I suppress a groan. “It’s just our postgame talk. No biggie.”
Lie. Big lie.Majorlie. But Dawson doesn’t need to know that.
Tying the drawstring on my sweatpants, I watch my friend. White light illuminates his face as his fingers fly across his phone screen. He’s usually one of the first guys to leave the stadium, which means he’s likely sending a text to his wife, Rosie, promising to be home soon.
Dawson is happy, in love, and playing like a superstar.
I’m the exact opposite.
He drapes an arm around my shoulders and leads me to the exit. As we step out of the clubhouse, the fragile calm I’ve been trying to maintainshatters when I spot Jon pacing a few feet away. I need to get away from Dawson before he hears something he shouldn’t. Jon hates having an audience.
Shrugging out of his grip, I wave. “Get home safely, Daws.”
“You too!” Dawson orders, walking backward. “Team leaves at noon, but text me if you want to get breakfast!”
Once the door closes behind him, I feel my shoulders rise before I can stop them. With every step down the hallway toward my agent, I infuse myself with hope that this conversation will be different but it’s pointless. Even on my best game days, these talks aren’t easy.
Nothing with Jon is easy.
“Hey,” I say, pasting my smile on. “Sorry, I was—”
“Hiding from me?” Jon thrusts a legal pad full of notes into my hands. “The Jackals wiped the floor with you tonight! Did you even watch film or read my notes?”
He knows the answer to both questions. I don’t just watch film and study. I memorize everything. I know each subtle clue to expect. Hell, I could recite exactly how many pores are on every player’s face after staring at the screen until my eyes are bleary.
“You know I did, Jon.”
“Then explain that shit-show!” he erupts, anger filling the hallway.
“I know.” I sigh. “It was rough.”
“Rough? That’s an understatement. We need to discuss a plan before you head to New York tomorrow. I don’t leave for LA until the afternoon, so I’ll meet you here at five in the morning.”
Exhaustion seeps through me. If I could, I’d fall asleep right here on the hard floor. I wasn’t expecting to get much rest tonight, because I never do, but I was hoping for at least few peaceful minutes before assessing everything I did wrong.
“Come on, Jon. It’s already past eleven.” My voice cracks on the last word, and for a moment, I forget I’m a major league baseball player, not a child being scolded by a domineering parent.
I shove my hand into my pocket and sigh when my fingers find the familiar shape. The dice roll around my palm, and the soft knock of plastic on plastic is a soothing relief to the burn this conversation ignited.
It wasn’t always like this, but soon after being drafted, Jon went from my agent and friend to the shadow I couldn’t run away from.
“Listen, the league loves the golden boy, and it’s my job to make sure you don’t fuck it up.” His palm roughly pats my cheek. “You either live up to the name or lose it. And losing it means losing baseball. Give them a reason to doubt you, and they’ll toss you aside. People are already questioning if the Pilots brought you up too early.”
I tug on a loc until my scalp burns. “It’s not fair that one bad game—”
“You think baseball cares about fair? One bad game can and will ruin it all for you. Forus. You can’t afford to not be the best, so act like it. Train like it. Don’t let my hard work go to waste because you want to slack off and have a shitty night.”
My jaw drops. “Yourhard work?”
It’s only now that I notice the pride settled deep into his frown lines. “I monitor your stats and metrics. I ensure the media is up to date on your life and status. Whose notes are you constantly reading to help you figure out where to improve?” Gray eyes dart to the legal pad in my hands. “I make sure you look good to the front office and keep your coaches happy, but after tonight, it’s going to take a lot to get you back in their good graces. All those failed stops are the reason for tonight’s loss. I know it. You know it. The team knows it.”
In an instant, the sliver of hope Dawson gave me vanishes.
“But we’ll fix it,” Jon continues, squeezing my shoulder. “You’re on the field, and I’m in your head. That’s what makes us a great team.”
Relaxing his jaw, he morphs back into the cool agent I signed two years ago before I was drafted to the California Hornets. Smothering me with reassurance after ripping me to shreds is the next step on his manipulative agenda, and I always cling to it. Then he’ll promise that we’re partners.
But after endless postgame talks like this, I’ve finally realized what we have isn’t a partnership.
