Eighteen
Erin
I drive by Walden High School on my way to work like I have every day since I moved in with my parents. What used to be a rambling hodgepodge of added-on wings and buildings has been replaced by a shiny new multistory structure. The sports fields that surround it, including the hill that houses the Badger baseball complex (sometimes referred to as a “mountain” in an attempt to frighten rivals), remain the same.
I slow down to a crawl as I drive past Badger Mountain. All three of my brothers played baseball here, and I spent most of my childhood in or running around the bleachers. On early March days like this one, I would sit wrapped in layers of wool and my brothers’ outgrown Under Armour, breathing in the cold, crisp air and listening for the crack of the bat, which sounds entirely different at the beginning of the season than it does in the sweaty playoff days of May.
My parents were always there to cheer on my brothers and their teammates and to support Badger Baseball. I love my brothers, annoying as they can be, and I do love the game. But what I loved most was watching Josh pitch.
I brace for the pain that follows any thought of Josh. Only this time it’s not the crippling blow I’m used to but more of a . . . small jab. I mentally feel around, prodding and nudging, but while there are bruises and tender spots, I’m not fighting back tears or the urge to turn around and go home so that I can climb back in bed. Maybe you really can grow past the pain. Or maybe it’s just gone on so long I’m finally numb to it.
Because I’ve left the house so early, traffic is light. When I arrive at the office, Gayle’s not at the front desk yet. I drop my things on my desk and am walking through the half-lit halls toward the break room when I hear voices coming from one of the smaller conference rooms ahead.
Larry Carpenter and an agency scout are seated at the oval table in the glass-fronted room staring up at a large television screen on the far wall, their backs to the glass. I glance up to see what they’re watching. My step falters when I recognize the windup of the pitcher on the mound. I’ve been watching a progressively more impressive version of it since I was a little girl. I hold my breath when Josh releases the ball, which flies over the plate, dropping at the last second, far too tempting for the batter not to swing at. Strike one.
Frozen, I watch the next pitch. There’s less movement on the ball this time, more velocity. Another swing and miss. A close-up of Josh’s face shows his concentration. The calm, focused look he gets when he’s in the zone.
The batter strikes out on a perfectly placed fastball. The truth hits me with all the power of that ninety-eight-mile-per-hour pitch. While I’ve been drowning in a well of self-pity and sadness, Josh has been going about his life, doing what he loves, achieving his dream.
I wait for the unhappiness to rise up and drown me, but the well is nowhere near as deep as it used to be. Somehow my feet have found the bottom, and I realize that if I push off strongly enough, I will break through the surface and shoot up into the air. Where I can finally breathe again. Where I can be me. I close my eyes briefly as I imagine it, see it. I am not some wussy princess who can’t get up until the prince comes back to kiss her awake. I am one of Disney’s newer kick-ass kind, who can wake up her damned self whenever she wants to.
“Erin?” I turn and see Rich Hanson striding down the empty hallway toward the conference room. “You’re quite the early bird, aren’t you?” He flashes a smile that I’m far too happy to dissect.
“Yes.” I smile back. Even though I’m more of a kick-ass princess with an impressive set of wings than a bird. “As soon as I chug some caffeine, I’m going to go catch a whole bunch of worms.”
He chuckles and reaches for the conference room door as I soar past.
I spend most of the morning happily working my way through the list Jazmine has left for me. By eleven, I’m completely caught up, so I check in on the group chat that I’ve barely even opened since everything happened with Josh. Every time I looked at my phone, there seemed to be a million messages, but I couldn’t bring myself to read through all of them—the updates, the invites I never responded to, the gossip. More often than not, I’d just open the chat and close it to rid myself of the annoying notification icon and constant reminder that everyone else’s lives were still moving along and mine, well, wasn’t.
Now that I’m paying attention, I see just how often and for how long my friends reached out and tried to include me.
In those early weeks, I was so humiliated, so ashamed at having held on so hard to someone who didn’t love or want me the way I loved and wanted them, that I couldn’t face my friends. I never even considered that they might have needed me for some crisis of their own.
The person who shows up the most often and held on the longest is Katrina.
I consider texting her an apology right now, but I don’t know if she’d even open it. After the way I’ve behaved, the way I cut her out, she deserves the chance to reject me in person.
