Less than fifteen minutes later, I’m sitting in the back of a minivan when my phone vibrates next to my thigh, and I dig it out of my pocket.
Checking the screen, I realize it’s Brett again. He barely gave me time to leave the airport, so I answer curtly. “Brett—”
“Are you on your way back?”
“Yes, but—"
“Good. Here’s what you need to know. I got a call from Andy Jones in Philadelphia.”
“I didn’t know Philly was interested.”
“Everyone’s interested, Tuck. Now listen. Andy says the organization is willing to go to 70 million a year for five years…”
My heart nearly explodes in my chest. 70 million…70 million… that’s more money than I could have dreamt of.
“… but it’s all conditional on you staying healthy this season. So, what do you think? How is the arm? Do we have a deal?”
I roll my shoulder and look for pain or tightness. It’s loose and smooth, no twinge of discomfort at all. Sage’s massages really worked. “I’m 100 percent, Brett. Let’s get our money.”
Brett whoops on the phone. “Fuck yeah!”
Chuckling at his enthusiasm, I stare out the window. “What about the Lions? What are they offering?”
“New York? Nah, they’re not worth your time.”
Oddly, hearing Brett put them down makes me a little defensive. “They’re a good team. I’m not going to write them off without checking. Give them a call. See what they’re thinking.”
“The last time I discussed salary with them, they’re in the 40 million a year range. There’s no way they’ll match what Philly is offering.”
No. Probably not. But still… “Worth a phone call, no? That’s what I’m paying you for, isn’t it?”
He sighs. “Fine. But for the record, I won't stop working. Not for you or any of my clients. So that 15 percent fee isn't enough.”
I roll my eyes. “I’d say 10 million dollars is plenty, Brett.”
“Yeah, just fucking stay healthy, Tuck. Don’t pull anything. Not even an eyelash, do you hear me?”
“Got it. Talk to you later.”
I end the call and shove my phone in my pocket. The euphoria of 70 million starts to wane and in its place there is a heavyweight on my chest. I inhale sharply but that only makes it worse.
I take deep breaths to loosen my chest.
Closing my eyes, I picture Sage in front of the waterfall. Her blonde curls catching the sun’s rays, illuminating the strands into various shades of pale yellow and golden brown. I could almost feel my fingers running through it.
“We’re here, amigo,” says the driver. As soon as I open my eyes, the glass entrance of my building comes into view and the doorman is already stepping outside to open my door.
“Thank you,” I say and tip the driver an extra $50 cash, although I’ve already paid via the app. I appreciate that he didn’t speak the entire ride home or blare the music.
The doorman approaches. “Good morning, Mr. Tucker. Could I get your bags for you, sir?”
“No, thank you, George. I’ve got them.”
The elevator ride up to the thirtieth floor feels longer than usual. Perhaps I’m tired. Perhaps I’m a little worn out after seeing family. Or perhaps the thoughts weighing down my muscles are heavier than that.
I check my phone, but there’s no reply from Sage, and the melancholy sinks a little deeper.
Shit. When did I become a pathetic loser?
