| |
I take a cab and zip across town to the real estate office. I greet the secretary, who tells me I'll be meeting with Jay shortly. Apparently Jay is hurrying back from another showing. In the meantime, I have to fill out some paperwork.
When that's over and done with, I sit patiently. The TV's on the local news in the waiting room. They do a short piece on us, the Hawks, and our playoff series against the Coyotes.
For the first time in forever, they mention me without talking about the trade.
Signs of progress. Maybe.
Then, Jay walks in. He sees me and flashes a smile of disbelief. “Uh?”
I look at him, and I'm overwhelmed by the sensation that I know Jay from somewhere. But how? Maybe he just looks like someone I know.
The secretary butts in. “Jay, this is your new client, Callan Jones.”
“Callan ...!” he says, and something about the way he's acting seems forced and fake. “So nice to meet you.”
I stand up and put out my hand. My mind's still reeling. But once we get close enough, and he grabs my hand, and I stare at him eye-to-eye, I remember.
The Chicago club. Jay is Jason.
“You ready to go?” he asks me.
“I uh, um – yeah.”
“Alright, let's do it!”
He walks me out of the building, telling me all about the places we're gonna look at today. He unlocks his car and we climb in. I'm wondering how he's gonna play this. Discreet? Act like we don't know each other? And with each passing minute, we talk about something else. Soon, I start to get my hopes up that maybe he really doesn't remember me.
He shuttles us off to the first apartment. It's a nice place on Madison St., a few blocks from the arena. Granite counter-tops, plenty of square feet, and a nice balcony with a backyard in case I ever decide to get a dog. The price is do-able, but probably more than I wanna pay. At least it's close to the rink, though.
“What'd you think?” Jay, or Jason, whatever, asks me on the way out.
“It's pretty nice. I'll definitely consider it.”
“That place will go quickly, Mr. Jones ...”
I nod. “Sure.”
We walk back out to his car and get in. He makes a coy comment about the price of that place and sets up the question he really wants to ask me.
“So what is it you do for a living, Mr. Jones?” he asks as he puts on his seat belt.
“Oh, ah, I'm—” I'm searching for a lie?
He whips his head around at me. “Just kidding! I see your name and face all over!”
Fuck. I rub my neck. “Yeah ...”
“So I already know you work in the entertainment industry.”
Welp. That does it. He knows exactly who I am.
I clear my throat. “Alright Jay, let's drop the bullshit and cut to the chase already. 'Cause I'm really not in the mood. Are you mad at me?”
“Now why would I be mad, Callan? Or was it Brad? I can't remember.”
“Ha, yeah, okay,” I reach to unbuckle my seat belt and hop out of his car. Fuck it, I'll hoof it from here.
“I'm kidding I'm kidding I'm kidding!” he squeals. “Yeesh! You sure are sensitive for a guy who makes a living by driving guys nuts on the ice ...”
“I said I'm not in the mood.”
“Alright already.”
He puts the car in drive and off we go. I take a few deep breaths. “I thought you said you weren't a hockey fan, by the way.”
“I wasn't. But then the news kept talking about this new player we traded for. I wished they'd shut the hell up about it – until I saw your face! And then it all made sense, Bra—Callan.”
“Stop doing that, man. I know that you know my name isn't Brad.”
“Yeah, I know that now.”
“Are you sure you're not mad, bro? Because you seem mad.”
“Not mad. It's pretty cool to see you on TV. I tell all my friends that you fucked my brains out once, before you got traded. Crazy thing, though: they don't believe me. They call me a liar. Haha! Can you believe that?”
Ugh. Of course he tells everyone.
“Then please stop rubbing my face in it, man. Yeah, I admit, I gave you a fake name when we hooked up. So what – can't you understand why? Don't you see what's at risk for me?”
“Yes, I understand,” Jason grins. And I don't like his smile. I don't know why but I don't like it. “I understand it perfectly, Callan.”
“Alright.” I turn away from him and roll my eyes.
“... I understand how much it'd hurt your career, too. If anyone ever found out.”
“Wow. Really?” I groan. “Is this what it sounds like? Are you threatening me?”
“No – I'm not threatening you at all. Just ... making a little proposal.”
“And what's that.”
“I told you when we hooked up that I don't normally do stuff like that with guys on the first date. I felt guilty after what we did, alright? I feel like I should get to know you better.”
“Unbelievable,” I mutter under my breath. “Well here we are, dude. You're getting to know me, right?”
“Not like this, silly. I want a real, actual date.”
“Or else what?”
“I didn't say there's any 'or else.' Quit acting like this is some evil movie plot. God damn, are you sensitive ...” He leans forward, his chin reaching over the steering wheel, and laughs. “Of course, if you denied me, and word about your nightlife got out to the media, well that would be a funny coincidence, wouldn't it?”
“You are so fucked in the head!” I laugh, hiding my fear and pain. “But whatever, man. You think anyone would believe you? Why would any serious journalist run that story?”
“You're right. No 'serious journalist' would run that story! But serious journalism is dead, Callan. And all the blogs, and all the people on Twitter, would eat this story right up, I'm sure. And it'd only grow legs from there. It's obvious how bad people wanna know what really happened with your trade.”
I fold my arms. God damn it. I hate to admit it, but he's right.
So what? Do I placate him? Do I actually go out on a date with this guy? Who knows where he'll stop. He'll always hold this over me, just like the Jets. His list of demands will grow. I might have to end up spending the rest of my life with this freakin' guy, just to keep my 'secret' safe.
And what if he really did expose me – what's the worst that could happen? Maybe he blows the lid off this, and it becomes the sports story of the year. Everyone finds out the reason for my trade was because I got caught hooking up with him. He'd corroborate Burkhardt's story, and there'd be no way I could 'deny deny deny' my way out of it, like Vance said.
And then I'd be outed. And I wouldn't have to run away anymore. And the team, the league as a whole, could accept me or reject me. But it'd finally be out of my hands.
My blood starts to boil. The pressure in my head gets higher and higher and I'm frankly furious that I'm sitting in a car with a guy trying to blackmail me for love. I mean what the fuck?
His car rolls to a stop at a traffic light.
“Y'know what?” I say as I unbuckle my seat belt. “I don't negotiate with terrorists. See ya, dude.”
“Wait!” he yells after me.
But I won't wait. I disappear into the crowd on the sidewalk and scurry off.
He can tell the world if he wants. Fuck the world – I'm done caring about their gossip and prejudices. I'm tired of running away from myself. It's time to focus on playing hockey, like Grams said. Like I used to.