Chapter 3
Chapter Three
I never want to read legal jargon again.
“You’ve got big brains, but give up.” Marcus Winters, the Pilots catcher, snatches the contract from my hands and sinks into the ice bath beside me. “You might’ve been Mr. Smarty Pants in college, but sports law is a different ballgame.”
His damp fingers ruin the paper, but it doesn’t matter. The sports agency that gave it to me three days ago has already been crossed off my list. Along with the other failed agencies.
Dawson’s teeth chatter in agreement. “Guess how many times he asked what salary arbitration means?”
Marcus coos, “Oh, rookie. That’s not something you need to worry about anytime soon, but you’ll need an agent before then because it’s a monster.”
It has been ten days since I fired Jon. After getting home that night, Kenneth stuck around for a bit but didn’t pry, turning on The Dark Knight and ordering sushi from our favorite late-night spot in Clear Lake. But the moment he left, my relief faded.
“S-speaking of that. Why did you fire Jon?” Marcus stutters. “People are g-going to f-freak out when they find o-out.”
I ignore Dawson’s gaze lasering into my temple and submerge my shoulders under the bone-chilling water.
“We had a difference in priorities and management styles.” The almost-truth slips easily past my lips.
It’s the same one I’ve recited to multiple agencies, my mother and friends, and the Pilots coaching staff when questioned.
Dawson boos my dishonesty, giving me a double thumbs-down. “Political answer. Been working with the PR team?”
He knows I have. Media training was the first thing the Pilots put me through when I made the 40-man roster.
The PR team says I’m the lowest risk when it comes to yelling at a reporter or cussing during interviews.
Marcus, however, is on the opposite side of the spectrum, already fined twice this season.
“Are you having any luck finding a new agent?” Dawson asks.
The back of my head bumps the rim of the tub. “Considering I’ve spoken with seven agencies and I’m not moving forward with any of them, it’s not going well.”
“Too big?” Dawson probes.
“Too small?” Marcus pries.
“Too picky,” a gruff voice adds. Rio Arden, the Pilots’ general manager, is a mountain of a man with broad shoulders that bump both sides of the doorway.
He’s got his kindergarten teacher face on, patient but drained.
“You have until the end of the week to find an agent, Owens, or I’ll pick for you. ”
I tap two fingers to my forehead and salute. “On it. Meeting Caldwell in an hour.”
With a single grunt of approval, he leaves the training room.
Marcus flicks my numb shoulder. “Aw. He loves you.”
“True. Rio may look like he hates us, but he’s a softie.” Dawson chuckles as I pull myself out of the ice bath. “Best of luck, and please tell Ms. Owens I need to put in an order for Luke’s birthday.”
Marcus’s tongue lolls out of his mouth. “Can she make those Oreo brownies again? I have a feeling that’ll pull the stick out of Rio’s ass.”
Billie’s Eats has been a hit since Mom opened over a year ago. She caters all over North Carolina, but her favorite gigs are for the Pilots players’ personal events.
“Of course.” I smile. “Text me what you want.”
Taking advantage of the extra space, Marcus stretches his legs out in the tub. “Good luck with the new guy! You’re going to need it to find a better agent than Jon freaking Sweeney.”
Marcus doesn’t mean any harm by his comment, but the reminder forces my mind to shift to the last legal pad Jon gave me before I fired him. One line has been playing on a constant loop in my brain since I read it.
Do you even want to be the golden boy anymore?
Jon’s question plagues me as I get dressed and rush to my car.
“Mom, I don’t have an architecture degree.” I squint up at the four-story building full of sports agents. “Looks pretty sturdy to me,” I dutifully report into my phone.
The chuckle that fills my ear is sweet, so much like her demeanor. “Good. I need proper descriptions since I wasn’t invited to this meeting.”
“It’s not parent-teacher night,” I joke, even though having her here would make this easier. Pots and pans clang against each other in the background, but it’s my equivalent of white noise. “What event are you prepping for?”
“Fundraiser at the animal shelter.” A smile stretches each word. “Biggest event so far.”
Billie’s Eats is my mother’s pride and joy, and helping her start her dream was worth every penny.
She sacrificed everything to take care of me and my little sister, Violet.
Working extra shifts to buy me a new glove.
