Page 62 of Sweet Disaster
Chapter 21
Gavin
You know that old saying “when it rains it pours?” Well, that shit really does happen.
It’s like the universe knows when you’re already down on the ground and decides to kick you in the balls just because it can.
And today is my day to get the double-whammy and mother of all nut punches.
Kady left this morning. And I’ll be honest, I think she broke my heart. Not only that, but then I got called in to the President’s office when we got back to Florence. There’s nothing like that pit-in-your-stomach feeling when you are summoned to a meeting and you don’t know the agenda.
Our team flight back to Florence was quick, so we returned in plenty of time to go home, unpack and chill for a little bit before we had to make it back over to the arena for practice. My meeting, according to Coach Lorenz, was scheduled fifteen minutes before practice.
I tried to tamp down all the negative thoughts flittering inside my head and looked for a positive reason for this meeting. While I’d been in a slump recently, and hadn’t received much playing time, my game in Rome was phenomenal. I was on fire and couldn’t be stopped. Eighteen points and ten rebounds isn’t too shabby for a rookie. I also had three assists, helping to tie the game and go into a winning overtime.
The President could want to congratulate me on my stellar performance and offer me a starting position. Or maybe an increase in pay. Or perhaps he wanted to talk about my contract, since mine would expire soon. I suppose there could even be a late-season trade to another team.
Too many possibilities to consider and some could even prove financially beneficial to my career.
On the other hand, there was a likelihood that it could be fatal to my longevity in the league.
I swallow hard, the taste of stomach acid climbing the back of my throat, as I enter the ensuite of the President’s office. There’s a young receptionist who looks up from her smart phone when I enter. She gives me a catalog smile.
“Buon giornio. You must be Gavin Lancaster, no?”
I nod my head, running my hands down the front of my pants, wiping the sweat from my palms.
“Si.”
“Ah, bene. Take a seat, por favore. I’ll inform Senor Coppola you are here.”
I glance around at the lavishly decorated lobby space and cop a squat on the hard, beige loveseat against the wall. In front of me is a stack of sports magazines, mostly European, but I end up snagging a copy of a U.S.Sports Illustratedwith a collage of photos from the recentFinal FourChampionship.
That’s one of my only regrets about my decision to play overseas. Although it was highly unlikely I could have graduated from a four-year college, there had been a few smaller schools who’d offered me a seat on their team. Maybe I would have done okay academically in a smaller school, with tutors who could’ve helped me pass the tough college courses.
I guess I’ll never know. That ship has sailed. I am where I am now and I need to make it count.
My phone buzzes with an incoming text and an unusual thrill sweeps through me. I’m hopeful that it’s a text from Kady, letting me know she made it to Madrid.
Disappointment floods me, though. My heart does a swan dive, crashing hard when I see it’s not from her. It’s Christian.
Yo, bro. Heard you had some good play last night. Right on.
I start typing a quick response of thanks when the receptionist returns and says he’s ready for me.
My shoes feel weighted with lead as I slowly stand and walk toward the double-doors of the office. Suddenly I’m scared to go in there. As if looking for moral support, my eyes meet the girl’s, who just throws back a tight, generic smile and ushers me in with a wave of her hand.
I swallow my nerves and head in. TheFuryPresident, Giomacomo Coppola, sits behind a desk, speaking rapidly into an earpiece, his hands flapping wildly with his vocalized words. I’m not paying attention and really can’t understand what he’s saying anyway, so I take a seat in a leather covered chair and wait for him to finish up.
This could be it. The end of my career. I’m filled with severe doubt over my abilities, the negativity swirling violently in my brain. I’ve only had one other conversation with Coppola since starting with the team and it was literally a two-minute welcome speech after my first practice.
As the President finishes up his conversation, I wonder why I haven’t heard from my agent. If they were going to extend, renew or renegotiate my contract, then my agent would have been notified and we would have spoken before now.
Which means this can’t be good.
FML.
As Coppola ends his call, his eyes latch onto my face, a resigned look in his dark irises, as he strums a hand down his purple silk tie.