It’s almost eleven thirty—late enough to take my lunch break. Jazmine isn’t due in until one thirty. Before I can chicken out, I walk out of the office building and across Lenox Road to Phipps Plaza, where I buy a Starbucks Grande Caramel Macchiato—Katrina’s favorite—and walk toward the entrance to Saks Fifth Avenue, where she works.
I’m in the mall . . . usual spot . . . pls come for just a minute? I text. While I wait for what would have once been an instant response, I offer up a small prayer for forgiveness.
Seriously??? thought you probably blocked me.
No. Sorry! We used to text and speak a million times a day, and now I don’t know what to say. Pls come down.
I wait with the macchiato in my hand for what feels like forever. I’m about to give up when she comes out the glass door and sweeps into the mall wearing a black jumpsuit that shows off her figure. Her makeup is flawless. Her blond hair is pulled back in the perfect messy bun. We are both blondes, but I have always been a miniature Daisy Duke to her Grace Kelly.
Heart pounding, I hold up the macchiato.
She ignores it.
“How are you?” I ask in a wobbly voice, hoping we can maybe work up to the hard part. But she’s not having it.
“I tried to be there for you, Erin. But you just ignored all of us like we didn’t even exist anymore.”
“I know. I’m . . . sorry.” Although I came here to apologize, I’m having trouble getting the words out. “I’ve been so stupid.”
Her stare is long and hard. I have no idea what’s coming next or what I’ll do if she turns her back on me and walks away.
“Then I tried to let you know that I got that job in New York.”
“Oh my gosh!” My brain can’t quite pivot the way it needs to. Katrina has wanted to move to New York and work in fashion since we were kids. She majored in Fashion Merchandising while we were at Georgia, studied abroad in London, and did a New York study tour. For the last two years, she’s worked in the designer department at Saks. She was the one who helped me and my mom pick out my wedding dress and got us her employee discount. “That’s . . . oh my God, that’s incredible!”
“Yeah.” I see the flicker of pride in her eyes, but she is still totally pissed. Forgiveness is not a given. “It would have been even more incredible if you’d bothered to respond. Or congratulated Amber on her promotion. Or Kelsey on her engagement. I mean, Josh was an asshole for waiting till the last minute like he did. But if it were me, I’d rather know before I walked down the aisle. You just ghosted all of us like he was the only person on earth who ever mattered.”
I flush with shame at the truth of it. “I’m so, so sorry.” I have been a needy ball of self-centeredness. “I . . .” I swallow. “I’ve been such an incredibly shitty friend.”
“The shittiest,” she agrees without hesitation. “You just threw us out like we were nothing to you. Everyone’s been so afraid of upsetting you, but Josh wasn’t the perfect man or anything. If you hadn’t worked at it so hard, you guys would have been done after graduation like most everybody else.” Her voice breaks.
Tears stream down my face. “You could never be nothing. I just couldn’t think. I was afraid to think. It was like all my brain cells got sucked out and . . .” My voice trails off. “I lost it. I lost my frickin’ mind. And I am really, truly sorry.”
She doesn’t say anything, but she doesn’t leave, either. Tears slide down my cheeks. I feel people staring, but I don’t even swipe at my cheeks while I wait for her to speak. “Would you . . . could I maybe take you out for a drink after work before you leave town?”
There’s a huff, and I think she’s going to blow me off completely and there will be nothing I can do about it. I deserve to be kicked to the curb. But I’m not going to be the first to move or leave. I’m still standing there, holding on to the Starbucks cup, when she takes it out of my hand and says, “Let me check and see what’s being planned. There might be a going-away party. If you’re feeling up to it.”
Relief gushes through me. While I’m not exactly forgiven, she didn’t tell me to f-off, either. “If there is one, I would totally love to come and celebrate with you.”
Another huff. Softer this time. The road back into Katrina’s good graces can be long and winding. Before I can react, she turns and walks back into Saks.
I owe a lot of people apologies, and there will be many butts to kiss, but for the first time since Josh called off our wedding, I feel equal to the task. More importantly, I want my friends back. And my life. And this job.