Spending hours in the sun on her days off to watch my games.
Raising a newborn without a single complaint after my father left.
Her support and love carried me through my pursuit of baseball.
And when I fail, I feel like I’m wasting everything she poured into me.
“Wow, Ma. Sounds like a big night. Are you sure you don’t need me to come by and help? I’ll have some free time after my meeting. I could run and pick up those—”
“Cade Charles.” Her tone is sharp but loving. “Thank you again for taking Vi to school and cleaning the kitchen this morning, but no. You can do nothing else for me today. If you try, I will lock you out of the house.” The oven door screeches. “This is the eighth agency, right? Lucky number eight.”
My phone chimes, and I put Mom on speaker to check the new message.
Jon Sweeney
It’s been 10 days. Come to your senses already.
You can’t do this without me.
Swiping them away, I try to slow my spiral, but I’m rapidly tumbling down the stairwell of maybes and what ifs. Maybe I was too quick to fire him. What if I made a mistake? Maybe I should apologize and take it back. What if I can’t do this without him?
I sigh. “Nothing about this feels lucky.”
For the middle of May, it’s unreasonably warm. The clouds above threaten to release a torrent of rain as I cross the parking lot, which means the roof will be closed for tonight’s game.
“Your number is eight.” Mom chuckles. “Your jersey number. Your angel number. Your lucky number.”
Billie Owens is a spiritual woman. At a young age, she taught me that the number eight stands for abundance, success, and achievement. Considering it’s also my favorite number, she believes it’s lucky too.
“I know. Love you, Ma.”
Mom hums. “Everything will work out. Love you too, golden boy.”
The nickname nips at my skin, but as spotless glass doors slide open and I step inside, I’m soothed by the luscious smell of champagne and success floating in the air.
“Welcome to Permian!” the receptionist chirps. A flash of recognition crosses his face when he looks up at me. “I’ll let Caldwell know you’re here. The waiting room is right over there.”
After grabbing a water bottle, I drop onto a glass chair that’s more stylish than comfortable. Tipping my head back, I spot a black puma stretched across the ceiling. It’s such a shock that I laugh, relaxing as I dig into my pocket for my phone.
Me
This agency is fancy fancy
It’s lab day for his PhD program, but Kenneth answers immediately.
Mr. Kenneth Edwards
Nice! Where are you?
I snap a photo of the puma and press send. Gray bubbles appear, but before his response comes through, a man in an impeccable navy suit bursts into the spacious room.
Standing, I extend my hand. “Hey, I’m—”
“The golden boy! I know who you are, trust me.”
His handshake simultaneously crushes my hand and my spirits.
“Cade works too,” I say, forcing a lightness into my voice. Being called by my real name is a rarity these days.
“Of course, but golden boy is you.” With a quick scan of his ID badge, he leads me down a hallway that reminds me of something out of a spy movie rather than a sports agency.
“I’m stoked you called to discuss new representation.
Before we talk shop, let me show you around.
We’ve been at this location for about a year and rebranded before we moved.
You may remember Triple 8 Sports since you’re from around here. ”
A flicker of familiarity surfaces. Mom loved the name because they were my angel numbers and happened to be a popular sports agency. She’d swear being here was a sign.
“Thanks for getting me out of that meeting,” he whispers as we pass a boardroom full of suit-clad men. “So, where are you living now?”
“In Clear Lake.” Bryan, my hometown, is thirty minutes from Clear Lake, but the college town became my favorite place in the three years I spent there.
“Really? Seems small for a big man like you. Don’t you want to be closer to Charlotte?”
“Nope.” I scan the gold-framed photos of Permian athletes covering an entire wall. “Clear Lake is closer to my family and friends. Plus, I don’t mind the drive.”
“My contacts in real estate will find you a place more apt for a professional baseball player.” He winks. “Once we get a contract signed.”
Red sirens appear around Caldwell’s head as the elevator doors slide open, blaring a warning only I can hear. It’s not until we make it to the fourth floor that I manage to mute them.
At the end of the hallway, T. Caldwell is carved into the nameplate in a gorgeous script. Inside the room, a deep mahogany desk glitters in the dim light. Everything from the lamp to the pen holders screams elegance.
