"You didn't tell me that."
"I didn't know anything was wrong. I thought he was busy. I thought it was the schedule."
"It's not the schedule."
The room is quiet.
"I'm going to Atlanta, Kyle. Not after the game. Instead of the game."
"Wes..."
"I know."
"Do you? Because I need you to hear me say this as your agent before I say anything else. You have never missed a game. You walk off this road trip, it becomes a story. By tomorrow morning every reporter on the Tempest beat is writing the sentence that Wesley Mercer left the team without explanation. The front office is going to call me. I'm going to have to say something and I don't know what I'm going to say. They could fine you. They could suspend you. This isn't a personal day, Wes. This could be considered a breach of contract, and you have eight years of being the most reliable body in that organization and you're about to spend every bit of good currency of it in one afternoon."
"I know what it costs. I'm still going."
There’s silence on the phone. When he speaks again, his voice has shifted. Not softer. Closer. The voice underneath the agent voice, the one that belongs to the man who introduced the two of us in the first place because he thought a veteran and a Swiss kid on the same roster might be good for each other.
"How bad is he?"
"I think it’s bad. When we were in Aruba, I noticed he lost weight and didn’t eat much while we were there. I thought I was overthinking what I saw."
"Jesus."
"I cannot play the game tonight, Kyle. I cannot be here and not know if Luca’s alright."
"Okay."
"Okay?"
"I said okay. Book the flight. I'll handle the Tempest."
"What are you going to tell them?"
"I don't know yet. Family emergency. Personal matter. Something that buys you forty-eight hours before they start asking the kinds of questions I can't answer without your permission."
"Tell them family emergency."
"Is that what I'm telling them or is that what it is?"
"Both."
"Yeah." A pause. "Yeah, it is. Okay. Don't text Coach. Don't text anyone on staff. I'll make the call. Let me be the one who calls. That's my job. You just get on the plane."
"Kyle."
"What?"
"Thank you."
"Don't thank me. I represent both of you. I should have been paying closer attention."
"You couldn't have seen it."
"Maybe. Maybe not. Get on the plane, Wes. Let me know how he is when you get there."
I hang up. The phone sits in my hand. His feet on the sand. I open the airline app. Reagan to Hartsfield, direct, departs at three-forty. An hour and forty minutes in the air. I book it. The confirmation arrives on the screen and for a second both things are there at the same time, the booking and the beach.
