Page 95 of Moonlighter
“I haven’t made any decisions.”
“Uh huh. You forget that I know you. You’re going to avoid that other surgery and try to skate on your right knee. You’re going to do the macho thing and play through the pain. And that’s your choice. But promise me you won’t hurt yourself just because you’re worried about your contract extension. That’s not the most important thing.”
“Of course it’s the most important thing. What else is there?”
She sets down her butter knife and gives me a green-eyed glare. “Yourlife, dumbass.”
But hockey is my life.
“Look.” She goes back to buttering a piece of bread rather violently. “You told me after your 2012 season that you regretted putting off that shoulder surgery. That you never wanted to play another entire season in pain. You said, ‘I got the stats I wanted, but I was miserable from December to May.’”
“Good memory,” I mutter. Because that does sound familiar.
“Yeah, well I hope my memory isn’t better than yours. If you put off the meniscal repair because you’re so desperate for a contract extension, it might be 2012 all over again.”
“Except for the part where I’m seven years older.”
“Except for that.” She shoves a piece of bread in her mouth and then waves over a waiter who’s holding our platter of wings.
“I need that contract extension,” I remind her. “And so do you.” Fifteen percent of nothing is nothing.
“Not if you’re miserable, Eric. Not if you regret it.”
This is why I trust Bess. This is why I signed with her when she was just a green agent at a big shop. And this is why I followed her to the boutique firm she runs now.
Just as I’m picking up a chicken wing, she points her phone at me and takes a photo. “Say cheese and thank you!”
“What’s that for? Social media?”
“Well, you’re wearing a tight Brooklyn shirt and dining in a local restaurant. The fans will eat that up. So thanks for the suggestion. But I really took it to send to you later.”
“For what?”
“Someday soon, you’ll find this photo in your inbox. And you’ll say—’oh yeah, I remember eating avocado tacos with Bess on a day when I thought avocado tacos were all I had going for me. She was right. I have so much to celebrate. Actually Bess is a genius.’”
“That doesn’t sound like something I’d say. And what the hell is an avocado taco anyway?”
Even as I say it, another plate lands on the table, laden with tiny little taco shells stuffed with bright green guacamole. And my mouth waters on command.
I pick one up and bite into the creamy, spicy goodness. And, wow. Avocado tacos might actually be the best thing in my life.
“Take another one,” Bess says. “If I eat all those, my ass will be as wide as the F train. Besides—rehab takes energy.”
She’s not wrong. So I reach for another one.
After lunch and a nap,I’m feeling almost human again. So I do some stretches in the practice facility gym and wait for my workout buddy to show up.
“Drake, you’re late!” I call from the mats when the rookie finally walks in.
“Dude, I didn’t know you were coming!” He removes his backward baseball cap and grins at me.
“What do you mean? It’s Saturday, right?”
“Yeah, but…” he drops his gym bag. “With your knee, I thought you’d skip.”
“Skip chest day? Who’s going to motivate you? Who’s going to teach you about nineties grunge music? Put some plates on the bar.” I clap my hands together. “Let’s go.”
“Wait. Isn’t it my turn to pick the music?” Drake asks.
