Jordyn laughed.
I’d showed up at her place Sunday evening with pizza and a bottle of Cristal to watch the Grammy Awards. She questioned the champagne. “What if I don’t win?”
I said again, “Seriously. It’s an honor to be nominated.” I carried the box of pizza and the bottle into her kitchen and set them on the counter. “We’re celebrating no matter what happens, because fuck! Being nominated for a Grammy is stupendous!”
Her eyes danced. “Yes, it is. You’re right. I’ve been down about it because I’m not there and I can’t sing and…well, thank you. This is so nice.”
“I didn’t want you to watch alone. Come on, you can tell me all the dirt about the others who’re nominated.”
She chuckled as she lifted champagne flutes out of a cabinet. “Okay.”
We ate pizza, drank champagne, listened to music and trash-talked the outfits people were wearing, got buzzed and laughed a lot.
Jordyn didn’t win. But we celebrated anyway. And she showed her appreciation for me being there in the best way possible.
MARCH
That POS Chase Hartman isn’t worth the big bucks the Aces are paying him. A top ten overall pick but looking like a career fourth liner. Total overhyped bust. Puts in enough work to get by but not enough to get better. He’s had plenty of opportunity playing enough minutes to be a game breaker, but now he’s just warming the bench. Get rid of him.
—Ace of Spades Fan Forum
“So? Any contract news?” I looked across the table at my agent as we studied our menus in the fancy restaurant just off Michigan Avenue where we’d met for dinner. I still had another year on the contract I’d signed with New York after my entry-level contract had expired, but Steve was feeling out team management to see if there was interest in signing a new deal early. I wanted to stay in Chicago, and even though Steve had cautioned me that I might get better offers from other teams, there were advantages to me and to the team to get this done early.
“What’s the deal with the wrist?”
I frowned. “What?”
His lips thinned. He was an imposing man—over six feet tall, barrel shaped, with a completely bald head and a strong nose and chin. “Yarish isn’t exactly jumping up and down to sign you right now.”
My gut clenched. “Because of how I’m playing.”
“That’s definitely a factor. Look, this shouldn’t be an issue. We know what you’re capable of, and right now you’re not being paid what your true value is. But…tough to convince management of that when you’ve only got four goals, your plus minus is what, minus eight? And your Corsi sucks.”
I swallowed. The server came to take our orders, which gave me a few minutes to gather my thoughts. I requested my steak medium rare with a baked potato and extra veggies even though my appetite had disappeared. I picked up my beer and chugged half of it down.
“I’m working on it,” I told Steve when the server had departed.
“I know you are.”
“So they didn’t want to talk at all?”
“They listened to me. I pointed out that they’re going to have to be careful with their salary cap if they want to lock you up long term. And they should want that. You’re only twenty-five, you’re still going to get better, you’re a top four winger. They have guys who are UFAs this year and they don’t want to get themselves in trouble to the point they can’t afford you. But…” He picked up his own beer. “As I’ve said before, we can shop you around and it won’t be an issue. Shouldn’t be an issue.” He narrowed his eyes at me. “You need to get your shit together.”
“Christ, Steve. You’re supposed to be on my side.”
“What the hell does that mean? Of course I’m on your side. Wait, what side?” His thick gray eyebrows pinched together.
I sighed. “My parents think I’m doing drugs. Pretty sure the team thinks that too, or at least that I’m out partying and whoring around every night.”
“Are you?”
“Fuck no!” I glared at him. “I learned my lesson. I’m squeaky clean.”
“I am on your side, Chase.” Steve’s voice softened.
“Yeah, because the more money you get me, the more you make.”
Steve sat back in his chair and regarded me steadily.
I felt like a shit. “Sorry.” I sucked in a long breath and let it out. “Just feel like everyone’s on my back and I’m trying my best. I know you’re on my side.”
“Okay, what’s up with the wrist? Seriously. It’s obviously affecting your game.”
I nodded reluctantly. I’d told him early in the season that it had been bothering me off and on. “Yeah. It is. It’s weird. It doesn’t hurt all the time. They thought maybe I’d ruptured a ligament, but nothing showed up on the MRI.” I rotated my wrist. “Feels fine right now. It’s just certain ways I move it. I had another cortisone injection and that seems to help. For a while, anyway. It only lasts about six weeks.”
“You can’t keep having those.”
I set my teeth together. “I know.” They’d explained that to me. The steroids could actually cause more damage over time—nerve damage, thinning of the skin and soft tissue, weakening of the tendons, and more. “I’m going to the Mayo Clinic next week.”
“Okay, good. Look, I’m not on your back. We’re a team, right? I’m looking out for you. I’m looking out for your career. Yarish knows what you’re capable of, and I get the feeling they want to keep you. But this might not be the best time to negotiate.”
“Fuck.”
We talked more about contract terms and other business stuff and how other teams were doing. I asked how Steve’s wife and kids were. He lived in New York but flew into Chicago regularly to see me and Nicky Balachov, the other guy on the Aces he repped. He was flying all over the country, all the time, meeting with his other clients. He was a great agent, and I was lucky to have signed with him when I was still a teenager. He’d guided me through a lot, and I felt bad for snapping at him about being on my back. Luckily, he was kind of like another dad, a dad who called me on my bullshit but always supported me. Even back in New York when I had been screwing up. And that meant a helluva lot.
“I’m stressed about it,” I confessed to him. “About how I’m playing. About my contract.”
He nodded. “I can see that. You gotta relax, Chase. Just relax. You’re too hard on yourself, about everything.”
“Easier said than done,” I muttered. “Danny told me the same thing. Don’t think about a black dog.”
Steve’s eyebrows elevated. “Say what?”
I explained, and he nodded. “So what’s up with these rumors about you and Jordyn Banks?”
“I guess it’s out there, huh.” I rubbed the back of my neck.
“Hell yeah. Doing hospital visits together. Shopping at Whole Foods.”
“Christ.” People with phones were everywhere, apparently. “Yeah, we’ve been seeing each other. She had to have surgery on her vocal cords, so she can’t sing and she came home to Chicago to recuperate. She’s from here,” I added.
“Huh.” Steve eyed me. “Well, boning is apparently good stress relief.”
I scowled. Calling what Jordyn and I were doing “boning” didn’t sit right.
Steve’s eyebrows flew up. “Wait, is this serious?”
I gnawed briefly on my bottom lip. “Maybe.”
“Huh. No shit.” He pursed his lips. “Might be good for you to settle down. But not sure if a rock star is a good influence on you.”
“Come on, she’s amazing.”
Steve grinned knowingly. “Okay then. My daughters are huge fans of hers.”
“I’ll get her to sign a couple of CDs for them.”
Steve’s eyes lit up. It was hilarious how this hard-assed negotiator turned to fluff when it came to his two girls. “Seriously?”
“Sure.” I hitched a shoulder. “No problem.”
* * *
—
I went from the restaurant to Jordyn’s place, only a few minutes away. She knew I was having dinner with Steve tonight, but I hadn’t been sure how late it would go. The doorman sent me up and I knocked on her door.