by Kyell Gold
“No,” Dev says, and checks with me.
I take his paw in mine, squeeze, and release it quickly because we’re in public. “No, it’s fine.”
We’re at the end of the exhibit and Pol says, “I’m going to use the restroom before we leave.”
“We’ll wait here.” Hal watches her go and then turns to me and Dev. “What’s goin’ on with Kingston?”
We’re both taken aback, but I recover first. “It’s kind of a private family thing.”
“Yeah,” Dev says. “I asked if he’d talk to you for your article, if that’s what you’re wondering.”
Hal swivels his ears to my tiger. “Yeah?”
“He said no.”
The swift fox’s ears go down. “I know he had two concussions in the last month. I already talked to the Firebirds team doctor about other matters and he said he treated Kingston for concussions, that he was experiencing ‘significant’ memory problems.” He uses air quotes. “So did he forget to go to the retirement? Did he forget about the concussions and believe he can keep playing? How bad is it?”
Neither of us says anything. I’m deferring to Dev and he clearly thinks I should talk, probably afraid that he’ll say something he shouldn’t. Hal doesn’t let the silence linger. “I know it’s private,” he says. “But you guys can trust me. If you don’t tell me, all I’ve got is the team doctor, and he told me on the record what Kingston’s symptoms were. What do you think is going to look better, a frank and sympathetic list of his symptoms or,” again with the air quotes, “‘doctors confirmed that Kingston had serious memory loss following two concussions, and Kingston retired the week after the championship but did not attend his retirement and was not available for comment’?”
Dev bites his lip, looking at me. I know we’re thinking the same thing: that second one sounds a lot better than “…and was not available for comment because he shot himself and was in the hospital.” So I say, “Sorry, you’re going to have to go with that one.”
Hal’s narrow muzzle swings between us. “Huh,” he says in a low voice. “Must be pretty bad if you’re not going to talk to me about it. I thought it was just concussions.” He focuses on me. “And after that call with Gena about winning championships based on ruining lives…”
We stay quiet. He sighs. “All right. Cards on the table. I made some connections with the article. Doctors and therapists, but also other players struggling with injuries.”
My ears go up and Dev straightens. Hal goes on. “A lot of them are legs and back injuries. But a few have memory problems. Ace Leffson keeps a little recorder with him all the time. Friese Lowry has a live-in attendant. And the doctor I’m working on the article with is trying to get them into a support group so they can share their stories and lives.”
“A support group.” I turn to Dev.
He nods slowly. “But he can only join this group if he talks to you about the article?”
“We-ell,” Hal says, “I don’t necessarily want to put those conditions on it, but you know, the group is going to be part of the article. So…”
Dev shoves his paws into his pockets and his eyebrows descend. “You’re blackmailing him.”
“Um, no.” Hal holds up a paw.
“It’s more like extortion, actually.” I fold my arms.
“I’m offering something in exchange for participation in the article.” Hal flicks his ears. “Not formal payment or anything, I’m just pointing out that allowing me and my friend to interview him would lead to putting him in contact with other players suffering the way he is.”
I know that suicide attempts often stem from players feeling alone and hopeless, and support groups are great remedies for those feelings. “You could connect him to the group after the article comes out, though.”
Hal glances at Dev. “Reckon I could.”
Dev’s staying quiet. A small group of people walk past us, talking about the paintings, and when they’re out of reach, I respond in a low voice. “We can talk to him again.” I curl my tail around to brush Dev’s legs and his ears flick at the reassurance. “But if he says no, then it’s got to be no, and all we can do is say we’d really appreciate a connection to that group.”
“I understand that.” Hal leans back. His nostrils widen and his expression changes; his eyes flicks to the side and his ears flatten. “So yeah,” he says loudly, “I think next year’s team is going to get even better.”
He doesn’t look toward the corner where Pol disappeared as she walks out from behind it, her ears down and expression stony. “You were asking them to harass Kingston again.”
“Not ‘harass,’” Hal says quickly. “Just offering some assistance in exchange for some words. Tit for tat.” Pol folds her arms, tapping her fingers. “This is part of bein’ a journalist, y’know. It ain’t all Pulitzers and savin’ the world. And how long were you there listenin’?”
“He’s their friend.” She walks toward the exit without waiting to see if we’ll follow. We do, and she talks over her shoulder. “And don’t give me that old ‘no friends in this business’ excuse for acting like an amoral shit. Lee is your friend and you wrote an article about him with his permission.”
“Yeah, I did,” Hal says, hurrying to catch up with her, “and if he hadn’t given his permission, I would’ve written something anyway, and it wouldn’t have been as good, but I’d have done it. He’s a public figure and his story is public.”
We get outside onto the sidewalk, where the air is dry and the heat of the day is just fading into the light breezes of evening. As the door closes behind us, cutting off the air-conditioning chill and smell, I clear my throat. “Technically I’m just dating a public figure.”
“That’s public,” Hal says.
“So you’re not going to have any friends?” Pol stops there, nobody moving to end the evening or get dinner or anything. Dev and I stand awkwardly to one side.
