Chapter 4 New York
Chapter four
New York
Tate sat down hard in the seat across the table from his manager.
They didn't venture far, choosing the cafe just down the street from the hotel.
As always, Oz had dressed impeccably, suave and cool with his ever present fedora and silk tie tucked into a gray vest. His suit was probably Versace or some other just as famous designer.
He sure as hell didn't look like a motor sports manger.
When he'd said that in the past, Oz gave him a sideways look and reminded him that he managed people not sports.
Just a coincidence that the people he managed all happened to be pro-racers.
Regardless, he was the classiest man Tate knew, even when he took off his hat and showed his bald head, shiny and brown like an acorn.
“Tate, my man. You don't look so good.”
“Did you get me in?”
Oz poured Tate some coffee out of the carafe the wait staff had left on the table. That was one of the best parts of the cafe. Endless coffee. “Thanks man,” Tate muttered, looking up at Oz with questioning eyes.
“Yes, yes. You're in. You leave in two days. That fast enough for you?”
Tate gave him his wicked smile with only one side of his mouth turned up. “No.”
“Shut it, kid,” Oz shot back.
“Seriously, though. Thanks, man. I really need to be on the track right now.”
Oz gave him a grunt then asked, “So, what happened with Donny?”
Tate didn't want to talk about it. Donny was just the last mistake in a long line of them. “I need someone to go with me to get the rest of my stuff and get it into storage.”
“Yeah, you said that.” Oz shifted his focus to the pastry in front of him, leaving his words hanging in the air between them.
Tate waited. He was pretty sure Oz had more to say.
When he was good and ready. After chewing a bite and swallowing, his dark eyes traveled across the table and met Tate's gaze.
“It's hit social media. In that short time since you called me, there's been a huge buzz. Have you seen it?”
Tate shook his head. He had disconnected and let himself wallow in self-pity for the past day or two. “It hasn't been that long.”
“Long enough.”
“So? What's he saying? Am I going to lose sponsors?”
Oz shook his head as he wiped his hands on the linen napkin, then tossed it on the table. “No, no. Nothing like that. There's a big difference between this here and what happened with McAllister. We've done some damage control.” He waived his hand in the air, as if the news were nothing.
Tate lifted his eyebrows. Davey McAllister and his boyfriend at the time, Tyler Whitmore, had been outed with a picture of them getting it on in an alley outside a bar during last season.
They turned Supercross on its head and managed to gain hate-fan stalkers.
Donny bitching about him all over social media could only be a close second to what had happened to them.
“What's the fall out then? That bastard.” He wondered if getting his stuff back would turn into another fiasco.
Oz sighed and picked up his coffee cup. It looked like tiny toy china, like his cousins used to play with, in his big paws, but he sipped at it daintily.
Oz was an enigma, a mass of contradictions.
The big black man was so muscular, it almost seemed as if his muscles were growing on top of other muscles.
He looked like a brute when he worked out, sweat dripping off his bald head, ready to take on Tyson, but sitting across from him at a fancy cafe table, dressed to the nines, and sipping coffee with his pinkie out, he was gentle, caring.
He let that soft caramel center show, and it was exactly that soft center, and his competent management style that made Tate enjoy working with him.
Oz meant more to him than just a manager, more than a friend.
Oz had taken care of Tate when he had nothing and no one else in the world.
With lowered brows and a slight scowl, Oz finally answered. “All we have here is an asshole saying you dumped him. No pictures, no evidence. Just a ton of speculation and that'll blow over, so let them speculate.”
“Okay, so he’s lying? Sort of. That’s normal relationship perspective bull shit. So, why the damage control?”
Oz set his cup down. “He said you hit him. That we disputed.”
“Fuck no. The bastard hit me.” Tate wanted to take Donny’s head off. “That's why I want someone with me to pick up my shit.”
“Drink your coffee, Tate.” Oz motioned with his eyebrows. “Don't let it get cold.”
“Forget the coffee. What—”
“No, nothing. We're not going to address this picking up your shit,” he mocked, but Tate knew he did really care, and that’s what made the difference. “How's your jaw, Tate?”
“Hurts. Bruised, but I'm fine. You can't even tell it's bruised with this.” Tate scratched at his two day growth of beard, coming in darker than the hair on his head and tinted with just a hint of red. “I'm fine. Physically.”
“Good. We'll go get your stuff so we don't have any more issues. Don't reply or respond to anything about this on social media. Just go ride your ass off at the track. You have a few weeks or so and then we'll send a trainer to join you at the camp. We’re working on lining up a new guy for you.”
“Okay.” Tate exhaled long and slow. This wasn't going to touch his career and he'd have free time on the track to get his head straight before dealing with his new trainer. That's what really mattered.
“Don't worry. Even if this was more of an outing, Supercross folks already got their gay-feet wet. McAllister did you a favor.”
“I've never been in the closet. But, yeah...Davey hadn't meant for all that to happen, though.”
“Well, what did he expect? Fooling around with a competitor's mechanic. Bound to blow up. I'm just amazed at how his team handled it all. He really bounced back.”
“Well...you know his attitude...he’s all about win the championship and fuck the rest! No way would he not bounce back, man.” Tate could acknowledge that oversimplification, at least to himself, but it didn’t change anything.
Oz chuckled. “You'll get your shot, Tate. Be patient.”
Intellectually, Tate understood the situation.
He'd only raced in the elite 450 event for two seasons.
With Davey and Chad Regal dominating the field, he'd be lucky to pull third place this next season.
It would be Davey's last season, maybe Chad's too, so the following year, Tate would be in line for the championship, if he kept up.
Winning the championship in his fourth year would be an accomplishment.
His team didn't expect him to win until his fifth year.
In his heart, he wanted to win every race, every time, and he wanted the championship this year.
He'd train and push like he was going to win, regardless of expectations.
“Tate. I see that look on your face. Relax. No pressure.”
Tate laughed, but there was no humor in it. “There's always pressure, Oz. Always.”