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“I didn’t think so,” I mock.
If Toby wants to make it in this business, he’s going to need bigger stones than the ones he currently has. More often than not, sports agents like us must be the bearers of bad news. If we don’t have a stiff upper lip and learn how to take things on the chin, our clients will eat us alive.
“It doesn’t matter anyway. We’ll have plenty of time to talk to Wilderafterwe have some good news for him. Right now, let him sleep off his drunken stupor. Tomorrow, his hangover will be the least of his problems.”
“Fair enough,” Toby concedes sheepishly.
“Keep me updated on the to-do list,” I order before hanging up.
I then close my eyes and take a deep breath, mustering up all my strength and courage before pulling up the only name in my contacts with any real juice to keep my player from being kicked off the team he loves so dearly.
Unfortunately, the one man who has Nathan’s future in his hands is also the same one I’ve been trying to avoid—Trent Nichols.
How ironic that I’ve been dodging him at every turn for the past month, and now, here I am, purposely getting ready to call him.
He’s going to love that.
Asshole.
Knowing that whatever animosity I may have towards him has to be shoved to the backburner for now, I scroll through my phone until I find his number. But after the first ring, it goes straight to voicemail.
Shit.
A man like Trent does not turn off his phone.
This leaves me to believe that he’s purposely rejecting my calls.
And that spells out trouble in all sorts of ways.
He wouldn’t reject my call.
Not if it gave him the opportunity to fuck with me like he has been since that night.
No.
If he’s rejecting my call, it means he’s making calls of his own.
Which doesn’t bode well for Nathan.
I rush to my closet and put on some sneakers, uncaring to still be in my pajamas. If time weren’t of the essence, I’d make myself look a lot more presentable. But right now, every second counts.
In this very instance, Trent might be making the worst mistake for the Boston Guardians.
Kicking Nathan off the team would not only be detrimental to my player’s career, but it will also screw up any chance of my home team qualifying for the Stanley Cup Playoffs.
Sure, Nathan is a bit rough around the edges, with a touch of anger management issues he needs to look into, but he’s one of the best players the team has. If Trent so much as throws a rock in the Guardians’ defensive line, he’ll be setting up the whole team to fail this year.
Now, most agents wouldn’t give two shits about that since their number one concern is their clients and no one else. In most cases, I’d be prone to agree with them, but the Guardians hold a special place in my heart. No way will I sit by and watch a silly bar fight fuck up their chances of winning.
I pull on a hoodie, pick up my car keys, and then rush out the door with only one focus in mind—get to Trent before he shoots himself in the foot by making the worst mistake of his life.
Thankfully, there is no traffic to speak of at this time of night, so I make it to his side of town in fifteen minutes flat.
I get another lucky break when I get to the lobby, and the doorman is nowhere to be seen, making it much easier for me to ride the elevator up to Trent’s penthouse apartment without being stopped.
On the way up to the last floor, my hands clench at my sides, praying that I’m not too late in preventing what could potentially be a major clusterfuck.
When I finally reach his floor and walk up to his door, I take another deep breath and place my no-nonsense mask on. It would be a bad idea for Trent to pick up on my high anxiety levels right now. I need to remain cool and collected if I’m to make any leeway with him tonight. I’m talking about invoking the spirit of the damned iceberg that sank the Titanic kind of cool. Cooler even, since Trent is more likely to respond to a show of strength than willing to listen to a word I say if he senses any sentiment behind it.
