. “Flutter kicks.”
Deshawn smiles for the first time since starting physical therapy as his and Dr. Pope’s hands collide for a high five. “Thanks for kicking my ass every day, Doc.”
A slender finger points at me. “Thank your agent. She makes sure you don’t cheat during wall sits.”
“Agent adjacent,” I correct her. Trevor would scream if he heard I was claiming his clients.
Deshawn flicks my ankle. “Regardless, thank you, Shay. Having you here helps. You’re a great agent. Adjacent or not.”
On the hard days when I feel unseen and disrespected, it’s hard to remember why I do this job, but moments like these ground me. All I want is for my clients to feel cared for. As a former athlete, I know how difficult it is to be away from your sport. Players don’t need extra flack from the person meant to support them.
Chiming bells interrupt our celebration, and Deshawn tries to slap my phone out of my hands. “I’d cry if my phone rang that much.”
The moment I see the name scrolling across the top of the screen, I do feel like crying. With my finger hovering over the green button, I look up. “I’m sorry, but I need to take this.”
“Take your time,” Dr. Pope says. “Last exercise, Deshawn. Then we’ll test mobility.”
Once outside the training room, I choose a bench, take a deep breath, and answer the call. “Hello! I was starting to think I wasn’t going to hear from you, Garrett.”
The deep chuckle of the baseball player I’d like to represent fills my ear. “My apologies. It’s been a little chaotic, but I’m happy to let you know you’ve passed the first test.”
“Thefirsttest?”
I’ve overheard other agents discuss how athletes often complete vigorous testing before choosing: seeing if they will answer the phone at odd times, how long it takes them to pick up, and how long it takes them to return a call. But this has never happened to me.
“Yup. The first of many.” Garrett clicks his tongue. “What was the score of the last Jackals game?”
I know the answer immediately. “Five to four. Jackals win.”
“How many runs did I score?”
“One.”
“What about Harrison Ryder?”
The Jackals designated hitter? “None,” I say, sure of my answer but unsure where this is going. “Are you going to do this until you pick an agent?”
“Sure am. So, do you golf?”
