Total pages in book: 89
Estimated words: 85838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85838 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Family. Baseball. Goals.
These are the topics I need to discuss with clients. Not my desire to be dominated. “Your brother played in the majors for a year, right?” I ask as I drive past a strip mall, the neon lights of a massage parlor winking on and off.
“One year, one month, and a day,” Zane says, resigned and a little wistful. “Gage was drafted by the Los Angeles Bandits. He had one hell of an arm. Won eighteen games, then, bam. Blew out his elbow.”
I wince, feeling the phantom pain for both Zane and his brother. “That’s hard, when a career’s cut short.”
“He tried to rehab it. Did PT. Did everything he could. But his arm was never the same,” he says with a heavy sigh. “He wound up in therapy.” Zane taps his temple. “For his head too.”
I knew about Gage’s injury, but I had no idea the toll it took on his mental health. “That sounds terrible. I’m sorry that happened to him.”
“Thanks. Baseball was his dream. But he’s healthier now. He’s gotten a handle on the change. I think.”
“What’s he up to these days?”
“Tending bar. He’s a manager at a place in Sacramento. He’s got a little girl. She’s six. His wife died when Eliza was one,” he says, biting out each painful detail.
“I’m so sorry to hear that. I’m sorry for his loss,” I say, with another pang of sympathy for Gage.
“Thanks,” Zane says, then sighs. “I was going to tell you all that tonight. I wanted you to know. But then you were all…agent-y,” he says, adding a self-mocking laugh.
“But I want to know that as your agent,” I say, but that sounds…too impersonal.
He scratches his jaw. “Yeah, I get that. I was just torn. I’m glad I told you, though.”
I steal a glance at him as I drive. The rigid set of his shoulders has softened. This has been weighing on him. “I care about you, Zane. I want to make things happen for you.” Knowing his needs will help me do an even better job. “That’s why you’re so keen on Bespoke? Because of what happened to your brother’s career and his family?”
His jaw tightens, maybe with nerves. “That’s why I really want this deal, Maddox. Everything can change on a dime. And I want to do something for Eliza, help plan for her future.”
“Put something aside for her?” I ask, so I’m clear on his goals.
He bites the corner of his lip, then sighs heavily. “Look, it’s something I want to do no matter what. Deal or no deal. But in all honesty, a deal will go a long way toward making it possible for me to take care of her. First though, I need to talk to my brother, make sure he’s good with it. He’s a softie for her, and me, but he also thinks he has to do it all himself. And I want to help.”
“I get it. I truly do. Thanks for sharing,” I say.
Baseball is a mercurial, unpredictable profession. The rewards can be sky-high for players at the top level, but they also face terrifying risks as they rocket toward the stratosphere.
I can feasibly do my job for decades, while Zane is trying to catch lightning in a bottle. It’s another thing to remember whenever I’m tempted to break the rules. What would happen in the morning if Zane and I gave in even for one night?
We’d go up in flames, fast and hot.
If word got out, we’d be fucked. It could damage my business, and the scandal of a rising star sleeping with his agent would do Zane no favors either.
Our reputations would be on the line.
“My turn,” Zane says, before I can ask another question. “You said you’ve known your friend Bryan since college. Where’d you go to school?”
“East Coast,” I say.
He rolls his eyes. “Just say it,” Zane goads.
“Say what?” I ask, fighting off a smile.
“You’re a smarty-pants.”
“You assume everyone who went to school on the East Coast is intelligent?”
He shakes his head and then busts me. “No, I assume everyone who says East Coast went to an elite school and doesn’t want to look cocky for saying it.”
I laugh. “Fine. You caught me again,” I admit, shifting my grip on the steering wheel.
“I seem to do that a lot with you,” he says as I come to a stop at a red light. “Now, serve it up. Was it Princeton, Columbia, Yale, Cornell?”
I snort. “Close. But not quite.”
“It was Brown, then,” he says, like he couldn’t possibly be wrong.
“Dartmouth undergrad.”
He pumps a fist as the light changes. “Knew it. And law school? Say it.”
“Say what, Zane?” I volley as I continue toward his hotel near the ballpark. “Why don’t you tell me, since you think you know?”
He smirks, that cocky grin like a calling card. “Boston,” he says, dragging those two syllables into ten. “I bet you went to school in Boston.”