Page 8 of Unmanageable

“It’s two months,” he says. “That’s it. Just the summer. No cameras, no press junkets, no local news guys trying to get an interview about my contract extension while I’m trying to buy groceries.”

“You have a responsibility to the front office,” I say, but even to my own ears, it sounds like a generic statement from an agency handbook. “They expect you at the development camp in July.”

“The development camp is for rookies,” Cash says, dismissing it with a slight jerk of his chin. “Rick knows my knees are held together by tape and prayers right now. He doesn’t need me standing on the ice in July showing nineteen-year-olds how to do a butterfly slide. He needs me functional by October.”

“And you think driving a neon orange eyesore through the Midwest is the medical solution?” I ask, crossing my arms over my chest.

“I think getting out of Boston is the solution.”

He leans his shoulder against the doorframe, his gaze heavy on mine. “I’ve been in this city for far too long. Every street corner has someone who wants to talk about the third period of game five. I love the fans, but I’m tired, Scottie. I’m just really, really tired.”

The raw honesty of it catches in my throat.

“Why me?” I ask, my voice dropping. “Take a friend. Take Nico. Take some girl from the North End who wants to travel.”

“Because those people tell me what I want to hear,” Cash says simply. “If I buy a motorcycle in Iowa, Nico will tell me it looks cool. If I want to skip training for three days because my back hurts, some girl from a bar will tell me to stay in bed. You’re the only one who looks at me and says, ‘You’re being a moron. Get back to work.’”

“That sounds like you want a drill sergeant, not a companion for the road.”

“I want someone who knows who I am when the jersey’s off,” he says. “And you’re the only one left who fits that description, Scottie. Everyone else treats me like a franchise asset.”

I look past him through the glass window. Outside, the breeze is kicking up leaves along the curb. Callahan is laughing, his arm slung over Ivy’s shoulders, their faces bright in the noon sun.

They’re starting their life. And we’re still here, standing in a bakery doorway, bartering over pieces of our time.

“You’re going to drive me crazy within the first four states,” I mutter, leaning my back against the brick wall.

“Probably,” Cash agrees, his shoulders loosening a fraction. “But think about the silence. No league office tracking your calls. No emergency PR meetings because I posted something stupid at midnight.”

He shifts his weight, dropping his voice a little lower, his eyes scanning my face with an intensity that makes me feel like I’m the only person in the world.

“Besides, you know what happens if I stay here all summer, Scottie. I’m going to spend every day at the facility watching the front office breathe down my neck. They’re already looking at that kid from Minnesota. The rookie with twenty-two wins. They could trade me by the draft, Scottie. Seriously. They could.”

I cut him a sharp look. “Nice try. I saw the scout reports last Tuesday, Cash. I already called their rep. If they even think about moving that kid to the East Coast to shadow you, I’m leaking his contract dispute details to The Athletic. I have it handled. They’re not trading you.”

Cash stares at me, a laugh shaking his chest. “God, you’re brutal. You knew the whole time?”

“Of course I knew. I’m your agent, you idiot. It’s literally my job to know when they’re scouting your replacement.” I let out a long breath, rubbing the bridge of my nose. “But the fact that you’re stressing about it enough to try and use it as leverage on me tells me you’re actually losing your mind.”

“I’m not losing it. I’m being realistic.” He steps closer. He reaches out, his large fingers lightly catching a stray strand of my hair, tucking it behind my ear. “Come on, Scottie. Two months.”

I groan, letting my head drop back against the brick with a thud. “I have three contract extensions to draft. I need actual internet, not whatever cellular scrap you find in a cornfield.”

“I bought the top-tier satellite hotspot,” he says, his eyes dancing. “The guy at the store said you could run a small tech startup out of the back while driving through a thunderstorm in Nebraska. I told him it was for a very terrifying woman who holds my life in her hands. He upgraded the data package for free.”

I look at his face, the stupidly confident smirk, the faint shadow of exhaustion under his eyes that he’s trying so hard to hide.

I’m supposed to be the untouchable one, the one who doesn’t let clients dictate her summer.

But it’s Cash.

“Fine,” I say, throwing my hands up in defeat. “Two months. Sixty days of your horrific driving and whatever country station you force me to listen to.”

Cash’s face breaks into a massive, triumphant grin. He pumps his fist in the air. “Ha! Yes! I knew you’d agree. You love me too much to let me go rogue.”

I glare at him, my eyes narrowing into slits. “Do not flatter yourself, O’Connell. I can still change my mind.”

He drops his hand, pulling his face into a mask of fake, exaggerated innocence. He steps back a single inch, raising his palms.