Patel nods. “Your team is having one hell of a season.” He looks to me. “You bring together some fine athletes, huh?”
I rub my beard. “Only the best. Game is starting. Patel, join me on the balcony.”
We step out, away from Orlando. Patel sits in the chair beside mine, his big body filling the space, and below us, the players jog out to their positions.
If I’m going to find a chance to pitch tonight, it’s now.
As long as Orlando stays out of my hair, I should be able to keep this evening on track. He’s a live wire, and I have no idea what ways he might try to provoke me.
If I’m being honest, I don’t entirely trust myself in his company, either. Another reminder that I should have never gotten into this mess in the first place.
I look with disappointment at my cooling dinner.
“One of your clients is an old friend of mine,” Patel says. “Brock Freeman.”
I sit up. “Brock. Of course.”
Brock was a pro snowboarder who made a name for himself at the Olympics. Less than a year later, though, a car accident took him out of competition. He came to accept the fact a lot more easily than many athletes, and I helped him transition to a new career, teaching elementary school gym.
He’s probably one of the happiest people that I know.
“That’s the reason I’m interested in your agency,” he says. “You looked out for him.”
I arch an eyebrow. “I’ll help you manage any injuries, sure. But I’d guess you have a pretty big cushion to fall back on by now.”
He shrugs. “Maybe I won’t teach elementary gym, but I appreciate the commitment you showed.”
I steel my eyes. The real pitch I need to make isn’t about dollars or contracts. It’s about this, showing him that I’m every bit the businessman and athlete he’s heard I am.
“My agency is my team,” I tell him. “And I don’t let my team down.”
He nods solemnly, receiving the message.
The first pitch goes out, and Patel turns. “Onassis,” he says, gesturing at Orlando, who stands by the open door to the balcony. “Join us.”
My brow tightens.
Orlando hesitates. He’s in a polo and snug-fitting gray trousers, and I can tell from his expression that he honestly was just passing by and not trying to interrupt.
“Didn’t mean to intrude,” he says. “Was only looking at the field.”
Patel gestures to the chair next to him, friendly. “It’s a better view out here.”
Orlando gives me a casual shrug as he hops into the seat. He leans back comfortably and takes a sip of his beer. “I’m excited to see this curveball I’ve heard so much about,” he says, referencing Marshall’s famous pitch.
“Catch much baseball?” Patel asks, and I’m wondering the same thing.
“I didn’t used to before I signed with the agency. Didn’t realize I liked the game. I guess that’s the impact of a good agent,” Orlando adds, his eyes on the field. “Frisk has really rubbed off on me.”
I tighten my jaw. His choice of words is fucking with me, but he’s also talking me up, and Patel seems to be amenable to it. I’m mad and grateful at the same time.
Portland gets their first hit, but our Philly guys move fast, and the batter doesn’t make it to first base.
Patel rubs the back of his head. “I should keep it moving. I’ve got a few more suites to visit tonight.” He turns to me and offers his hand. “We’ll be in touch soon.”
“Of course,” I say and stand as he finishes making his exit.
Orlando immediately sits back down. “Are you going to poach him? Is that why he’s here?”