Just before Jazmine’s supposed to be in, I place a copy of Bill Bryson’s book on her desk as a thank-you gift for taking me with her to book club. And hiring me. And everything.
I picked it up at Between the Covers over the weekend, and I got one for myself, too, because I want to give book club a try. Everybody there was pretty cool. And if I’m going to move on and let go of the idea of Josh, I’m going to need to stay busy. Plus, the more friends the better.
I might even go back and buy the online dating book. My stomach feels kind of funny at the idea of kissing—or even going out with—someone who isn’t Josh. But I’m going to have to start somewhere, right? I don’t know if the advice will apply to me—I mean, I’m pretty sure Meena’s even older than my mother—but it couldn’t hurt to practice around people who don’t know what they’re doing, either. And it’s not like we’d be competing for the same guys. Okay, that thought makes me laugh out loud.
I’m still smiling when Jazmine arrives on the dot of one thirty.
“Please get that scouting report to me by . . .”
I hand her the hard copy before she finishes. “It’s also in your inbox. And I’ve updated your schedule—you have drinks this evening at F&B at eight. Also, your father called to say that . . .”
“I know, I’ll be at Maya’s match at four thirty and . . .”
“Her match has been moved up to four o’clock, so I rescheduled your two thirty to tomorrow right after a twelve thirty lunch at New York Prime just to be safe. There’s a fresh latte on your desk.”
She doesn’t stop or comment, but a small smile appears on her lips. Which is high praise from Jazmine.
An answering smile tugs at my own as her office door closes behind her.
“Impressive.”
I jump at the sound of Rich Hanson’s voice. The guy does have a way of materializing out of nowhere.
I look up and meet his eyes, which are always kind of probing even when he’s being friendly. I’m not the only one wondering why he’s even here at StarSports Advisors, which is way smaller than the LA agency he came from, with its legions of star agents; worldwide offices; and fashion, event, and marketing divisions. Their baseball, tennis, and golf academies have turned out some of the biggest-name athletes on the planet.
Hanson was at the top of the heap there, and football and baseball were his things. Now he and a handful of his biggest clients are here, and nobody knows how Larry Carpenter lured him away or even if that’s how it went down.
He nods toward Jazmine’s office. “Please buzz her and let her know I’m on my way in to talk with her.”
Jazmine
“Tell him I’m not in,” I reply when Erin buzzes me. The last thing I need today—or any day—is Rich Hanson.
“He just watched you walk into your office.”
“Then tell him I’m on the phone. Tell him I’m . . .”
“. . . busy?” Hanson asks as my office door swings open and he steps inside.
I grit my teeth. I am not going to engage in a conversation about knocking before entering. Or get into tit for tat or any other cat-and-mouse games. Because he will automatically assume that he’s the cat, and I’m not about to scurry out of his way or look for a hidey-hole. I just wait quietly, allowing my irritation to show, while he looks me and my corner office over, taking in its view of the traffic down on 400 and what locals refer to as the King and Queen Buildings in the distance.
“You don’t have a single memento of your playing days,” he observes, as if he just stopped in to chat.
“I was a college athlete. That was a long time ago.” He’s the last person I would ever tell that I threw out virtually every reminder of my brief career the day I came home from the hospital. Xavier was gone, and I knew I’d never play competitively again. I didn’t want any reminders of my former life.
“I’ve known people who pitched maybe one inning in Double-A ball and milked it forever,” he says as he takes a seat that I have not offered and he hasn’t asked for. “But then I guess that would have been a reminder of everything you lost.” It’s said almost gently, but my blood goes cold. I can’t seem to find the words to tell him this is not his business.
“I understand you have a daughter who may be as talented as you were.”
I blink in surprise. “Is there a point here somewhere? Or are you working on a psychology degree in case the agenting thing doesn’t work out?”
He smiles. “I fell in love with sports during my first T-ball game. I played three sports in high school—everyone else picked one to excel at, but I wanted to play everything. I was pretty good, but I was never great.” He looks down. “I have a huge amount of respect for people who have the talent and the drive. All I had was the drive.”
“And the ego. I think you got plenty of that.”
He smiles, not at all offended.
“Are you here for a reason or purpose of any kind? Because if not, I am, in fact, busy.”
