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It reminds me of how I felt my freshman year at Villanova, the first time my coach pulled me from the bench and said, “Coachman, get your ass out there.”
I was a mess on the inside, my stomach doing somersaults, as I walked onto the court. Although composed on the outside, I thought I would collapse at any moment from the pressure.
I have been around my fair share of gorgeous athletes, some of whom have hit on me in the most shameful ways, but none of them had the same effect on me as Alex. He was calm, unaffected by my defensive attitude.
Alex moved into the apartment on Wednesday night, and from what Mickey told me, he showed up for practice the next day with the Flyers. Mickey was worried the golden boy would flake out, forcing him or even me to pull Alex out of bed or off a barstool to get him to the rink. Agents and assistants from my firm have had to drive to Washington, DC, on more than one occasion to defuse one of the many Parker Puck Problems, as so lovingly named by a fellow agent.
Despite his stellar performance on the ice, Alex has his demons. How he manages to play so well after long nights of drinking is almost impressive. My parents were what you would call functional alcoholics—until they found the real love of their lives, crystal meth. Everything went downhill from there.
At seven a.m. this morning, I left my apartment and drove over the Tacony-Palmyra Bridge and into New Jersey without a bit of traffic. Too bad the ride back is not going as smooth. The bridge is now bumper-to-bumper, car horns blaring and people yelling out their windows.
Tapping my fingers on the steering wheel, I zone out to the classic rock music coming through my speakers
. I turn it up loud enough to drown out the sounds of the people around me. With players around the country on my client list, I spend a lot of time in my car and on trains and airplanes.
When a player lives close by, I like to meet them at their home on occasion just so I can see how the one percent of the population lives.
Growing up in a run-down housing development, it was years before I lived with semi-normal functioning adults. That was, until I moved into my first foster home. But even that house was a complete dump, nothing more than a mill of kids taken in for the paycheck. I shared a bedroom with three other kids around my age. Jamie, my best friend, was one of them. We were lucky to spend a few years together before I went to my second home with the Johnsons, who made the Dursleys from Harry Potter seem like angels.
Since we were in the same grade and went to the same school, we were able to stay in touch. Jamie moved to Pennsylvania with me after high school and went to Drexel University, a thirty-minute drive from Villanova. He’s my one constant, my rock.
After I reach the end of the bridge, I’m in Philadelphia, and I take the exit to get onto I-95 South, on my way to meet Rico and Jamie at the hockey game.
About damn time.
I take the highway to the Broad Street exit where I can see all the stadiums. Other than the view of the Philadelphia Museum of Art from I-676, this is my favorite part of the entire city. From the road, I spot Lincoln Financial Field, the home of the Eagles, and the Wells Fargo Center, where the 76ers and Flyers play basketball and hockey. Behind the event center, I can see Citizens Bank Park, the Phillies baseball stadium.
I played basketball at the Wells Fargo Center a few times while I was at Villanova. The experience was unlike anything I ever could’ve imagined. My dreams of going pro are nothing more than a memory. Now, I live vicariously through my clients. Signing a kid out of high school or college to the majors and brokering deals for endorsements are the closest I will ever come to getting the satisfaction my clients must feel when I tell them the good news.
As I park my car at the sold-out arena, my phone rings through the speakers. I answer without checking the caller ID. “This is Coach.”
“You almost here?” Jamie says on the other end of the line, his voice deep and loud. “Your boy Parker hooked us up with some premium seats. We’re behind the Flyers bench.”
I disconnect the Bluetooth, press my iPhone to my ear, and get out of the car. Looking down at my signed vintage Ron Hextall jersey, I spot what looks like a tiny speck of coffee. Damn it. This is one of my favorite jerseys.
“I’ll see you in a few minutes, okay?”
“Murph is waiting for you at the front door with your ticket. Hurry up. You’ve already missed the first period.”
“Keep your pants on. I’ll be there in five,” I say before clicking the End call button.
Murph—a tall, dark-haired man in his early twenties—greets me with a lazy grin at the door. A dusting of freckles covers his pale cheeks and forearms. The fitted black shirt he’s wearing stretches across his thick chest and broad shoulders, making him look more like a club bouncer than someone who works for the Flyers, giving tours and running errands.
It’s a thankless job, much like being a junior agent at Donoghue Media Group. When I first started at DMG, Mickey pushed me so hard, I thought I would crack in half. Even after a few years with Mickey, the stress has not lessened, and the pressure continues to grow. People like Mickey set the bar so high that anything less than perfect is unacceptable—except he’s stopped demanding the same of himself.
“How’s it going, Coach?” Murph asks, handing me my ticket and ushering me through the door. “I haven’t seen you in a while.”
“I’m good, Murph, real good. I’ve been out of town for work the last few weeks. I just got back this week.”
The smell of hot dogs and fried food assaults my nostrils as we walk toward my section. My last meal was this morning, and I can only hope that Jamie has my usual waiting for me. Murph takes a turn around a bend, toward my section. With the game already in progress, the halls are less crowded.
“Oh, right. I read that Kramer signed a seven-year, forty-five-million-dollar contract.” He holds up his hand for me to slap it, and after I do, he says, “That’s huge. Congrats!”
“Thanks. The GM was being a prick, but I finally got him to give in.”
Murph laughs and nudges me with his elbow. “You can always sic Mickey on him. He’s like a pit bull.”
I feign a smile, ignoring his comments, as we turn down the corridor marked 124 in big writing above the entrance. Then, we make our way down the stairs and to my seat.
