Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
“I’ll try my hardest,” I say with a small smile.
Jason flips Harlan the bird. “I get it, Harlan. It’s tough being second best to the Hawks.”
With a roll of his eyes, Harlan takes off.
Nearly everyone is gone. I hang back, gearing up to make my request. I can’t keep being Mr. Awkward with the press now that the starting job is mine to lose.
Nate and I are the last to leave. After he says goodbye, it’s just me standing in the doorway with Jason.
Now or never. “Can I ask you a question?”
Jason’s expression goes serious, his gregariousness vanishing. “Sure.” He sounds like he has his guard up.
I want to reassure him that my favor is nothing too personal. For him, at least. I’m the one who needs help. “You might have noticed I suck with the media. Any chance you could give me some pointers?”
His face clears, and he’s back to playing the gregarious host. With a smile, he gestures to the living room. “Let’s do it, Cafferty.”
When Jason shuts the door, the two of us are alone in his home. Something I’ve imagined more than a few times.
But I can’t go there now. I’ll get flustered, and I desperately need his help with the media. Not with my crush.
4
I’M GETTING THE DISTINCT IMPRESSION YOU HAVE A CRUSH
Jason
Since it’s the night before a game, we switch from beer to LaCroix then settle onto the couch in my living room with our drinks. Beck takes one end of the U-shaped couch, and I grab the other.
“Talk to me,” I say, relieved he wants to chat about something easy. For a second, I thought he was going to throw me an awkward curveball. It happens, anything from can you introduce me to your agent, which I’ve gotten from other players, to were you hitting on me earlier, something I’ve had to deal with a couple of times from homophobic assholes in college.
Fortunately, I haven’t had that in the pros. Representation has grown, and now, major sports count plenty of out athletes among their players. But you never know when you’ll run into a bigot. I take nothing for granted.
Beck drags a hand through his dark hair, then sets his drink on my coffee table. “So, I guess the question is—how the hell do you do it?”
I laugh, appreciating how forthright he is now compared to earlier today. He’s not a dick; he just has stage fright. “It’s an art form,” I joke. Then, I exhale deeply, setting down my drink too—time for some real talk. “Listen, I’m presuming we’re not exactly in the same situation, but I had to make a choice a few years ago. Be open, be accessible, be available.”
Beck nods intently, as if he’s taking mental notes or maybe snapping pics with that photographic memory. “Sure, I get you.” Then in a quieter voice, he adds, “On most of that.”
Wait. Hold on. Is he telling me something without telling me something?
But I don’t want to read into his most of that remark. I’m just glad he’s picked up on my overall meaning. “I’ve had some mentors over the years,” I continue, focusing on his question. “Guys I could look up to who had to face some of the same scrutiny. Like Grant Blackwood,” I say, naming the out catcher for the local baseball team. “From talking to him and others, I sort of figured out I needed a shtick with the press.”
Beck’s brown eyes flash with understanding. “Got it. I need a shtick, you’re saying?”
I reach for my can on the coffee table and raise it to punctuate my point. “Bingo.” I take a drink.
Beck nods, absorbing my advice. “And your shtick is . . .”
He’s not so much asking a question as waiting for me to finish for him, so he doesn’t have to be the one to identify my press persona.
But I’m not going to let him off so easy. “You can say it.”
He laughs, shaking his head. He’s not touching the answer with a ten-foot pole.
“C’mon, Cafferty. Say it,” I goad him as I set down the drink, then stretch an arm across the back of the couch.
More laughter, then he holds up his hands in surrender. “Can’t do it.”
I sigh in over-the-top disappointment. “How can I help you come up with a shtick if you can’t say what mine is?”
He dips his face, maybe worried he’ll offend me. But he finds the guts to mutter, “Bad dad jokes.”
“Dude! There’s no other kind of dad joke.”
He laughs. “I won’t argue with you there.”
“But I also kind of go for the whole mayoral routine,” I say, a touch more serious as I share what’s behind the lame jokes. “Know what I mean? I glad-hand. Ask the reporters how they’re doing. It works, and it helps me stay on a good footing with them.” I rub my palms, getting down to business. “So what’s yours going to be?”