“Right.” He straightens. “The wide receiver I mentioned, he’s good and he needs the right kind of representation. But I can’t take him on because I’ve got . . .”
“. . . Cosgrove.”
He nods.
“So, you want to have your cake and eat it, too. And you want me to pretend to bake that cake for you.”
“No, I want to do everything I promised for the client I already have. But I hate to see a really promising player get overlooked. He’s not ready for the draft right now, but I think he can go pretty high next year if he can be convinced to wait.”
“So, you want to use me to convince someone else’s prospect not to enter the draft. After you stole Tyrone Browning’s endorsement deal for your client.”
“Someday you’re going to have to explain why you always see me in the worst possible light.” He looks at me with an earnest expression I don’t recognize. “But for now, I’ll just say that if you’d had Verizon locked up for Browning, no one could have taken it from you. He was counting his chickens, and he wouldn’t have embarrassed you both if he’d kept his mouth shut like I’m sure you warned him to.”
I resist the urge to argue, which has become practically automatic whenever I’m around him. I’m not sure where all that sincerity he just served up came from, but even though he’s right about Browning mouthing off, that doesn’t mean I’m not looking forward to rubbing his nose in the Sony PlayStation deal. Or that I’m going to take on the wide receiver he claims he’s just trying to help.
He hands me a file folder that includes Isaiah Booker’s photo and stats. The name is familiar. “Didn’t he take over for Juran Holmsby up at Appalachian State at the end of the season?”
“Yeah. He’s a junior. Didn’t get much playing time until Holmsby got injured. I saw him at a small pro day. He’s five-ten, smart, agile. Knows how to run a route. Ran the 40 in 4.45.
“The only agent interested in him is urging him to declare for the draft, which would be a mistake. The kid needs more time and opportunity to develop. Someone needs to convince him to stay where he is another year.” He’s watching my face. “If it would make you more comfortable, I could introduce you . . . and maybe offer help from the sidelines once he’s eligible to sign.”
“If I sign an athlete, he’s mine.” I stare into his eyes, but they’re not giving up much. “Tell me the real reason you want to bring me in, and I’ll consider it.”
“I don’t know what you’re looking for here. This kid’s good, and he needs representation. You’re the right person for the job.”
“Why me?”
“Because I like the fact that you always bring your A game.”
Eyebrow up, I wait for the rest of it.
“All right . . .” He shakes his head, puts his hands up in surrender. “And because he was raised by his aunt, a lovely but no-nonsense woman who . . .”
“Would probably tell you to get lost.”
“I doubt it, but she’d probably listen better to you.”
“I don’t actually specialize in athletes raised by single women,” I snap, annoyed.
“Well, you kind of do. I mean, I can understand why they’d trust you.”
“And they would be right.”
He puts a piece of paper with contact info in front of me. Then he picks up his phone and sends me a text with links to Isaiah’s most recent game videos. “I told his aunt she might be hearing from you and that we’d like to come out and talk to her and Isaiah.” He shrugs as if the whole thing doesn’t really matter, but I can tell that it does. “Just think of him as a peace offering.”
“A person is not a peace offering.”
“Then what is?”
I sigh. “Why don’t you stop beating around the bush and tell me what you really want.”
There’s a brisk knock on the door. Erin pops her head in, takes a quick look between me and Rich. “I was, um, just checking to see if I can get fresh coffee for either of you?”
“Thanks. I’d love some.” I’m careful not to smile at her clearly protective tone. “Rich was just leaving.”
After she backs out and closes the door again, I stand. “Was there anything else?”
He stands, because otherwise he’ll have to look up at me. “We can discuss it when you have more time, but I just wanted to give you a heads-up that Larry and I had a conversation about creating a new tennis division.”
I look into his eyes. But I can’t read them. “I brought this up when I first joined the agency, and he wasn’t interested.” I study him as I think it through . . . “But a lot of players are making moves to smaller boutique firms.”
“Bingo.”
“But we’d need to take on at least one or two top players.” I stare at his face and all the way into his eyes, which is something I typically avoid, and realize that he’s far more interested in this subject than he’s letting on. What I don’t know is why. “Or we’d have to invest the time and money into building them.”
His eyes glitter. “I was thinking we might do both.”