Page 9 of Roughing the Player
Team dinners offer the usual locker room talk. Who got blown, who got screwed, what chick’s willing to do what. Not only have I heard it all, but I’ve done most of it. Rather than join in, I focus on my food and keep my head down.
Done with the meal, I head back to my room, hoping to find oblivion. But first, I have to call Ellie. I dig in my wallet for her business card and punch her number into my cell.
She picks up on the second ring. “Brock?”
“Yeah, it’s me. How did you know?”
“I programmed your number into my phone. Anything wrong?”
“You know that spot at the top of the head where my hair sticks up.” I hope she remembers. A million years ago, she’d mentioned it a time or two.
“Yes.” I can almost hear the smile in her voice.
“It’s the only part that doesn’t hurt.”
“Ouch.”
“Mom, do you know where—” A girl’s voice. She sounds young.
The voice gets muffled as if Ellie has covered up the mouthpiece. A few seconds later, she returns to our call.
“Sorry about that,” she says.
“You have a kid.” Why I’m surprised is beyond me. She’s certainly old enough.
She hesitates for a second before she says, “Yes.”
When she doesn’t volunteer more than that, I sense it’s a touchy subject, So, other than a “That’s good,” I don’t pry.
“Is there something you need?” Her tone’s businesslike, yet not unkind.
“Yeah, ahh, have you heard about Butch?”
She laughs, a nice tinkling laugh that reminds me of that time long ago when we were young and she was innocent. So, so innocent.
“As a matter of fact, I have. They’ve reached Denver. Butch traveled well. He’s probably enjoying a nice sleep right about now. They should make it to Chicago by tomorrow. The dog kennel’s waiting for him.”
“That’s good.” I miss the snuggle bunny. Even though Butch has his own doggie bed, he always climbed into mine.
“How long have you had him?”
“Six years. Since he was a puppy. A Florida teammate’s dog gave birth to fourteen of them. Butch was the runt of the litter, but I fell in love with him. You have a dog?”
“No. Too busy with school and—”
“Your daughter.”
“Yes.” I’m curious as hell to find out about her kid. But it’s none of my business, so I don’t ask.
“Anything else?”
She’s growing impatient, so I better get to the main reason I called. “Yeah. How would you like to attend a team dinner with me this Saturday?”
For a couple of heartbeats, she doesn’t say a thing, and I hope like hell she’s leaning toward yes. But then she says, “It would not be a good thing for us to cross the professional line, Brock.”
Damn it. Should have known she’d come down on the other side. “You’re not my agent.”
“But I work for the agency that represents you. So, same thing.”
