“Marshall and Patel?”
He looks over and considers me. “You know if I talk shop with you, and you gossip about it, I’d put you in a headlock and fire you.”
I grin. I’d love to see him try to put me in a headlock, actually.
“Troy, I think we already chose to trust each other somewhere along the way,” I point out. “I won’t blab.”
He snorts. “Yeah, yeah,” he says, rubbing his beard. “Fine. Yes, it’s Marshall and Patel. We retracted our last counteroffer yesterday,” he says. “Told them we wouldn’t do a lick of extra marketing, but if they want the original deal, come to us when they’re ready to sign.”
“Damn. Playing hardball?” I pull my leg up by the knee, stretching more. “Guess if they walk, no big deal, right? And if they go for it, you’ll be even richer.”
Troy doesn’t say anything. He just scowls more.
“Or not?” I ask.
“The agency will be fine. As a client, you can rest assured that we’ll always provide.” He picks his phone back up and shoves it in his back pocket. “But there’s a lot of expectation built up around our future. Momentum that needs to go somewhere.”
I blink. I’m surprised by the concern in his voice, but glad he’s opening up to me. “Momentum is good, right?”
He shakes his head. “People are used to seeing winners and losers. And taking care of my athletes means that I need to always be a winner, too.” Troy steels his expression. “It’s fine. I told them we’re done dicking around. If they don’t bite, we’ll find a new path forward.” He nods. “But you asked what was pissing me off. It’s that.”
I nod. “Glad you told me. And good luck. If they’re smart, they’ll take your offer.”
It hits me how much he’s been holding back, keeping that frustration to himself for months, steadying himself under pressure. And all while supporting me and countless other athletes.
I want to know everything about Troy. Every glimpse reminds me how much more there is to learn, but at his core, I see that he’s an honest, caring man.
My heart warms, and when Troy catches the smile on my face, he quickly changes subjects.
“The Force kicked ass again last night. You see Kevyn?”
“Yeah, no one got by him,” I say.
I was glued to the screen every minute, pumped to see my team doing so good, and challenging myself to let the hard feelings go while the Force played a flawless game.
Troy arches an eyebrow, catching the shift in my mood.
“It’s difficult, not being there,” I tell him, but his stare hardens. “And I’m starting to wonder if the team’s doing better since I left,” I confess.
“You should hope they are.”
I laugh. “It wouldn’t exactly be a great sign, would it?”
Troy gets down next to me, sitting on the mat. “That’s not how teams work. You played an instrumental role in helping the Force get where they are today. The fact that they kept it up is just proof you did your job.”
I nod, trying to take his advice. I trust him, but this one feels hard to swallow.
This season, I’ve finally managed to harness my energy and my potential, and my coach’s have rewarded me, making me part of the starting offense. In the winning streak up to my injury, it felt like we were all the best, a magic combination like Troy’s team.
Top athletes across the field, no exceptions.
Accepting that the team can pull off the magic without me feels like it deflates the confidence I’m used to bolstering, even though I know that’s counterproductive and selfish.
Troy gives me a firm shoulder rub. “Once you’re back on the field, you’ll never think about this again. Don’t let it mess with your head now.”
Some relief eases through me. “You’re right,” I say, trying to channel the right spirit back. “And the only way to the MLS Cup is to keep getting better, right?”
It’s not long before Troy has to go. My physical therapist comes back, and we finish an afternoon session. I head down to the field and get a quick minute with the team, but not enough to really talk to anyone before they all rush off, totally in the zone.
