With a single grunt of approval, he leaves the training room.
Marcus flicks my numb shoulder. “Aw. He loves you.”
“True. Rio may look like he hates us, but he’s a softie.” Dawson chuckles as I pull myself out of the ice bath. “Best of luck, and please tell Ms. Owens I need to put in an order for Luke’s birthday.”
Marcus’s tongue lolls out of his mouth. “Can she make those Oreo brownies again? I have a feeling that’ll pull the stick out of Rio’s ass.”
Billie’s Eats has been a hit since Mom opened over a year ago. She caters all over North Carolina, but her favorite gigs are for the Pilots players’ personal events.
“Of course.” I smile. “Text me what you want.”
Taking advantage of the extra space, Marcus stretches his legs out in the tub. “Good luck with the new guy! You’re going to need it to find a better agent than Jon freaking Sweeney.”
Marcus doesn’t mean any harm by his comment, but the reminder forces my mind to shift to the last legal pad Jon gave me before I fired him. One line has been playing on a constant loop in my brain since I read it.
Do you even want to be the golden boy anymore?
Jon’s question plagues me as I get dressed and rush to my car.
“Mom, I don’t have an architecture degree.” I squint up at the four-story building full of sports agents. “Looks pretty sturdy to me,” I dutifully report into my phone.
The chuckle that fills my ear is sweet, so much like her demeanor. “Good. I need proper descriptions since I wasn’t invited to this meeting.”
“It’s not parent-teacher night,” I joke, even though having her here would make this easier. Pots and pans clang against each other in the background, but it’s my equivalent of white noise. “What event are you prepping for?”
“Fundraiser at the animal shelter.” A smile stretches each word. “Biggest event so far.”
Billie’s Eats is my mother’s pride and joy, and helping her start her dream was worth every penny. She sacrificed everything to take care of me and my little sister, Violet. Working extra shifts to buy me a new glove. Spending hours in the sun on her days off to watch my games. Raising a newborn without a single complaint after my father left. Her support and love carried me through my pursuit of baseball.
And when I fail, I feel like I’m wasting everything she poured into me.
“Wow, Ma. Sounds like a big night. Are you sure you don’t need me to come by and help? I’ll have some free time after my meeting. I could run and pick up those—”
“Cade Charles.” Her tone is sharp but loving. “Thank you again for taking Vi to school and cleaning the kitchen this morning, but no. You can do nothing else for me today. If you try, I will lock you out of the house.” The oven door screeches. “This is the eighth agency, right? Lucky number eight.”
My phone chimes, and I put Mom on speaker to check the new message.
Jon Sweeney
It’s been 10 days. Come to your senses already.
You can’t do this without me.
Swiping them away, I try to slow my spiral, but I’m rapidly tumbling down the stairwell of maybes and what ifs. Maybe I was too quick to fire him. What if I made a mistake? Maybe I should apologize and take it back. What if I can’t do this without him?
I sigh. “Nothing about this feels lucky.”
For the middle of May, it’s unreasonably warm. The clouds above threaten to release a torrent of rain as I cross the parking lot, which means the roof will be closed for tonight’s game.
“Your number is eight.” Mom chuckles. “Your jersey number. Your angel number. Your lucky number.”
Billie Owens is a spiritual woman. At a young age, she taught me that the number eight stands for abundance, success, and achievement. Considering it’s also my favorite number, she believes it’s lucky too.
“I know. Love you, Ma.”
Mom hums. “Everything will work out. Love you too, golden boy.”
The nickname nips at my skin, but as spotless glass doors slide open and I step inside, I’m soothed by the luscious smell of champagne and success floating in the air.