He drops into the leather seat. “Forgive me, but I’m dying to know why you left ProPact. You fired your agent early in the season, your first in the majors, which means things soured between you. Am I right or am I right?”
My jaw nearly drops at his brazen tone, but I smile. “We just had a difference in priorities and management styles.”
His face crumples slightly before he grins. “I see I’ve got to gain your trust first, but I’m a patient man. Do you have any questions for me before we get this contract signed?”
I sure do. They’re the same ones I’ve asked every agent. “Did you attend law school?”
“No. Law school isn’t necessary, but I have a Master’s in Sports Management, my certification for baseball, and I’ve negotiated contracts for eight years.”
Adding a mental check mark beside that question, I move on. He answers every question about fees, contracts, negotiations, and future career with ease. I see why he’s one of the top agents at Permian Sports Agency, but something shady lingers beneath his pearly white smile.
The last question on the list is the most crucial of them all. “How do you view your role in an athlete’s success?”
He gestures at the ego wall behind him. “Look at my track record. The players I work with win, and it’s not a coincidence.
They perform, and I make things happen. That’s why I’d love to start your major league career on the right foot.
Me and the golden boy?” His grin morphs, and all I see is Jon. “We’ll make a great team.”
My stomach churns as the sirens reappear.
“Mr. Caldwell—”
“Trevor.”
“Yes. Trevor.” I glance at the door and make a decision. “Where’s the restroom?”
“Oh, uh—” he stutters, tapping a stack of paper on the desk in front of him. Thick enough to be a contract that I’m not ready to sign. “This place is a bit of a maze. Go past the elevator, all the way down, turn left, and it’s on your right.”
It takes a solid three minutes to find the bleach-scented room. The moment I’m inside, I click the lock shut, push my hand into my pocket, and rock the dice in my palm.
“What are the odds?” I whisper. “What are the odds signing with Trevor is a bad decision?”
The question reminds me of a different time in my life.
Of the person who played the game with me.
If I don’t leave Permian with an agent, Rio will choose one. I’m not sure if his choice would be better or worse than the man waiting for me, but I can’t take that risk.
When I predictably don’t get an answer from my reflection, I adjust my contacts and enter the hallway. After looking both ways, I realize I have no clue how to get back to Trevor’s office.
I turn left, because it seems the most logical, and unlock my phone that hasn’t stopped vibrating since Trevor met me in the lobby.
Mr. Kenneth Edwards
No
You’re at Permian?!?!?
LEAVE NOW!
Leave? Why should I leave?
But before I can text him back, I breathe in and everything changes. The floor shifts beneath my feet as I’m thrown back in time. Sweet jasmine and lavender invade my senses without waiting for an invitation, and the flurry of feelings I’ve been holding tightly to make their way to the surface.
This is the scent that lingered everywhere she was. My skin. My car. My bed.
More permanent places like my heart and brain.
I walk slowly toward the room I assumed was a janitorial closet, but it’s not a room filled with cleaning supplies and extra chairs. My breath catches at the name carved into the brass nameplate, cool under my fingers.
It can’t be.
An out-of-shape wheeze grabs my attention, and I turn as Trevor jogs around the corner with a light sheen across his forehead.
My hand falls to my side. “Sorry. This place really is a maze.”
“Told ya.” Beady eyes stay fixed on the door behind me. “We should get back to—”
“I want her to be my agent.”
Trevor’s mouth gapes like a fish. “How do you know Turner’s a girl?”
A girl? She’s a woman, and thanks to social media and our shared best friend, Mallory Edwards, I know she’s a woman with two degrees under her belt and years of experience.
“We knew each other in college.” Hiding my very real feelings and our short-lived relationship under a flimsy lie feels like a betrayal. She’ll probably hate me for this, considering we haven’t spoken in almost two years and it’s my fault.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea. I’m her senior agent. With the way I can help your career grow, I’d be the perfect agent for you.”
I don’t take the bait. “Does she have the proper certifications to represent me?”
“Yes. She passed the baseball certification exam.”
“Is she good at her job?”
A pause. “Yes,” he bites out, and I can tell it is hard for him to admit. “But I think—”
Great, that’s all I need to know.
“If I’m signing with Permian, it’s going to be with her.”