The moment his car door slams shut, worried green eyes shift to me. I knew Kenneth was coming to tonight’s game, but this isn’t a conversation I wanted to have. Looks like I have no choice.
“So, how much of that did you hear?”
“Not much,” Kenneth mutters, dropping his scowl to the sidewalk.
If I didn’t know my best friend of twenty-plus years so well, I might have missed the way he pushed his tongue into his cheek before answering. All through high school, when I asked him how things were with his father, his too-quick answers were always preceded by his tell.
“Liar.”
“That’s not fair. You can always spot my lies.” His cheeks darken to match his scarlet waves. “Fine. I came around the corner when he said you needed him. That’s when I started running.”
My heart drops. He didn’t hear a lot, but it was still too much.
I squeeze the pad of Jon’s notes, desperate to suppress the guilt pulsing through my veins. Kenneth Gray has been my best friend since before we could speak coherent sentences, but I can’t figure out how to tell him everything. It’s impossible to explain the invisible weight I carry.
Intangible and inescapable.
Before Kenneth can speak again, I smile. This is how I keep the people I love from worrying. This is how I survive.
“Don’t worry about me, Kent. I’m okay.”
“You’re always okay. That’swhyI worry, Cadey Boy.” Arms made strong from years of swimming wrap me in a hug, and I feel more secure than I have in weeks. Then he adds, “But you’re not rehiring him. You’ll find a better agent. I’m sure of it.”
At least someone’s feeling hopeful.
Chapter Three
I never want toread legal jargon again.
“You’ve got big brains, but give up.” Marcus Winters, the Pilots catcher, snatches the contract from my hands and sinks into the ice bath beside me. “You might’ve been Mr. Smarty Pants in college, but sports law is a different ballgame.”
His damp fingers ruin the paper, but it doesn’t matter. The sports agency that gave it to me three days ago has already been crossed off my list. Along with the other failed agencies.
Dawson’s teeth chatter in agreement. “Guess how many times he asked what salary arbitration means?”
Marcus coos, “Oh, rookie. That’s not something you need to worry about anytime soon, but you’ll need an agent before then because it’s a monster.”
It has been ten days since I fired Jon. After getting home that night, Kenneth stuck around for a bit but didn’t pry, turning onThe Dark Knightand ordering sushi from our favorite late-night spot in Clear Lake. But the moment he left, my relief faded.
“S-speaking of that. Why did you fire Jon?” Marcus stutters. “People are g-going to f-freak out when they find o-out.”
I ignore Dawson’s gaze lasering into my temple and submerge my shoulders under the bone-chilling water. “We had a difference in priorities and management styles.” The almost-truth slips easily past my lips. It’s the same one I’ve recited to multiple agencies, my mother and friends, and the Pilots coaching staff when questioned.
Dawson boos my dishonesty, giving me a double thumbs-down. “Political answer. Been working with the PR team?”
He knows I have. Media training was the first thing the Pilots put me through when I made the 40-man roster. The PR team says I’m the lowest risk when it comes to yelling at a reporter or cussing during interviews. Marcus, however, is on the opposite side of the spectrum, already fined twice this season.
“Are you having any luck finding a new agent?” Dawson asks.
The back of my head bumps the rim of the tub. “Considering I’ve spoken with seven agencies and I’m not moving forward with any of them, it’s not going well.”
“Too big?” Dawson probes.
“Too small?” Marcus pries.
“Too picky,” a gruff voice adds. Rio Arden, the Pilots’ general manager, is a mountain of a man with broad shoulders that bump both sides of the doorway. He’s got his kindergarten teacher face on, patient but drained. “You have until the end of the week to find an agent, Owens, or I’ll pick for you.”
I tap two fingers to my forehead and salute. “On it. Meeting Caldwell in an hour.”
