Damn. Not as young as I hoped. Don’t know why I thought he might be younger. The guy is tall and ripped.
“You don’t need college to get into the NHL,” I say evenly.
“I know,” he says easily. “But I want to go.”
“You’d be leaving money on the table,” I say. “Significant money. Entry-level contracts have a ceiling, but the trajectory from there?—”
“I know how it works,” he says, but there’s no edge in it, no defensiveness, just someone who has thought about this. “I want a degree. In case something happens.”
“Like what?”
“Like an injury, or, I don’t know…a losing streak,” he says. “It happens. And I’m not going to be one of those guys who ends up broke at thirty-five because hockey was the only plan.” He looks at me steadily. “Maybe you think that’s shortsighted?”
“I think that with your talent, there will be no losing streak, and the injury scenario is so unlikely that—” I shake my head.
“That means a lot, especially coming from someone like you,” he says. “Thank you. Really. And if I change my mind about the college thing, I’ll look you up.”
I can tell he’s trying to be kind but is still shutting me down. I smile and give him my card anyway.
“Please do.”
He takes the card with a nod, and his teammates are already moving without him.
“Hey, Tully,” I say as he walks away. He turns back to look at me. “If you want to be a free agent, you’re gonna need a great agent. Advisor for now, agent for later.”
“And that’s you,” he says, grinning wide.
“That’s me.”
I think about that guy Bruce talking about owning a career. Whitman is going to take more work than I thought.
That’s fine.
I’m patient.
A few months later…
I’m at my desk at 9 p.m. on a Tuesday, eating cold pad thai out of the container, when my phone rings.
Unknown number. Minnesota area code.
I almost let it go to voicemail, but I answer it.
“Daniel Crewe.”
“Daniel. Bruce Granger.”
“Mr. Granger,” I say. “This is—how did you get this number?”
“You’re not that hard to find,” he says. “How are things?”
“Good,” I say. Then, because he strikes me as someone who doesn’t need the automatic answer: “Slow. But good.”
“Did you secure the Whitman kid?” he says.
I lean back in my chair. “It’s not so simple,” I say.
“No?”
