I stand and grab my jacket from the back of the chair. “Which you always make clear. Off to see your golden boys?” I think he might be the Chicago Falcons biggest fan.
I follow him to the register, where I search for a mystery flavor Dum Dum in the complimentary bin by the register.
“Thanks, Val, see you next time I’m in town,” Jagger says to the woman cashing us out.
“Tell the little ones I said hi and we miss them.” Her long, manicured nails flail in the air as she waves goodbye.
I unwrap my Dum Dum and walk out of the pancake house onto the streets of Chicago. “You should ask for a back booth here. Have a constant rotation of your players in and out of the place.” I stand on the sidewalk, out of the way of bypassing foot traffic.
“Coming here while I’m babysitting you toddlers makes it more bearable.” He stuffs his wallet into the front pocket of his suit jacket. “We got off on a tangent, so let me lay it out there—I’m gonna give you three rules to follow.”
Last year I would’ve blown him off, raised my hand for a taxi and pissed him off, only to get a voicemail with threats and demands from him later. This year, I’m different, so I stuff my hands in the pockets of my jacket and listen.
“Good boy,” he says, noticing the effort I’m putting in. I don’t even make a sarcastic comment about being a loyal dog. “One, you don’t go out nights before a game.”
I roll my eyes.
“Two, you are not seen with a million different women.”
“A million? I’m impressed with myself.”
“You know what I mean. Maybe try to find a girl to go on a couple quiet dinner dates with, go to the movies. Get your picture taken holding her hand. Do not find her in a club.”
“A relationship is the furthest thing from my mind.”
“Unless the Colts start winning, and then you’ll be on a high. I’ve seen this more times than you. The highs are really fucking high, and you’re going to want to celebrate with pussy. So, this year, steady pussy is the best option. Now… third… stay the fuck away from Foster Davis.”
“What?” My forehead wrinkles. Foster’s getting the blame for my behavior last year, but he had nothing to do with my mind being everywhere but on the ballfield. “He’s my best friend.”
“And he’s my client, but he’s not good for your reputation. Vega doesn’t like him, so if you want a contract at the end of the year, in two weeks when you play one another, do not go out with him.”
“This seems extreme. Vega isn’t my dad, telling me who I can hang out with. I’m an adult.”
Jagger looks around the sidewalk. Thankfully, it’s midweek, so there aren’t a ton of people, and no one has recognized me. “This is what you get when you try to blow up your entire career in a single year. Next year we can loosen the reins a little, but this year, you keep your head down, work your ass off, and stay out of trouble. A Gold Glove would be fucking awesome this year, just saying.”
I scowl at him. “Like I haven’t tried every year to get it?”
I’ve never been awarded one. Just another thing that pisses me off.
He steps closer. “Not last year, you didn’t. We’re in damage control mode. You’re the best catcher in this league. It didn’t take that much convincing to get Chicago to snap you up before the trade deadline because they know what you’re capable of. But we have to clean up that shit off the field. When that happens and you have no distractions, you’re going to have all eyes on you. Your career is going to peak. With you, Decker Davis, and Easton Bailey, the Colts have a shot at the playoffs. So please, do yourself and me a favor and listen to me—I promise the rewards are coming.”
This is why Jagger is the most sought-after agent in the industry. I actually believe him. Minus the fact that he’s mine, Decker’s, and Easton’s agent, so of course he thinks we’re going to turn the Colts’ shitty record around, but he actually makes me believe I’m indispensable. That the Colts are lucky to have me.
“Okay, you got it.” I nod.
He holds out his hand, and we shake. “I knew you’d understand.” A car pulls up to the curb. “Want a ride?”
“Nah, I’m gonna walk.”
“Good. Good. Let the city see you as one of their own. Smile and wave and be approachable. Having them behind you can only help you.”
I nod like an annoyed teenager at a family holiday. “Tell the Falcons I say hi.”
He gives me his cocky grin. “You guys win it all like they did, and maybe you’ll be my new favorites.”
I roll my eyes. I get that they aren’t his problem children. They’re all married with kids and still killing it on the ice.
We part, and I turn toward the three-flat condo building that Decker, Easton, and I took over from the Falcons. It was meant to be ours—the rooftop overlooks Webber Field where the Colts play.