Hal’s brow lowers and he shoots a look my way. “We still friends?”
“Uh, yeah.” I spread my paws to Pol. “I mean, he took me in when Dev and I were having problems, and he listened to me. He bought me orange juice and decongestants and he got me to like Starbucks.”
“I’m not sure about that last one.” She glances at him. “I mean, being a point in his favor.”
“I like them,” Dev says as a chinchilla couple walks around us.
“Their tea is good.” I smile. “And he helped me and Dev get back together. The point is that yeah, Hal’s still my friend. I know he’s trying to do his job and I understand the conflicts.”
She brings her ears up slowly and then relaxes. Hal reaches out and puts a paw on her arm. “It’s part of the job,” he says.
“I know that. I want to know if you know how it feels.”
“I do.” But he gives her a wary look, his ears half-back and the grey fur of his neck slightly bristly.
“Really? What if you were the one who’d been injured? What if your career in journalism affected your mind or something, and then someone wanted to interview you about it?”
“Hey,” he says. “I’m not one of your kids who can’t grasp the concept of morality.”
“No, it’s an interesting question.” I lean forward. “What if you could’ve won a Pulitzer but you’d lose the use of your paws? Would you do it?”
We all look at him and he leans back defensively. “What, both paws?” He holds them up and wiggles the fingers. “Like, cut off?”
“No.” Pol flexes her own fingers into hooks. “Like…carpal tunnel syndrome from typing. All gnarled up and stuff.”
“Do I have to go through with this?” He looks around again and we all stare back. I give him an encouraging smile. “Fine,” he says. “Maybe I would, yeah. But I don’t know that a Pulitzer’d do it. You know what I’d give up a paw for? To be able to publish something that really makes a difference. I don’t give a shit if it gets an award as long as someone comes up to me years from now and says, ‘Hey, that article you
wrote about the Firebirds, that really changed my life.’”
“Hey,” I say. “That article you wrote about the Firebirds…”
“Shut up,” he says amiably.
“Okay,” Dev breaks in, “but that time you talked to Corcoran and got me flown up to Lake Handerson to visit my folks in the hospital…that really did change our lives.”
Hal starts to say something and then closes his muzzle as Pol holds up a paw. “Wait, I haven’t heard this story.”
So then we have to go through the whole bit where I put Dev’s father in the hospital and Hal got Dev flown up there to visit the two of them, and his father kind of acknowledged that I wasn’t some fruity spy trying to ruin his son’s life. Dev has said that he thinks it was me fighting back that did it, but while Mikhail might have respected me after the fight, he didn’t really start opening up until Dev came up to talk to him.
“Ah,” Hal says, “he was already out of jail. You guys would’ve figured it out eventually.”
“I didn’t say it was the only thing that changed our lives.” Dev gives me a nod and a grin. “This fox did a good enough job of turning my life upside down on his own.”
“To be fair,” I say, “your life needed it. And so did mine. Although it’s not so much upside down as…as meeting in the middle, maybe.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Well…” I’m not sure we should be having this whole discussion in front of Pol on a public sidewalk in Chevali where anyone might recognize him, but there’s nothing really wrong with it, I guess. It’s easier if I don’t look at anyone, though. “I mean, you were headed toward being a bored suburban father with a job at your dad’s garage. I was headed for being an outspoken political activist jerk working at a copy shop.”
Hal clears his throat, and I look up to see his eyebrows raised. I turn to Dev. “Anyway, you know, I made you less, um, bored, and you made me less of a jerk.”
I watch him process the remark and start to prickle, and then see the prickling subside. “I’m glad I’m less boring,” he says.
“Bored, I said, not boring. You could never be boring.”
The silence only lasts a couple seconds before Hal says, “But I’d be fine if someone wanted to talk to me about it. And even if I wasn’t, I’d understand them asking.”
“All right, all right,” Pol says. “That story about you getting the two of them together did it. You’re off the hook.” She leans forward with a smile that shows her fangs. “For now.”
Hal meets her muzzle for a kiss, and as we move along on our way, he turns and mouths to me, “Thanks.”
We grab dinner at a fancy place nearby, where Dev orders extra portions and complains about the over-attentive service, and we all talk about movies and politics and our jobs. The topics never stray close enough to the personal to let her argument with Hal resurface, and we finish the dinner on a pleasant note, promising to do it again soon.
In the parking lot as we walk to our truck, Dev turns to me. “Let’s come back here some night, just the two of us.”
“Love to,” I murmur, and daringly take his paw. “So you liked the atmosphere, if not the food?”
“I liked the food,” he says. “Both entrees and both appetizers. The dessert was a little skimpy, though.”
I laugh as we get into the truck. “So what did you think of Pol?”
He considers. “She’s smart, she asked interesting questions, and she’s nice. Seems good for Hal. I felt a little intimidated at a table with a bunch of canids like that.”
I think about where I’ve felt intimidated lately. “Oh, but not with Ty and Arch?”
“That’s different. Ty’s a teammate of mine.”
“Being a jock makes a difference?”
“To me.”
