New Year's Steve
I scowl, because yeah, sometimes she does, and who cares? She’s bored out of her mind and my dad drives her insane now that he’s not working seventy hours a week.
His last idea was to buy an RV and drive it across the United States, but she quickly put the kibosh on that idea.“So okay, you met this chick where?”
“On a dating app called LoveSwept. That’s like, the non-hooking up app for professionals.”
“Sure, sure, I’ve heard of it I think. My cousin just got engaged to someone she met on Sparks, except I’m pretty sure dudes are able to send pictures through that? You know, like dick pics.”
“I got what you meant.”
No way would I ever do that. The thought of some strange woman taking a screenshot of my nads? No thanks. Besides, men who think their dicks are photogenic are out of their delusional fucking minds.
“Anyway — New Year’s Eve, huh?”
The server chooses that moment to come with our food, placing it in front of us before asking if we need anything else and walking away.
“Yeah — N Y E.” I dip one of the fried pickle chips into the ranch dressing, blow on it before popping it in my mouth and scalding my taste buds. SHIT THAT’S HOT. “Except, she doesn’t actually know my real name, which isn’t that big of a deal, right? But might be weird at the beginning to be like, ‘Hey, my name is Harrison, haha.’”
This interests my friend in a big way. “What did you tell her your name is?”
I shrug. “Steve.”
“Eh,” he says. “I don’t blame you. It’s way too easy to find people online and shit. You wanna make sure she’s normal before you give her all the good details. I get it.”
“Exactly. It’s not like doing a search for Harrison McGinnis is going to turn up tons of other men. I’m a sitting duck.”
“You’re a genius.” He’s biting into his brat, but because we don’t have all the time in the world to sit here shooting the breeze, he powers on, even with a mouth full of food. Which is gross, but whatever. “Maybe Meg and I will join you. Where is your date?”
“The hell if I’m telling you!”
“Why?” He pretends to be insulted.
“Because of what you just said — joining us! I do not need an audience when I’m making an ass of myself.”
“Just don’t wear that outfit tonight, or she’s going to think you’ve spent the day cruising around the block in your Losermobile.”
Losermobile?
He’s an idiot.
Adam checks his phone, grimaces, sets it down, then wipes his mouth. Chugs half the beer in his glass before announcing, “We have to bounce.”
I quickly chug from my beer, too, but stand and reach for my jacket, shrugging it on. Dip into my pocket for my wallet and throw down a hundred-dollar bill.
Grab my bratwurst, because I’m not leaving this baby behind.
“What’s going on? Why can’t we stay and finish?”
“Manuel Gomez took a hit and they had to take him off the field on a stretcher.”
“Fuck!”
Manuel is one of Adam’s clients; he’s with the Nashville Mountaineers and was in negotiations to sign a more lucrative contract with a three-time Super Bowl winning team.
“That was his mom. They want to see me.” He grabs his own brat and slides out the of chair. “I’ve been fielding calls all day from reporters and sponsors alike, all asking for updates. Vultures. Hell if I know how long he’s going to be out yet. Give the doctors a chance to do their work first.”
We flag down a cab, of which there are many, and eat our brats on the way, licking our fingers as we head back to the office. From the glare in the rearview mirror, I’d say the driver isn’t thrilled about bringing food into his car, but seriously, no way my lunch smells worse than the interior of this thing. Or maybe the smell is just me post jog. Regardless, he’ll get a big tip and get over it.
When we get back upstairs, Adam goes his way while I begin to go mine, but not before I tell him, “If there’s anything I can do man, let me know.”
“I will. Good luck tonight.”
We bump fists and I trail along to the bathroom so I can wash my hands after being in the cab; noticing that it’s oddly quiet when I make my way to my office.
Strange.
I just assumed more people would be working, considering our clients rarely get a break. Regardless of the time of year, they’re too busy entertaining the masses with their physical aptitude to have time off today. I suppose it’s primarily just our football clients.
Still.
We represent a good chunk of the active athletes on the field today, and a nice percentage of the retired ones who have endorsement, television, and film deals.