Page 101 of The Wild Card
“Close. He’s a sports agent. He’s also the reason I’ve been trying to hunt you down all week,” Thayden says.
“Are you looking to buy a gym?” I ask, and Jacob shakes his head.
“Not even a little bit. I do, however, hope I can convince you to keep yours.”
“Don’t think that’s going to happen.” The pleasant feeling of pride I felt downstairs did nothing to make me want to stay. It only eradicated some of the icky feelings I’ve been left with.
“At least hear me out?” Jacob says, and I agree.
The three of us sit down at the small conference table I used for staff meetings as Jacob lays out why he’s here. Thayden twirls a ballpoint pen between his fingers, keeping his gaze trained on me, not Jacob.
“As you probably know, there are a limited number of training facilities for pro, collegiate, and elite athletes. I know that was the original intent of Grit, and I recognized a few faces when we came in.”
“We still attract a lot of athletes. Especially from UT because of proximity. But some from Houston and Dallas. A few other places.” More at the start than now, but there is still an impressive list of men and women who have dripped sweat onto this floor.
“I’ve got a pretty diverse client list,” Jacob says, and I can hear what he doesn’t say: diverse andimpressive. “A lot of guys in the off-season have specific places they go to train—old coaches and facilities. Private places. Or the bigger and well-known places.”
I nod. There’s a very popular one with a location near Dallas, another in Florida, Colorado, and a handful of other states. I had been envisioning something similar but on a smaller scale when I opened Grit. That intention sort of slipped away from me over time when the demand grew from so many Austin residents who wanted to train in a gym that was a few steps above the norm.
“What would it take to get back to those roots? Take your original dream and make it bigger.”
“Bigger how?” I ask.
“New facility with room for fields, courts.” He pauses. “An ice rink.”
“Wyatt Jacobs is one of his oldest clients,” Thayden says. “Played for Boston and now for DC.”
I vaguely know the name. Hockey and baseball are two sports I don’t follow as much, though I hit up a few of the AHL games here in Austin and we’ve had a few skaters in here before.
“That kind of expansion would be massive. And with the Austin real estate market being what it is …” I shake my head. “That’s a massive leap from what I’ve been doing.”
“Doesn’t have to be in Austin,” Jacob says. “I mean, sure—it’s always easier to be near an airport, travel-wise. But these guys have money for that kind of thing.”
“And there’s an added benefit to being a little bit outside of a city,” Thayden says. “Fewer distractions. Less chance of fans showing up, trying to disrupt things.”
My heart is doing something funny—picking up speed as I think of a specific field. Acres and acres—away from distractions and people. An hour and a half from the Austin airport. If I close my eyes, imagine the herd of cows gone, I can see a facility. Fields. The kinds of athletes I wanted to work with when I walked out of the locker room for the last time myself.
Thinking of the field reminds me of Molly, and I tap my phone, waking it only to see no messages, no calls. She’s probably still with Winnie and Lindy at the LLLS meeting.
But I wish she were here. She’s the only one I want to talk to about the possibilities bubbling up in my mind, fueled by a bright and sudden hope. This is the same sensation I have when I think about Molly, about our future. Though my feelings for her greatly eclipse even my excitement over the idea taking shape in my mind.
Tank has planted the seed for something, and Jacob has now given that seed a healthy dose of fertilizer. But Molly—I can’t picture any kind of future without her being in it.
“I’ve got a long list of clients who would be interested in something like this, plus my agency has more. It would be great to have one place that does it all. Run by people whose name in the industry still means something.”
“My dad is the only one keeping our name in front of people,” I say.
“No,” Jacob says. “I’ve had clients ask about you, ask about Grit. I think you underestimate your impact.”
“You’ve given me something to think about,” I say, channeling all the acting I’ve had to do lately—pretending to be a boyfriend, pretending I’m not a boyfriend—as I attempt to keep my expression unreadable.
For Jacob, I’m sure it worked. Thayden, however, has a keen, sharp look in his eyes.
I stand, having also glimpsed the time on my phone screen. “I hate to do this, but I’ve got my brother’s bachelor party to get to.”
Jacob and Thayden stand as well, and there’s more handshaking and smiling. “I heard about the poker game,” Jacob says. “I’d love an invite sometime—when it’s not a special event, that is.”
“Next time,” I promise him.