I let him win the argument. “Fair point. And what did you think about Hal’s proposition?”
“Uh.” He shakes his head. “I guess we let Fisher decide?”
“Yeah.” I watch the road ahead of us, stretching ahead with cars and traffic lights and twists and turns. “And if it was you, if you couldn’t remember things right, would you want the world and all your fans to know? In exchange for having someone to talk to?”
We stop at a light. He stays quiet as we drive on through. “When you put it like that…” he says finally.
I wait, but he doesn’t go on. “If you had to make that decision for Fisher, though.” I keep my voice low. “Which way would you lean?”
“I don’t know, fox.” He sounds tired, and that’s my signal to let the conversation go. It’s unanswerable anyway. I think Fisher would do well with a support group, but I don’t like the idea of him being coerced into it by Hal. Or by us.
Dev’s paws look tight on the wheel and he’s focused forward. I recognize the street we’re passing and get an idea. “Hey.” I reach over and pat his arm. “Want to go get soft-serve ice cream before we head home?”
He lights up, with perked ears and a huge smile. “Oh my God. That sounds amazing.”
It’s messy and tastes of chemicals and we both get it all over our muzzles by the time we’re home, and then we lick each other clean, laughing as tongues tickle our whiskers.
19
Wired (Dev)
Around eight in the morning, we get phone calls within five minutes of each other, Lee from his father and me from Damian. “Is this too early?” his gruff voice asks.
“No, it’s fine.” I lie on my back, looking at Lee’s naked body as he gets up and moves to the living room, swishing his tail back at me.
“In season, I try to call before practice starts,” Damian says. “Hard to break those habits in the off-season.”
“It’s fine.” I close my eyes, luxuriating briefly in the presence of an agent who knows my schedule and cares about it. “What’s up?”
“Well,” he says, “I’m not allowed to discuss contracts or anything because of the tampering laws. Off the record, posing hypothetical situations, I’ve gotten an idea of the range you might be able to command if the Firebirds agree to trade you to a team that would give you a new contract: it looks like a four-year contract for five million.”
I get over the first surge of excitement that other teams are interested in me and work out the numbers. “That’s just over a million a year.”
“Right. We could probably front-load that, something like a million and a half signing bonus and 750 thousand a year. And keep in mind that really only the first two years are realistically guaranteed, so you’re looking at probably three million.”
That’s still more than double what I’m getting now. “It sounds good?” I say cautiously.
“It’s certainly good to have interest,” he says. “But I think if you play another full season at the level you’re playing now, you’ll easily get four years for ten million, maybe fifteen.”
“That’s better.”
He chuckles. “Yes.”
“Which teams were interested?”
“Well,” he says, “I can’t tell you the names of the teams because then it’d be even less legal.”
“It’s not legal anyway, is it?” I point out, and then, because Lee’s ears perk in my direction, “Is one of them located near a city I might recently have visited?”
There’s a short silence. “You know, I really shouldn’t tell you any more about it. Let’s just discuss the numbers.”
Wait, I think, is he telling me yes by not telling me no? I spend a few seconds trying to figure that out and then just give up. “Okay. What do you think Chevali would offer?”
“They aren’t committing to anything. I think they’re not worried about you leaving, but I’ve told them they need to come up with a counter in the next week so that you can make a decision. They’re busy working out their contract restructurings and dealing with Fisher and Strike.”
“What happened with Strike?” I sit up. The guy was a jerk, but he was never really a jerk to me.
“Oh, he made a
lot of post-game comments and didn’t come back with the team. They didn’t say anything specifically but I’m sure they’re trying to decide whether to trade him or bring him back.”
“Bring him back,” I say without hesitation. “Yeah, he’s weird, but so am I. He can play, and if we just give him away because he pisses off a few people, then what message does that send the team?”
“That they don’t want players who are jerks? Well, I’m not his agent, so I don’t really have any say in that.” For a moment, he sounds wistful. “But I’m sure you’ll hear what happens on the news somewhere. That guy’s not one to keep things quiet.”
I settle back onto the bed. “No, for sure.”
“Anyway, there’s this new kid in the draft who’s got blazing speed and fewer personality issues. Chevali might do well to draft him.”
“Let me guess, he shares an agent with a couple Chevali players.”
“Of course he does. Lots of agents have players on the Firebirds.” He gives that chuckle again.
“All right,” I say. “Anything else?”
“Not right now. In a few weeks it’ll start heating up, but until then just enjoy your time off. Say hi to Lee for me.”
“Will do. Hey, one question…”
I think about how to phrase it for so long that he says, “Yes?”
I lower my voice. “Of your clients, are there any where their relationship got in the way of their success?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Of course. I’ve had clients turn down contracts because their wives didn’t want to move to a new city. I’ve had clients accept subpar contracts because their wives did want to move to a specific city. I’ve had clients whose divorces have disrupted years when they could’ve gotten a huge contract. I know it’s not all about money, but that’s the best metric I have. Football’s a team sport. There are definitely cases where the relationship kept the player from playing his best and that might’ve cost him a championship, but there are so many factors that I can’t really say that.”