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“I think it’s a good idea,” Erik said. “The life coach thing, not the shirtless part.”
“Of course it is a good idea,” Didier replied. He turned to Jamie. “I would send my sister to you if she had a problem.”
Jamie shook his head. “You don’t have a sister.”
His friend held up his finger. “But if I did, I would send her to you.”
Shaking his head, he tuned out Didier and Erik discussing his “new business” as if it were a done deal. He wouldn’t have been surprised if they started talking about carpet colors for his “new office.”
“Hey, kid.”
Jamie turned to the left.
The old man in the corner leaned toward him. “What sport you guys play?”
“What makes you think we play sports?” he asked, genuinely curious.
“You look like athletes. I used to be a sports columnist, so I know professionals when I see them.” The old man squinted at him. “You don’t play baseball, because I’d know you then, since that was what I covered most, being that Chicago loves its White Sox. You’re too lean for football. My guess is tennis or soccer.”
The man was good. He held out his hand. “Jamie.”
“Otto Warring.” The man shook his hand, a canny quirk to his lips. “You don’t want me to judge you based on your name, which means either you’re terrible or very good.”
Jamie grinned, holding up his drink.
Otto chuckled, tapping his pint glass to his. “So you’re very good, and just cocky enough. That means you’re likely not a soccer player, after all.”
Jamie laughed. “You’re retired now, obviously. Are you an artist?”
The man shrugged. “I just doodle. When I used to write, I sometimes had a cartoon to accompany my columns. I got kind of famous for it. Sometimes one drawing can describe more than a whole page of writing. See here.”
Otto pushed his notebook over, and Jamie leaned closer to see the page. It was a cartoon, simple in its lines but clearly him, Didier, and Erik, sitting at the bar. They were gathered close, like in a huddle. The man had captured the wicked gleam in Didier’s eyes and Erik’s earnest innocence.
He studied the rendering of himself. Otto had drawn him with his hand on Didier’s back but looking at Erik, with his face almost—
He searched for the word.Tenderwas what came to mind. He blinked a few times, but it looked the same.
“You guys have a tight bond,” Otto said, taking his notebook back. “A lot of guys who play ball together do, but you three go deeper than that. Like brothers. It’s nice to see in this world where no one gives a crap for anyone else.”
“Join us.” Jamie nodded to the man’s almost empty glass. “Can I buy you another round?”
“Sure, why not?” the man said. “Ya only live once.”
He introduced Otto to the guys and then ordered the man a drink. Otto moved his chair closer to them so he could hear them more easily.
“So why are you boys here in Chicago?” he asked, lifting his fresh pint in a salute.
“We’re here to find me a nice girl,” Erik said.
Otto nodded like it was a normal thing. “And how’s that going?”
“The guys are great,” Erik said, smiling at him and Didier, “but I’ve needed a lot of training.”
“Training is good,” the old man said encouragingly. “Ya meet anyone?”
“Lots of girls.” He made a face. “I have trouble talking to them.”
“Don’t we all, kid. Don’t give up. Even the White Sox eventually had a winning season.” Otto patted Erik’s back. Then he motioned to Chris. “Doesn’t Joe Alabarch have a granddaughter this kid’s age?”
