"Like a rash." He grins. "You ready?"
"Born ready."
Cappy swings by my stall and claps my shoulder. "Good to have you back. Don't be stupid with that knee."
"When have I ever been stupid?"
"Do you want the full list or the highlights?"
Rookie is three stalls down, taping his stick. He catches my eye and nods. We've been okay. Not back to normal, not fully healed, but functional. I’ve been sleeping in my room with Ella the past few nights, and I get how that’s probably weird for him.
Shouldn’t be too much longer. He closed on Ella’s new condo and will get the keys soon.
"Your girl's up with the PAWs,” he says now, not looking up from his tape job.
"I know."
"Cam got her a jersey."
I pause mid-lace. "Whose jersey?"
Jason's mouth twitches. "Yours, dipshit."
Something warm spreads through my chest. Ella is in the family section wearing my jersey, not one with her own last name on it. Ella, who spent her childhood watching hockey from the margins, is sitting with the PAWs and cheering for me on purpose.
"Don't get all weepy," Spinner says. "Save it for the ice."
"Speaking of the ice." Mayhem appears, fully dressed, looking like a tank with shin pads. He settles on the bench beside me and says, in the tone of a man who has been waiting for the right moment, "Did you call Benny about the podcast thing?"
I pull my jersey over my head. "What about it?"
"The second interview. Your dad did another one."
My hands freeze on the hem. "What?"
“Yeah, man. Spinner's agent flagged it this morning." Mayhem watches my face. “Your agent didn't say anything?”
The locker room noise continues around us, but I feel a clench in my stomach. Another interview. Another podcast. My father is running his mouth on any microphone that'll have him, and my agent — the agent my father set me up with — is not even monitoring it.
"Why are you still with that guy?" Mayhem asks.
I don't have a good answer. The honest truth is that Benny came through my father's connections, another tie to the Houser name. But the Houser name has been doing me damage for twenty-six years, and maybe it's time I chose my own path.
Spinner drops onto the bench on my other side. "Brian Klein is here tonight. He's sitting with the Stags in the family section."
"Brian Klein?"
"My agent. The best agent." Spinner taps my chest with his stick. "I already told him about you. He wants to chat after the game."
"You told your agent about me?"
"I told him you're talented, underrepresented, and your current agent sucks balls.” Spinner shrugs. "He's interested."
I look at Mayhem, who nods. Then the Stag twins chime in that this Brian guy is their agent, too. “He works miracles,” Alder says. “And he’ll get you endorsements.”
Gunnar Stag, one of our rotating killer goalies, pounds me on the head with his fist. “Prepare for a milk mustache, guy.”
I realize with sudden clarity that I’ve been overlooking a huge part of the career of a professional athlete. My friends all have branding deals that are flooding their bank accounts. I sort of figured Rookie fell into the meat advertisements, but listening to Gunnar talk about milk ads, I realize that agents actively make all this happen.
