This is an industry full of hardass jocks. I can’t possibly be the worst.
When an injury derailed my baseball career, I was in my mid-twenties. I found myself left like so many other athletes, flailing and with no backup. The industry, I discovered, was happy to kick me aside.
The experience ignited my interest in the business of professional sports, and so I sent myself to pain-in-the-ass law school to figure it all out. After years of hard work and loans, I earned a degree, passed the bar, and launched my career as a freelance agent, opening my humble agency with a single client. But I kept working and growing, and eventually, I met Mel, a public relations wiz with a hunger for success that matches my own. I made her the best offer I could, and she joined on as an equal partner, with me in charge of the agents and her in charge of PR. After that, the agency really took off.
She’s good at the people and all that bullshit. I’m good at sports.
And being a hardass.
“Instead of yelling more at potential business, you could consider relaxing,” Mel offers. “We’ve got one of the top sports agencies on the east coast, and you and I are barely forty.” She shrugs slightly. “You’ve been dead-focused on building the agency, but maybe now that it’s truly and fully built, you could take some time to celebrate your wins.”
Mel knows it’s not as simple as that. I’ve always supported myself, worked my ass off to stand on my own two feet. I’m secure enough now that I’ll never face the instability and struggle I did when I was young. I made damn sure of that.
But the agency is about more than providing for me. It’s about providing for athletes, giving them the security and support I never had. I’m not the most social guy in the world. I don’t keep a lot of friends. But I know the special challenges that athletes face, and taking care of them satisfies something in me, a deep urge.
That need to connect with athletes and provide is what drives me to build the agency, more than personal wealth or reputation.
Still, I take note of my friend’s advice even as I deflect.
“Celebrating is for rookies,” I tell her.
She sends a quick text as she talks. “You better not be calling me a rookie.”
“Should I take a cue from you?” I point my empty glass at her. “Buy an overpriced vacation home? Climb a mountain?” I cock up a smile, teasing my old friend. “Put on fancy suits and chase lovers who are too young for me?”
She coughs out a laugh. “Sorry. I just pictured you in a stylish suit. It was too much.” Mel keeps her smile as she stands. “You do you, Troy. But I’m going to enjoy the moment.” She smooths down the front of her teal dress. “And he is not too young,” she adds.
I snort. “Enjoy your evening, Mel.”
“See you bright and early, you miserable old grump.”
I huff into my beer, my eyes on the game.
I’m not a miserable old grump.
Am I?
My brow tightens as I argue with myself internally, glaring at the TV. I’m a grump, sure, and getting older, but I’m not miserable. And anyway, how the hell am I supposed to act? I’m a middle-aged jock.
Sports have been my life, and I’ve put my career ahead of everything else. Relationships, hobbies, every god damn thing. Hell, I haven’t even gotten laid in years. But that hasn’t made me into a miserable grump.
I’m a perfectly fine grump in my god damn prime, is what I am.
Philly’s star pitcher is on the mound. Marshall is on fire, but he gives one up, and the batter sends it deep into center field.
“Damn it!” I curse, slamming my glass down harder than I intended. “Get your shit together.”
“Whoa! Big reaction from the booth in the corner.”
I turn my head, and there’s a sporty young man standing by my booth. He’s young, maybe in his mid-twenties. There’s a peachy undertone to his olive skin, and his eyes are dark. He’s got a solid build, curly brown hair, and his brow is up in surprise.
“Oh hey,” he says. “Grinder. Bearded guy with a blue tie.”
I glance down at myself and my tie, loosened and hanging over my chest.
What the hell doesgrindermean? Like I’m grinding at the office, I guess.
“Yeah, looks like it,” I grumble. He steps in my way, and I point behind him. “The game. You’re blocking it.”
