Chapter 4
Chapter Four
Hayes
“Hellooo!” Jagger waves his hand in front of my face.
“Sorry.” I straighten in my chair and pick up my fork again.
It’s been three days, and I still can’t get Leighton out of my head. This does not bode well for the season ahead.
“You need to get your head together. This is the kind of shit I’m talking about.” He points his fork at me like a dad would at his teenage son who’s on his fifth detention.
Jagger is the best agent in the industry, and I’m pretty sure it’s because he doesn’t sugarcoat anything.
He doesn’t boost our egos or baby us when we fuck up.
He was all over my ass last year, but I didn’t give a shit at the time.
On the flip side though, he’ll praise us and fight for us when our skills and talent have us at the top of the MVP list.
“Let me remind you, you’re here because of me.” He turns the fork around and points it at himself, then uses it to stab some of the scrambled eggs on his plate.
To some, that sentence might sound conceited.
I didn’t see Jagger busting his ass to get a D1 college offer, nor did I hear from him much when I was barely getting by in the minors.
But I’m in Chicago now, playing for the Colts, blessed with a second chance to prove that I’m not a difficult player, so he’s earned an imaginary gold ribbon for being the best fucking agent.
“Didn’t you get my fruit bouquet?” I lean back in my chair.
His lips tip into an almost grin before he breaks out into a full smile. The other thing about Jagger is that he knows I’m deflecting and will play my game. “Quinn says get the one with more pineapple next time.”
I fork my egg whites and avocado. “Done. Apologize to your wife for me. And sorry for not being completely here. It’s just that my sister’s best friend—”
He groans. “That sentence right there sounds like drama. The kind of drama you need to stay away from.”
“It’s not like that.” That’s a lie. If it wasn’t anything, I’m pretty sure she wouldn’t be on my mind every damn second.
Though there is some truth there, just for a different reason than Jagger suspects.
Leighton isn’t into me… and probably thinks I’m a shitty kisser since the only time I kissed her, I was on the heavier side of buzzed.
Not that the alcohol running through my veins was the reason I kissed her—far from it.
I think I noticed Leighton the minute she hit puberty, which probably makes me a creep.
“The way your mind is wandering again, I’m pretty sure it’s exactly like that.” Jagger frowns.
I drop my fork and pick up my water. “It’s not. I appreciate this whole ‘make sure you have your shit together’ pep talk, but you didn’t need to fly out here. I’m good. I told you that.”
“All you athletes are so conceited. As if I’d fly to Chicago just for you.
” He raises his hand for the waitress when she passes by.
“Excuse me, sorry, but I forgot to order something earlier. Can I have a pancake made into a flower? My daughter.” He holds his phone out to her to see his screensaver.
“She loves this place, and I promised to get one and eat it on her behalf.”
The waitress smiles and stares at Jagger for a moment before coming out of her trance and heading over to the pancake maker behind the glass to put in Jagger’s order. He’s definitely got that salt-and-pepper good-looking guy thing. Plus, his suit says he’s powerful. And rich.
“Does Quinn know you flirt?” I lean back in my chair, crossing my arms.
“Believe me, I got my head out of my ass a long time ago. Quinn knows she’s the only woman I see or want. And if you think that was flirting, I can see why you’re still single.” He wipes his mouth and places the paper napkin back on his lap.
“I’m single by choice,” I say.
“I used to say that too.”
“I get that I fucked up last year, but I like to think I’m a pretty good catch.”
He sips his coffee. “That’s all you athletes’ biggest problem.
You attract the ones who want you for all the wrong reasons, and the good ones want nothing to do with the spotlight that comes along with your career.
And if they can handle it, most of the time you’re too blind to even see the good ones. I’ll tell you though, the Falcons—”
“Here we go again.” I groan. “You treat us Colts like we’re your stepchildren.”
“More like newborns. You’re cute and all, but you whine and cry too much, and I often find myself having to clean up your shit.”
The waitress places the flower-shaped pancake in front of Jagger. “Here you go. Anything else?”
“No, we’re all good, thanks, Heidi.” Jagger pulls out a twenty and slides it into her palm. “Tell Erik thank you. She’s going to be so happy.”
She smiles and turns toward me, placing the bill beside my plate, and walks away.
Jagger pulls out his phone and snaps a picture of the flower pancake, his smile so big and genuine, something pulls at my heart.
He’s happy just because he knows his daughter will be happy.
Sometimes I wonder if I’ll ever be in a place to have my own family.
My entire life has had one end goal, but that goal marker keeps moving.
When will I feel like I can have it all?
“The bill is yours. You can pay it with the money from that shiny new contract I got you.” Jagger puts syrup on one petal and eats it, takes another picture, then sips his coffee as he stands, ready to leave. The man is a machine.
“You got a percentage of that contract.” I slide the bill toward him.
He picks it up and straightens his tie, pulling his wallet out. “Come on, you’re not my only client.”
