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“What?”
“The day you realize what a gigantic dipshit you’re being. It should be memorialized, y’know?” Blue eyes snap back to me, satire receding in place of something too serious for my liking. “Whatever villain you’ve made her out to be in your head, you’re wrong.”
“You’ve known her for five minutes.”
“I’m an excellent judge of character. She’s adorable. No bad person is that adorable.”
Adorable. I’m not sure that’s the word I’d use. No, she might be five-feet-tall with a face fit for an animated movie about talking fucking animals but she’s not adorable.
I don’t let myself think about what she is. Dangerous territory.
Shaking my head, I knock my shoulder against Luna’s. “Sound logic, Aristotle.”
She elbows me back. “I know, right?”
* * *
The recovery ball used to massage my shoulder hits my living room wall in a series of steady thuds. Toss, bounce, catch, toss, bounce, catch, I repeat the cycle again and again, the only outlet for my frustration beyond throwing my phone in its place. “What the fuck do you mean,” I hiss into the receiver, “you don’tknow?”
Ryan sighs like he always does lately, like my questions are a constant source of annoyance. “I don’t know what else to tell you.”
“You could tell me you’re doing your job, maybe.” Agents are supposed to know what the fuck is going on with their clients’ careers, right? They’re supposed to have some kind of information. They’re supposed to, I don’t know,workfor all that money they’re paid.
“The Wolves have a lot going on right now,” Ryan says in that slow, condescending way I despise. I swear he wasn’t such an insufferable shit when we first started working together—I never would’ve hired him if he was. But as my career took off, his attitude nosedived, and by the time I noticed, we were bound together by so many bullshit contracts, there was nothing I could do. I was stuck with him, and I get the sense lately that he feels pretty stuck with me too. “They have more important things to worry about.”
Jesus, do I feel that like a gunshot to the chest. A year ago, I was their most important thing. I was leading spring training. I was the only thing they didn’t have to worry about.
I want that back. I need that back. I’m losing my fucking mind without it.
Frustration raises my voice, fuels my words. “Figure it the fuck out, Ryan. Or have you forgotten that if I don’t work, you don’t either?”
“You know what,” Ryan snaps back. “Forget what I said about keeping your dick in your pants. Go get laid. Maybe then you’ll relax.”
I don’t question why the last time I got laid flashes through my mind with such vivid clarity; I only use it as an excuse to ask, “Did you find out who leaked that article?”
Ryan pauses. “No.” He coughs, his voice a lower decibel as he adds, “Like I said, it was probably that girl.”
“Hm.” You’d think since he was the one who made such a big deal of it, he’d be more invested in finding the source. Honestly, if it wasn’t for Ryan, I would’ve never even seen the article—shit like that usually gets drowned out in a couple of days, and I’m not in the habit of Googling my own name. Not anymore, at least. My agent, on the other hand, gets paid to do just that. He found it, he sent it to me, he made it into a big deal while reminding me this isn’t the time for fuck-ups and that the only press I can afford is the good kind. Yet here he is, consideringprobablygood enough.
“Anyway.” Ryan clears his throat, quick to change the subject, “I’ll reach out to the Wolves again but maybe it’s time to start looking at our options.”
“I’m not retiring.”
Ryan snorts. “Damn right you’re not. I meant I could talk to other teams. See who wants you.”
“You think I should leave them?”
“I think you’re too good to beg them to take you back.”
I hear the words he doesn’t say;because that’s the only way you’re getting back on that team.
An uncomfortable knot settles in my chest as I consider Ryan’s words. Leaving the Wolves isn’t something I’ve ever considered. It’s been what, fourteen years? I was fresh out of college when they scooped me up. An overconfident baby in desperate need of guidance and molding and protection in a world suddenly out to get me, and that’s what I got. The idea of leaving them makes my chest hurt.
Not as much as the thought of them not wanting me does, though.
“The Devils keep asking when you’re back in action. They want a meeting.”
My face pinches at the mention of our aptly named rival team. They’re assholes, every single one of them, but especially their star player. Their less charming, less handsome, less talented version of me. I half-blame Sal Rodés for my out-of-order shoulder; it was him, after all, who first injured it almost a decade ago with an aimed fastball so illegal, they should’ve kicked the fucker out of the league. He’s the last person I’d choose for a teammate—I imagine that sentiment goes both ways—and his team is the last I’d want to play on. But if it’s them or retirement… Honestly, I don’t know what I’d choose. “I’ll think about it.”
