“Surprise me.”
“Let’s start with endorsements and work our way up. ProVita wants to extend their Powerade drink deal. I also have offers from Nike, a sports watch company, and Remington, who wants to put your ugly mug in their electric razor commercials for some unknown reason. All told, it’s just shy of three-point-five million.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“And you’re on a team that isn’t even making the playoffs. Think about what you could get if you were on a winning team.”
“Yeah, that’s crazy.”
“I know you like to check out the products before you decide. So I had Samantha make you a nice little care package you can take with you today, or I can have her ship it to your place, if you want.”
“Sounds good.”
Don sat up and folded his hands on his desk. “Now for the real money. We discussed three numbers—the minimum you’d take, what you’d like to get, and your pie in the sky.” He grabbed a pen, jotted some numbers on a Post-it, and slid it across the desk to me.
I lifted it to make sure I was seeing the number correctly. “You’re serious?”
“Eight-year contract. Congratulations, you’re about to become one of the top ten highest-paid players in the National Hockey League.”
I’d been expecting a solid number, but nowhere near this. I wasn’t a twenty-three-year-old spring chicken anymore. Contracts at twenty-nine that span that long aren’t easy to come by. “Wow. That’s fucking amazing.”
Don smiled. “You mean, your agent is fucking amazing.”
“Whatever. Take all the credit, if you want. For that money, I’ll wear a T-shirt that says my agent is fucking amazing.”
Don laughed. “You know I’m getting that shit printed.”
“What about the physical exam? Anything special I have to submit to with that chunk of change?”
“The usual. Labs, EKG and stress test, and a physical exam from an ortho.” Don squinted. “But this isn’t the first time you’ve asked me about the health checkup. Anything you want to tell me?”
I shook my head and swallowed. “Nope.”
He looked me in the eyes. “You sure?”
“Yep.”
“Alright, good. It’ll take a while to hammer out the details, and they have to make some moves to stay under the salary cap. But they want you, and the number is a done deal.”
I stuck around after that to talk about all the deals rumored to be in the works with other agents. Don loved to talk shop, mostly because his roster of clients was filled with heavy hitters, and most other deals paled in comparison. But he deserved to pat himself on the back. He worked his ass off and was damn good at his job.
After, I was on my way to practice when my brother called.
“What’s up, Altar Boy?” he asked.
Tate had nicknamed me that after an unfortunate incident when I was six and he was eleven. My parents were out one night, and he’d convinced me that we had another brother I had never met, who was a year older than him. He’d told me this brother had gone mad and lived in the shed in our yard. Unbeknownst to me, there was someone, or rather something living in there—a family of raccoons that my dad had just discovered that day and had yet to get rid of. He’d left the door open that night, hoping maybe they’d find their own way out.
Anyway…when it got dark, Tate made me go out into the yard and then locked me out. I started to cry and bang on the door because I was scared the brother who had gone crazy was going to get me. At one point, I heard a loud bang from behind me, and when I turned around, all I could see were two glowing eyes standing at the shed. I freaked out, crying and screaming, but Tate wouldn’t let me back in until I got on my knees and said three Hail Marys. Of course, he videoed it from the window. When he showed it to my other brothers, my nickname became Altar Boy.
“What’s up, asswipe?”
“I called you for your birthday, but you didn’t pick up.”
“Sorry. I was watching a movie and turned my ringer off. Four fell asleep, and when he gets woken up scared, he pisses. I didn’t want to be pissed on.”
“Ah…so your dog is a lot like you when you were little.”
“Fuck off.”
Someone listening to our conversation might think we didn’t get along. But Tate and I were tight.
“You watched a movie on your birthday? Damn, you’re getting old. I figured you didn’t answer because you were out with some puck bunny. Anyway, I just called to make sure we’re still on for dinner tomorrow night? Not that I want to see your butt-ugly face, but my girls are bugging the crap out of me, asking if Four is coming.”
“We’ll be there.”
“Alright, good. I’ll see you tomorrow.”