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The car pulled up to the hospital entrance, and the two of us got out. Regardless of the early hour and warm summer air, I wore a jacket and kept my ball cap brim low over my eyes. Rumors were swirling, but because I hadn’t officially signed with the Reds, Sam responded to each request for comment with, “It’s speculation. No further comment.”
“Physical. Facilities. Home?” The last part was more of a plea than a question.
To my surprise, Sam nodded. “Home for a few hours, then a dinner meeting with the interior designer redoing the penthouse.”
Fuck me.“Isn’t that a you thing and not a me thing?” I grumbled and checked in at the front desk. The receptionist directed us down a long hallway.
“Usually,” Sam said, trailing behind me. “But I have to meet with a company that wants your pretty face on their products, and I think they need to add a few zeroes to the offer. Besides, you’re the one who said you wanted a place that was—how did you put it?” She dropped her raspy alto to deep bass. “A little more homey and a lot less basic bachelor.”
I shot her a good-natured glare.
“So.” She clapped her hands together. “It’s either you have dinner with Ms.Porter and tell her all your Pinterest hopes and dreams, or you go to Target and do it yourself. Trust me, you do not want me decorating your house.”
To the uninitiated, Sam came off like a hard-ass sports agent. I’d been to her house, though. The woman had an addiction to tchotchkes. Creepy ones. It was like a shrine to weird porcelain babies. Each terrifying one had been bubble-wrapped and packed with care before being shipped to their new home in Providence.
“Yeah,” I agreed. “I don’t want my place looking like the factory that made Chucky.”
She elbowed me in the gut. “Ass.”
“Weirdo.” I elbowed her in return, though it landed against her shoulder. Sam barely came up to my middle, which made her feel more like a little sister than a woman with a decade on me.
Her phone rang. The caller ID simply read, Make Them Pay.
She snickered under her breath. I could tell she was plotting the ways she’d wring whatever company it was for a few more dollars.
“As long as it’s not jock itch spray,” I reminded her. “You promised.”
Sam flashed a nefarious grin. “Pass your physical, and I promise I won’t make you the face of jock itch spray. Play nice with the coaches today and the designer tonight, and I’ll treat you to a nice sports-drink deal.”
I stuck my hand out to shake hers. “Deal.”
* * *
I madethat physical my bitch. It only took half a millennium for the nurse to get around to my exam room, so I took a cat nap on the exam table and woke to someone wrapping a blood pressure cuff around my bicep. The medical staff put me through my paces, detailing every single thing about me like I was a lab rat. But that’s how these things went. Teams wanted to be sure that the players they paid millions for wouldn’t keel over on the fifty-yard line.
The car was idling on the curb when I sauntered out in the midday sun. Sam reached across the back seat and pushed the door open. She tossed a foil-wrapped sandwich at my chest as she sucked down a frozen lemonade.
“You’re not eating?” I asked as I inhaled half of the sub in one gust. “We’re gonna be at the facilities for a while.”
Sam snorted. “I already snuck a triple cheeseburger with extra bacon and a chili cheese dog. Had to run into a corner store and get an overpriced toothbrush so Ems wouldn’t smell the evidence on my breath tonight. She’s been pestering me about kale smoothies and going low carb. Something about my cholesterol. Have you tried the doughboys in this state? It’s deep-fried sin, I tell you. I’m gonna blow up like a balloon if you’re here for more than a season.”
Fed and caffeinated Sam was just as terrifying as grumpy six-A.M. Sam, just in a different way.
I stuffed my mouth full of whole wheat, turkey, avocado, and spinach. “You know—” I mumbled. “Em is right. Your body is a temple. Treat it right.”
“Yeah, yeah, Mr. Taj Mahal.” She waved her hand in my general direction. “I did my time as a temple. I’m perfectly content being a yurt. Soft, round, and fluffy. I hope that grass sandwich tastes better than it looks.”
She adjusted the pant leg that hid her prosthesis. Sam spent her twenties in the Marines. She wanted to make a career out of it, but roadside bombs had a way of derailing even the best-laid plans. She rehabbed her amputation at Walter Reed, met a pretty physical therapist named Emily, and the rest was history. Having always enjoyed football and terrifying the shit out of people, she decided to rebrand herself and become a sports agent and manager.
The car slowed to a stop in front of the Reds’ stadium. I opened the door and saw none other than Derek Tyson standing on the sidewalk.
“You’re looking old, sixty-nine.” He cracked a grin and chucked a crimson jersey at me.
I caught the mesh mid-air and unfolded the fabric. In white block letters across the shoulders, it read, Bryant Jr. 69.
Coach Tyson tipped his chin at me. “Thought you’d appreciate having your old number back.”
I snorted. “My college number, huh? So that’s your master plan? Think if you get Gid, Theo, and me playing like we did in college, you’ll have a chance at a ring this year?”
