Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 135831 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 679(@200wpm)___ 543(@250wpm)___ 453(@300wpm)
“Proud of you,” he says.
“I just put blinders on, you know?”
“That’s what you gotta do,” he says. “I’m glad you’re finally realizing you don’t need to make things harder on yourself. You don’t need to fight it. You’ll see it becomes painless after a while—talking to the press.”
But I’m not buying that yet. “Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves.”
“I’m not worried. You’ve got this,” he says.
I wave him along. “All right. If I spend too much time with you and your happy attitude, I might not be a dick during the game.”
He scoffs. “You’ll always be a dick,” he says, then nods toward the locker room. But my phone rings and when I grab it from my pocket, it’s my agent’s name lighting up the screen. A dart of tension stabs me in the chest. I waggle my cell at Asher. “I’ll catch up with you inside. I need to talk to Garrett.”
“Good luck, man. Let me know how it goes,” he says.
“Will do.”
I hit answer then turn around, pacing away from the locker room to a quieter corner of the corridor. “What’s up?” I ask with more trepidation than I’d like to feel with my agent. But that’s how things have been since this whole makeover project started with veiled threats from my very unhappy team.
“Guess who’s not getting fined?” Garrett asks.
Pretty sure I know what he means, but I can’t resist teasing him either. “Is it you? Did you get a parking ticket again? I know you like to park that ridiculous Lambo wherever you want. The one I make possible for you.”
Garrett groans, all over the top. “You say that like it’s a problem that your success and my hard work funded my sweet ride.”
“Fine, you deserve your sports car. And ten more. Anyway, what’s going on?”
He’s clearly in a good mood, and I’m damn curious.
“I heard from Clementine and Zaire this morning,” he begins, businesslike. “They’re both going to be at the dog adoption event next week, and they were very happy you talked to the press earlier this week. Zaire even said the producers at The Ice Men noticed it, and they’re glad to see it too. No idea what inspired you but keep that shit up.”
I picture Everly. Her effort. Her commitment. Fact is I wanted to do something for her. She’s done a hell of a lot for me.
“What can I say? I guess it was just the right time,” I reply instead.
“Now, was it so hard to say something nice the other night?”
I roll my eyes but I’m glad Garrett is happy. “You think we can get some sponsorships now?” I ask, shifting gears though I immediately want to take it back because I sound a little desperate. But the fact is, I’d like to start moving forward on this front again. Make some progress with my financial plans. Put away enough to take care of Sophie and Kade for life. Help my parents out even more with a big retirement plan for them too.
“We’re not there yet,” he says. “I’m not fighting off phone calls to sign you up as a spokesperson. We’re gonna need a whole lot more of this if you want that to happen.”
I sigh, wishing it were easier. “Can’t fault a guy for trying.”
“But we’ll get there. You keep that up and I know it will.”
“Here’s hoping,” I say. “I’ll see you at the event.”
Then I go into the locker room. As I’m getting ready for the game, my phone buzzes with a text. Briefly I hope it’s Everly. That she’s sending me another pic. Saying hi. Wanting to know how I’m doing.
But am I wanting to hear from her too much when I’m supposed to be resisting her? For both our sakes, I do the right thing—I refrain from checking my messages.
When the game is over and we’ve won, I head to the team jet that’ll take us to Detroit. As I’m boarding, I hop over to my texts at last.
But I stop dead in my tracks at my row. It’s not from her. It’s from someone who hasn’t texted me in a year and a half, since the night I came home early to a hell of a surprise.
Lyra: Hi, Max! Can we talk?
27
THE PLAYER AND THE PUBLICIST
Everly
Before I can have my girls’ night in, I have to brave the fire swamp and endure Saturday morning with my parents.
I steel myself for my monthly breakfast with them. I meet them across the Golden Gate Bridge in Sausalito where they live, and go to Gigi’s Café—the same place we always go for our regular check-ins. Mom is dressed impeccably in navy slacks and a white blouse, with a fresh blowout of her blonde hair. Dad’s in khaki pants and a polo, looking like he’s about to work on a Saturday. Which he probably is, since the law business is a round-the-clock one, as he likes to tell me.