I stand and grab my jacket from the back of the chair. “Which you always make clear. Off to see your golden boys?” I think he might be the Chicago Falcons biggest fan.
I follow him to the register, where I search for a mystery flavor Dum Dum in the complimentary bin by the register.
“Thanks, Val, see you next time I’m in town,” Jagger says to the woman cashing us out.
“Tell the little ones I said hi and we miss them.” Her long, manicured nails flail in the air as she waves goodbye.
I unwrap my Dum Dum and walk out of the pancake house onto the streets of Chicago. “You should ask for a back booth here. Have a constant rotation of your players in and out of the place.” I stand on the sidewalk, out of the way of bypassing foot traffic.
“Coming here while I’m babysitting you toddlers makes it more bearable.” He stuffs his wallet into the front pocket of his suit jacket. “We got off on a tangent, so let me lay it out there—I’m gonna give you three rules to follow.”
Last year I would’ve blown him off, raised my hand for a taxi and pissed him off, only to get a voicemail with threats and demands from him later. This year, I’m different, so I stuff my hands in the pockets of my jacket and listen.
“Good boy,” he says, noticing the effort I’m putting in. I don’t even make a sarcastic comment about being a loyal dog. “One, you don’t go out nights before a game.”
I roll my eyes.
“Two, you are not seen with a million different women.”
“A million? I’m impressed with myself.”
“You know what I mean. Maybe try to find a girl to go on a couple quiet dinner dates with, go to the movies. Get your picture taken holding her hand. Do not find her in a club.”
“A relationship is the furthest thing from my mind.”
“Unless the Colts start winning, and then you’ll be on a high. I’ve seen this more times than you. The highs are really fucking high, and you’re going to want to celebrate with pussy. So, this year, steady pussy is the best option. Now… third… stay the fuck away from Foster Davis.”
“What?” My forehead wrinkles. Foster’s getting the blame for my behavior last year, but he had nothing to do with my mind being everywhere but on the ballfield. “He’s my best friend.”
“And he’s my client, but he’s not good for your reputation. Vega doesn’t like him, so if you want a contract at the end of the year, in two weeks when you play one another, do not go out with him.”
“This seems extreme. Vega isn’t my dad, telling me who I can hang out with. I’m an adult.”
Jagger looks around the sidewalk. Thankfully, it’s midweek, so there aren’t a ton of people, and no one has recognized me.
“This is what you get when you try to blow up your entire career in a single year. Next year we can loosen the reins a little, but this year, you keep your head down, work your ass off, and stay out of trouble. A Gold Glove would be fucking awesome this year, just saying.”
I scowl at him. “Like I haven’t tried every year to get it?”
I’ve never been awarded one. Just another thing that pisses me off.
He steps closer. “Not last year, you didn’t.
We’re in damage control mode. You’re the best catcher in this league.
It didn’t take that much convincing to get Chicago to snap you up before the trade deadline because they know what you’re capable of.
But we have to clean up that shit off the field.
When that happens and you have no distractions, you’re going to have all eyes on you.
Your career is going to peak. With you, Decker Davis, and Easton Bailey, the Colts have a shot at the playoffs.
So please, do yourself and me a favor and listen to me—I promise the rewards are coming. ”
This is why Jagger is the most sought-after agent in the industry.
I actually believe him. Minus the fact that he’s mine, Decker’s, and Easton’s agent, so of course he thinks we’re going to turn the Colts’ shitty record around, but he actually makes me believe I’m indispensable. That the Colts are lucky to have me.
“Okay, you got it.” I nod.
He holds out his hand, and we shake. “I knew you’d understand.” A car pulls up to the curb. “Want a ride?”
“Nah, I’m gonna walk.”
“Good. Good. Let the city see you as one of their own. Smile and wave and be approachable. Having them behind you can only help you.”
I nod like an annoyed teenager at a family holiday. “Tell the Falcons I say hi.”
He gives me his cocky grin. “You guys win it all like they did, and maybe you’ll be my new favorites.”
I roll my eyes. I get that they aren’t his problem children. They’re all married with kids and still killing it on the ice.
We part, and I turn toward the three-flat condo building that Decker, Easton, and I took over from the Falcons. It was meant to be ours—the rooftop overlooks Webber Field where the Colts play.
Being back in Chicago births new life inside me and makes me feel like the possibilities for the team and me are endless. I can totally do what Jagger is asking, and it’s not as though I’ll be around Foster much since he’s still playing back in Seattle. Our paths won’t cross often.
Walking up to my building, I see a cardboard sign on the black iron security door. Another attempt by the diamond girls to coin the name of our building.
Three of the Chicago Grizzlies lived here first, and the jersey chasers referred to it as The Den back then.
When the Falcons took it over, the puck bunnies called it The Nest.
And now the diamond girls can’t seem to figure out what to call it. Every week a sign shows up with something new.
I pause in front of the gate to read the sign.
The Barn?
I tear down the cardboard sign. We’re definitely not a bunch of smelly cows.