29
Decisions
Mitch
A wailing firetruck whooshes by on the street below. Even twenty floors up, the sound hits my ears and grates on my nerves. My jaw tenses around my bite of Cheerios.
In a matter of a few days of being back in the city, I’ve grown tired of it. I used to love looking down on the bustle of New York, but now all it does is fill me with dread and a massive ball of anxiety wedges itself in my chest like a rock.
I sit down with a huff, setting my bowl on the kitchen table, and get a message from Logan. He’s attached a picture of merch he designed. We haven’t even announced the podcast yet, haven’t even recorded the first episode, but the guy ordered one-hundred hoodies with our podcast name—T it’s precisely where I’m meant to be.
Phil is waiting for me at the French steakhouse in the West Village, a restaurant he loves and insists we eat at every time we meet. The food is great, but there’s nothing about the place that draws me in. There’s no personality, the staff are snobby, and honestly, I feel out of my element.
Then again, this might be another side effect from being back in the city, where every step I take feels misplaced, as if I’m walking in someone else’s shoes.
“Mitch,” Phil says, rising to greet me with a warm smile and a firm handshake. “You’re looking good.” He plants a hand on my shoulder and nods.
“I don’t, but thanks,” I reply with a grin and sit.
Lately, I haven’t been sleeping well and feel as though I’m a stranger in my own home.
“What’s going on here?” he asks, pointing to his chin.
I rub my scruffy jaw. I have to agree with Max; seeing more of my face and not hiding it behind an overgrown beard is definitely refreshing.
“I needed a change.”
My shoulders slump as we take our seats, the weight of the world pressing down on me.
“All right. So, are you ready to sign?” Phil asks.
I frown. We both know that if I were ready to sign with the German team, I wouldn’t need to meet him in person, and I would have done it a while ago.
Phil is one of the best agents in the league—negotiations, even last-minute ones, are what he lives and breathes for. So, my wanting to meet him like this goes against his very fabric, and I can tell he knows. Anxiety swims in his slate-colored eyes.
“About that… I’ve got some news.”
He sighs, letting his head fall a little as he reaches for his vodka tonic. “You’re not signing, are you?” There’s no bitterness in his voice, only disappointment with a lack of surprise. He knew what was going to happen, which proves how well he knows me.
I drink some water, hoping to quench my dry throat. “No, Phil. I’m not.”
He settles his glass on the table with enough force to make the ice cubes rattle and keeps his eyes on it. “We don’t have time to keep shopping, Mitch, you know that.”
“And I’m not talking about shopping around. I’m leaving.”
“Leaving?” The space between his eyes wrinkles when he looks at me, and his frown intensifies. “The city?”
I shake my head. “The game.”
He leans in and drops his voice. “You’re… quitting? Kid, I love you, but you’re making a huge mistake.”
“Actually, I’d be making a mistake if I continued playing.”
He leans away, smiling. “So, what if you’re not a spring chicken? Who cares? You’re so fucking talented, Mitch. You can still take out any guy on the ice and—”
“That’s the thing,” I interrupt, lacing my fingers on the table. “When did that become all I’m good for? I never wanted to be the bully. I need to be more than that.”
“I agree. You are more. We’ll work on your reputation with that PR firm. We’ll change your image. I’ll talk to the coaches.”
I remember Liv, the beautiful strawberry-blond PR rep I spent some time with last year. She was crazy in bed, but somehow, when I imagine being teamed up with her again, I’m not filled with excitement, but with complete disinterest.
“I don’t want that, Phil. It’s not about my reputation. I’m not meant to play anymore. Deep down, even if you could change my image, I still wouldn’t do it.” I lean back and grin, relieved to speak my truth. “The game isn’t like it used to be. It doesn’t give me what it used to.”
Phil rubs his forehead, then runs his hand down his face. “I get it. It’s awful what happened to your dad, and I understand you’re upset. He was a good guy.”
“With all due respect, you never met him. You don’t know anything about him.”
“Agreed, but I know he gave you your drive. Your love of the game. Hockey’s in you, Mitch.” He grips my shoulder. Like any manager worth his salt, Phil looks fearful as if I’m slipping out from under him. “It’s in your blood. You can’t give it up. You’re just having a rough couple of months and—”
“I’m not talking about giving it up.”
Confused, he frowns at me.
“I spoke with Tremblay.”
“Logan Tremblay? What about?”
“We’re starting a podcast.”
“A podcast?” Phil looks stunned but amused.
“You remember he’s just as obsessed with the game as I am. It’s going to be fun.”
And possibly hectic and chaotic, but in a good way, I think with a smile.
Phil leans back in his chair as if I’ve told him the most shocking news. “You’re fucking with me.”
“No, I’m not,” I answer with a chortle. “Who wouldn’t want to hear us two bums chatting hockey?”
He cocks his head. “Mitch, you’re thirty-one. You’ve got years to play before you turn to podcasts.”
“The hip’s bad, Phil. Worse than I’ve let on.”
I confide in him, tell him about the secret doctor visits, the X-rays, the fourth opinion, even the attempts with Eastern medicine, and admit that nothing has worked.
Turns out that finally telling him the truth, admitting my weakness isn’t as scary as I imagined it would be—it’s actually a massive relief getting it off my chest.
“And the hip is only what started this ball rolling,” I add. “Since my dad died, I’ve seen things differently.”
“Mourning a loved one does that to a guy. And if you need more time off to deal with his passing, we’ll work something out.
I’m sure the team will understand. But this isn’t the way.
” He pastes a wide, confident grin on his face.
“Why don’t you take a couple more weeks to recuperate?
I’ll get an extension on the contract. They’ll wait.
If we need to keep some details from them, then so be it. ”
“Phil, I’m not going to Germany,” I state with a bit more firmness.
“And I’m done with the lying and manipulation.
That’s not what the game is about. I’m not taking up a spot some other kid could fill.
I know there’s a young player out there who would be great in my position.
Someone that wants it more than I do. That lives for it. They deserve it more than I do.”
Defeated, Phil glances away with a heavy sigh. He’s angry, and I’m sure after years of working with me, this isn’t the outcome he expected, but I still see his wheels turning. He’s trying to come up with an argument to convince me, and that’s why he’s the best.
“Tremblay and I are doing this. And it’ll be good for me,” I add before he tries to argue some more. “I could work remotely, which would be ideal for where I’m headed.”
His eyes return to mine. “So, you’re leaving New York?”
I nod as our lunch arrives—two steaks Phil ordered before I got here, I guess.
“But you love it here,” Phil points out, ignoring his food.
“I used to,” I say, glancing out the window at the bustling city street. Instantly, my chest tightens, and I long for the crisp Oakwhite morning air. “Not anymore.”
Phil shakes his head, then glares at his plate. He takes his frustration out on his steak, slicing into it like an angry caveman.