It’s my own personal hell.
“You’re fired?”
As the words slip from my mouth, I squeeze the dice for support.
Jon’s eyebrows wiggle, reminding me of those terrifying fuzzy caterpillars. They match his equally bushy mustache, slanted by his signature smirk. “I’m confused,” he says. “Are you asking me or telling me?”
“I don’t know.” I shrug. “I’ve never done this before.”
Narrowing his eyes, Jon assesses me. At first, his attention was incredible. I had finished my junior season at Clear Lake University and made the decision to play professionally. Jon Sweeney represented big names with big contracts and even bigger careers. Athletes I admired were on his client list, and he wanted to work with me. I was honored. Grateful. Felt like the luckiest person in the world.
Until I wasn’t.
“Let’s go,” he grits out. “We can talk at your place. And walk normally. You’re limping.”
My left hip pulses as I correct my gait. Hiding the ache is for the best. For my career. For my image. People call it grit, treating me like a superhero because I never miss games for injuries or sickness. But they don’t know about Jon’s constant reminders to prove myself. I make do with over-the-counter pain killers to mostly dull the pain.
Stale air swirls around me as we step outside. Jon heads toward his sleek Mercedes that’s parked beside my reliable minivan. Without much thought, I start to follow him.
Then I stop. “No. You’re fired, Jon. I can’t do this anymore.”
The skin beneath his eye twitches. “You’re joking, right?”
Rubbing my temples does nothing to deter the building pressure. I assumed firing someone would be easy, based on television and movies, but this is hard.
“Don’t do this,” he continues, contorting his lips into a tight smile. “Everyone’s expecting the golden boy to shine this season, and I’m the only person who can get you there.”
Golden boy.My mom called me that as a kid. Still does. One day, it moved from being a family nickname to something my friends called me in passing, but somewhere along the way, it became my identity. At first, it felt like it was given with love.
Now, it’s a straitjacket of expectations.
“No. We’re done.”
His eyes flash. “After all I did for you? What about—”
“I’ll pay whatever I need to,” I say. I don’t care about the money.
The distance between us vanishes as he barrels forward and shoves his finger into my chest. “Do you have any idea where you’d be if it weren’t for me? I’ll tell you.” He sneers, spittle flying between us. “You would’ve been signed by some incompetent agent who doesn’t know jack shit about building real athletes. How to make you look perfect. Without me, you’d still be sitting in the minors. This”—his arm jerks toward Pilot City Stadium—“is because of me. You’re here because ofme.”
As if our heights have been reversed, I shrink at the power of his words.
“The Pilots didn’t want some kid. They wanted the golden boy I built. You think they’d still want you if they knew you were ready to quit and run home after your first major injury? Nope. I’m the one who held you together, and we got through it without missing a single game. You need me, Cade, whether you like it or not.”
I open my mouth to fight back, but nothing comes out. He’s right. Without Jon, there’s no telling where I’d be.
The simple fact is that his methods work. I haven’t tasted failure like tonight in a long time. Watching too much film, obsessing over every critique he writes on these yellow legal pads, pushing myself, diving into my perfect image, and focusing on stats and metrics may not be great, but all of that got me here.
As I’m about to take it back, a heavy hand lands on my shoulder.
A freckled hand.
Shit.
“Not sure what’s happening here, but get lost, Jon.” My best friend Kenneth’s usually gentle voice is harsh with irritation. “Now.”
Jon looks up, likely trying to place the redheaded intruder. They met once while I interviewed agents. Jon was Kenneth’s favorite choice at the time, but the grit in his voice shows that has changed.
Smoothing his suit jacket, Jon steps back. “I worked with Ted Daily, Heisman winner and three-time Super Bowl champion. Eli Jones won the goddamn gold twice with me by his side. And now I’m being fired by some kid? Yeah. Good luck,golden boy.” And with those final crushing words, he storms away.
