“Because we survived AP Chem, your first broken nose, and the time they caught us sneaking out during Founder’s Weekend, and you didn’t rat me out,” she replies without hesitation. “Not to mention we were debate partners, and you always let me have the last word, even when you had something smarter to say. And the minute I graduated from business school at Cornell and wrapped up my sports management minor, you were waiting outside my place with a draft contract, telling me you wanted me to be your agent. You trusted me when I had zero experience. You were my first client.”
“You sound sentimental, Merryweather,” I tease. “Damn, we were such little shits.”
“Youwere,” she corrects. “But you were also the one who made me feel less alone. You always knew how to make me laugh. That’s why we’re still friends, and I consider you an annoying brother most of the time.”
My heart aches with the distant memory of how we grew up—caged birds with our wings clipped, expected to obey without question.Fuck, I have zero energy to deal with deep emotions this early in the day.Lucky me, Em doesn’t rush to fill the silence. She lets it stretch, as if she knows I need the space to sit with the words spoken.
A minute later, her voice comes through. “I don’t get why the second you start to feel sorry for yourself, you shut down. Thinking you don’t deserve the same grace as everyone else.”
“It’s easier said than done.”
“For who, exactly? You drink ginger ale and sleep on top of the covers, hoping it earns you points with the universe. Newsflash: it won’t.”
Her words make me flinch. “You can fix these things as my agent, no?”
“Teddy, please, don’t start with me,” she huffs, clearly annoyed. “Listen, there’s a charity thing next week to raise money to give underprivileged children the opportunity to play organized sports. You’re goingwithouta date. Don’t even try to do anything stupid or I swear to God.”
I drop onto the bed, the mattress groaning in protest beneath me. “I’m not in a shake-hands-and-smile mood right now.”
“Too bad. We’re entering yoursad golden retriever trying to be taken seriouslyera. You need goodwill by truckloads.”
Letting out a dry laugh, I ask, “Do I get a cookie if I behave?”
“You’ll get fewer headlines about your imaginary drinking problem, bettering your chances at salvaging what’s left of your tarnished image. Which, I should remind you, is a sought-after brand making you a lot of money outside hockey, whether you accept it or not.”
“You think I’m a lost cause?” I say jokingly, though there’s a little too much honesty tucked in the question.
“No,” she answers immediately. “Yet, you’re trying hard to become one.”
“I’m just so damn tired, Em. I’m not sure how much longer I can handle my parents’ bullshit.”
“Trust me, I know firsthand. There’s no point in burning everything down around you to prove a point, though.”
“I’m working on being better…ish.”
“I know that, too.” She clears her throat. “Remember to wear something decent next week. And Teddy?”
“Yeah?”
“Next time, try sleeping alone after a night out for a change.”
I huff a small, almost sincere laugh. “You always were the bossy one.”
“Damn right. Don't you forget it.”
Late November in Central Park means the trees are mostly bare, their last few leaves clinging stubbornly to the branches. The grass has dulled, and the fountains are shut off for the season. Tourists are fewer between the holidays, couples and dog walkers filling the paths. It’s in the low fifties, yet the weather feels colder, wind biting enough to cut through multiple layers.
Shifting on my feet near the 72nd Street entrance, I pull the hoodie tighter and tuck my hands into the sleeves as if it’ll make a difference. I spot Jasper, my former teammate and roommate, jogging toward me, a purple Peacocks pullover stretched across his chest. It’s still jarring to see him in those colors, even after nearly three years since his trade.
He’s brought his two rescue dogs, Hugo and Rollo, with him. Hugo is the taller of the pair, a sleek black greyhound mix with sharp features. His legs move in long strides ahead of his owner. Rollo, by contrast, is a stockier pit-lab mix, tongue lolling out of the side of his mouth. He bounds alongside Jasper with enthusiasm, tail wagging so hard it thwacks his sides.
“You’re late,” I call out as my friend slows to a stop in front of me, both dogs immediately sitting at attention. Making a show of checking my smartwatch, I joke, “Your fan club kept you busy?”
“The team meeting ran long,” he says, bouncing on his toes to keep warm. “According to Coach Presley and our last two losses, we suck.”
I snort knowingly. “Took him long enough to figure it out.”
He flips me off with a wide grin. Just like that, it feels as if no time has passed since we last saw each other. We fall into a jogging pace together, sneakers and sock-covered paws crunching over the path. The cold slices through the air, filling my lungs as we move in sync.
