Page 60 of Sure Shot
When I pause at the next stoplight, I check my phone and see a new message that grabs all my attention. It’s from Patrick O’Doul, of all people, and the subject isApartment for rent.
No way! Thanks, universe.
I open that sucker immediately. It’s addressed to both me and the Finnish kid—Ivo Halla.Hey guys—Ari and I are almost ready to rent out the studio, starting December 1st. I don’t know if either of you are still looking for a place to live, but before I tell the whole world, I want to offer it to my teammates first. Rent is $3,900 a month. If one of you is interested, please stop by tonight. I’m home. —P.
Whoa.
On my way, I reply immediately. And then I turn on my heel and reverse my steps toward Water Street.
He’d sent the message only ninety minutes ago. It takes me five minutes to literally run over there. When I get to the front desk, I have to stop to catch my breath before I ask the doorman to buzz me upstairs.
The guy picks up the phone, but before he speaks to anyone, Ivo Halla appears from the direction of the elevator banks. He’s smiling, of course.
When he spots me, his smile slides off. “Ah, nej,” he says. “Sorry.”
Patrick O’Doul appears behind him, and when he sees me he winces.
“Hey, men,” I say as lightly as I can manage. But is this the worst day, or what? “I’m too late, huh?”
“It wasn’t supposed to be a race. I didn’t know if either of you was still looking.”
“It’s fine,” I say quickly. “I haven’t even started looking. I gotta get on that.”
O’Doul shakes Halla’s hand and waves goodbye. The kid lopes out the door looking as happy as I’ve ever seen him. Which is, to be fair, always pretty happy.
“Dude, I’m sorry,” O’Doul says again. “I wasn’t even sure if he could read my email.”
“There’s always Google translate,” I say drily.
O’Doul shakes his head. “He just signed the lease without reading it and handed me a check.”
“He’s a good kid,” I say, looking out the door where he’d disappeared. “And it’s no big deal. I could have gotten here quicker, but…” I actually laugh, because I’m a fucking mess right now. “I just got off the phone with my agent, who’s dying. He called to tell me that my divorce papers are ready.”
Now O’Doul looks really uncomfortable. “That’s terrible. I work with Tommy Povich. If you need somebody eventually, I could…”
“Nah, it’s okay. I’m going to work with Eric Bayer.”
O’Doul’s eyes widen. “Really? That’s cool of you, man. His first client. He’s gonna be really good at that job.”
“Yeah, great guy.” Not like I’m worried. Bess will have my back, anyway.
“You want to grab a beer or something?” O’Doul asks, rubbing the whiskers on his chin. “I could tell Ari that I’m stepping out for an hour.”
For a moment, the invitation tugs at my brittle soul. O’Doul isn’t a bad guy. He might even be a good guy. But I don’t think I can sit in a bar and make small talk today. He doesn’t really want me to say yes, either. He’s just doing his job as captain to make my grumpy ass feel welcome.
“Can I take a rain check? I got this appointment I’ve been dodging for a month now.” It’s the truth, too. How convenient.
“Let me guess—Doc Mulvey? The team shrink?”
“That’s the guy,” I grunt. Most teams have a psychiatrist who every player must visit a couple times a season. It’s a pain in the ass.
“Say hi for me,” O’Doul says with a wink. “I love that guy.”
See? I knew Brooklyn was bonkers. Nobodylikesseeing the team shrink. “Will do.”
“And we’ll get a beer next week, you and me.”
“Thanks. Good plan. See you tomorrow.” Next week it won’t be different, though. I’ll find another excuse.
