“Patel,” I say, facing him directly. “You had four years of steadily improving stats, and then about a year ago, you stopped improving. That’s right after the Super Bowl, when your marketing work picked up. Have you even thought about how much you’re going to have to work to sustain a global marketing presence?”
I turn to Marshall. “You’re a family man. Your best games come after you take a weekend with your kids and your wife. Without exception. So why the hell are you letting your team drag you away from them for bullshit you shouldn’t have to do?”
I turn my eyes between them. They each look surprised, clearly caught off-guard by my blunt assessments.
“You’re the best. That means you can demand things. Some asshole wants you in front of a camera to sell beers? Maybe he can have you for thirty minutes next spring, but it’s going to cost him his left nut.”
Mel chokes out a laugh. She really does love it when I get going.
“You’re not here to sell jock itch powder in France. You’re athletes. And just because you’re already the best doesn’t mean it’s time to coast. If you’re not improving, you’re failing. You need an agent who understands that, not an agency trying to increase their market share on your name.”
I lean back and take a deep chug of my beer. My heart is pounding.
Fuck, I love doing that.
Patel still just looks surprised, but I can’t read the expression on Marshall’s face. His brow is knitted, but his eyes look soft.
It’s risky to mention someone’s family, but maybe that did the trick.
“Okay, damn,” Patel finally says with a nod. “That’s something to think about, isn’t it?”
Marshall mumbles under his breath. He takes a sip of his whiskey and puts the glass down. “Didn’t know you had so many opinions,” he says to me.
I’m not sure how he means that, and I wonder if I just offended the star player on my old team.
“He has even more opinions than that, I promise you,” Mel says, lightening the mood. “Although you’ll have to be fluent in grunting to catch half of them.”
The joke lands, and both the athletes chuckle, easing the tension some.
I raise my beer without a word, everyone joins me in taking a drink, and the conversation moves forward. Mel and I exchange a glance, and I can tell she’s thinking the same thing I am.
They haven’t fired us. Maybe my little speech made an impact.
“You’ve got a few clients on the Force, right?” Patel asks me. “I know Zeke, and I met a couple others.”
“Yeah. Some good athletes,” I say, suddenly cautious, like I might accidentally reveal something about Orlando just by mentioning his team.
“I checked the US Open before I walked in,” he says. “They’re looking good in the second half, but it’s a real shame what happened with Onassis.”
Ice runs through my veins.
“What?”
“Onassis,” he says and then widens his eyes, surprised. “Oh. You haven’t heard yet. Onassis collided with Ramirez on San Diego’s defense. Ramirez is okay, but Onassis got carried off the field.”
Oh fuck.
Panic shoots up my spine. I want to run out of the damn bar. This is an emergency, and Orlando needs me.
I have to make sure he ends up with the right doctors, the proper support teams. Depending on his injuries, the choices made in the next hours can be crucial to his future.
Mel rests her hand on my arm, an attempt to calm me. “We hadn’t heard the news,” she says.
Marshall raises an eyebrow at me, puzzling over my reaction, and I realize I must look like I’m having a heart attack. “You okay?” he asks.
“Fine.” I take a swig of my beer. “Just thinking about how I should get our medical contacts in touch with Orlando and his team.”
I clench my jaw, aware I called him by his first name instead of justOnassis.
