To be honest, I don’t even remember what the woman looked like. I shake my head. “Not interested. I’ve got a girl.”
Okay, the more correct statement would be that I’m obsessed with a girl that’s not technically mine, but potato, po-tah-to or whatever. I take a picture of the info Rocco’s father jotted down and shoot it off to my agent before giving her a call.
“Reno, my favorite client,” Carly Hanson answers merrily. “What did you just send me? Is this Rocco someone I need to put a hit out on?”
I laugh at her nonsense, though Carly’s a badass broad and could probably make that happen if I requested it. She’s a beast for her clients.
“It’s a kid I met in the airport. Family’s going through a hard time, but he’s a fan.”
“Say no more. I’ll send a jersey, hat, and full swag package. Maybe a hoodie too. Kids like hoodies.” I can hear her clicking away on her computer.
“Thanks, Carls. You’re my favorite agent.”
“Of course I am. Anything else?”
“Yeah, I’m not sure how Dallas handles their ticketing requests for players, but… hold on.” Baylor is nudging me with his elbow.
“Tell her to talk to Marjorie in Community Relations,” he says in a low voice.
“Baylor said to talk to Marjorie in Community Relations.”
“On it. I know Marj. I’ll get tickets to the season opener for the family. How many?”
“The mom is sick, so I don’t know if she’s well enough to attend, but there’s also a grandmother.”
“I’ll send six to be safe. The kid can bring some friends.” Then her voice turns shrewd. “Baylor Ward, I’m assuming?”
“Uh, yes.”
“Hmmm,” she muses. “I hear his agent is retiring this year. Put in a good word for me.”
I laugh. “Always a shark, aren’t you? I’ll talk to him.”
“Good man. If there’s any other way I can serve your every need, just call.” Her tone is sarcastic, but that doesn’t make it less true. Carly is so much more than an agent. She runs her own firm with a slew of employees that serve as personal assistants for her clients, making sure even the oddest requests are taken care of.
“That’s a nice thing you’re doing,” Baylor says once I disconnect the call. “By the way, what happened to your pinky finger?” He gestures to my still splinted digit.
Before I can think of a better excuse, I say, “Sex hammock incident.”
He chuckles. “I think we’re going to get along really well,Reno.”
Baylor wasn’t wrong. He and I are becoming fast friends. He gave me a private tour of the arena, and then we had a catered lunch at the swanky private dining room there with the entire team and coaching staff. Even the owner of the team made an appearance to welcome me. The Brewers did everything short of rolling out the red carpet, and this sense ofbelongingbegins to settle into my bones.
Now we’re back in Baylor’s big charcoal-gray truck, headed east as he gives me a rundown of the owner and his family. “Mr. Carmichael bought the team about eight years ago and changed the name to the Brewers. He and his family are in the beer business.”
“That explains the name change,” I comment. “And the outstanding bar.”
“They open that up on weekends, even when we don’t have games. A lot of the players go there to socialize, and management keeps the crowd small and low-key so we can relax. It’s like our own private lounge.”
“That sounds nice.”
“It is. They usually let in some puck bunnies for the single guys, but they know to leave us married players alone. I can put the word out that you have a girlfriend so they know not to hit on you.”
“Thanks. I appreciate that,” I reply.
The last damn thing I’m interested in is any woman but Juliette. I’m pretty sure if she doesn’t somehow change her mind, I’ll be celibate for the rest of my life.
“Anyway, Mr. Carmichael financed a whole-ass new arena for us. Our previous one was old and shitty.”
