Page 68 of The Tryout

“Thank you, sir. This is my roommate, Avery Lawson. He’s a lot better versed in this sort of stuff than me – I didn’t even realize the problems with my contract until he did some digging. He might be better to explain.”

With that, I move the laptop back where it started, our faces next to one another on the screen.

“Lawson! From UCLA. Congratulations on the successful ATO.”

I wonder if Avery finds it as unsettling as I do how much this man seems to know about…everything. At the same time, I guess it’s his job?

“Mr. Kinkaid, thank you for your time. I’m hoping for a little clarity around the process of changing representation in the AHL, as well as any leads you may have on someone available mid-season to represent Mr. Murphy.”

With that, he outlines what he calls “causes for deep concern”, starting with signing a sixteen-year-old ward of the state and moving through the last four years of my life, pulling out things I hadn’t even thought to be concerned with. I’m stunned by the professionalism of his presentation – and I can’t help but think Kinkaid is too, just a little bit.

“I thought you were a defenseman.”

“I am, sir,” he responds, a blush rising to his cheeks.

“Well, try not to take too many hard hits, okay? That’s a good head on your shoulders. What was your major at UCLA?”

The blush turns absolutely crimson, and I can’t help but grin at the thought of Avery so unsettled by praise.

“Sports Management, sir. And my father is a contract lawyer, so I’ve heard a lot of this growing up.”

Kinkaid hums, nodding as he mulls over the situation.

“Your plan is solid. No, the AHL doesn’t bind their agents as strictly, but Wilson’s lucky if Murphy doesn’t sue him by the end of this. Make that clear in your letter – which it seems you already have – and send it certified. Send copies to the league, the players’ association, and the front office. But you’ll want to have alternative representation lined up first. Murphy, what are you looking for?”

I feel the attention shift back to me.

“In a…contract?”

“Sure. Or an agent.”

I think for a moment. When Steve signed me, my answer to this question would have been “a pulse”, but look where that got me. I look at Avery, thinking over our conversations from today.

“Someone honest, who’s willing to tell me when I’m getting screwed over. I don’t need the highest compensation or a bunch of endorsement deals, but I want to make sure someone’s keeping my interests at heart. Making sure that I’m in good shape when hockey’s over, and that I can keep growing my career until then.”

Finally, I look back at the screen, holding his eye even as it grows uncomfortable. After a few seconds, he seems to make a decision.

“I take 4%, and I probably won’t have time to work on endorsements for you mid-season. But if I’m being honest, I’d say your focus this season should be on convincing Minneapolis that you are primarily a NHL-level player and getting your ass to the Twin Cities rather than advertising for whatever car lot in Des Moines wants you in an ad. Your stats last year were solid and this year they’re absolutely great, in spite of the fact that they’re putting you in three different positions with about nine different linemates. And your roommate is right – it’s malpractice that you don’t have at least a two-way deal right now. Bet I can get you one locked up tight by December 1st – earlier, if that idiot acknowledges your letter and cedes your representation.”

My eyes grow wide. I never thought he’d represent me. I thought he’d have a name, or a couple of names, that I’d be dealing with this for the rest of the season. I look at Avery, afraid that this is too good to be true. He’ll know. He’ll tell me.

He gives me a quick nod, the pride in his eyes clear, as though he knew this would be the resolution today.

“It’s a deal.”

As we log off the call, I feel the electricity crawling over my skin again, the need to do something. My feet bounce, my nails scratching along the tops of my knees.

“Dude, that’s great. That man’s a shark, he’d never sign you if he didn’t think you had what it takes. Plus he’s already got the relationship with the Minneapolis front office; you’ll get taken care of, I just know–”

He stops, not because I tell him to, not because he thought of something else, but because my lips have landed on his again. For a few seconds, he doesn’t move and I start worrying I’m about to have the most awkward conversation of my life. Instead, he responds, mouth opening and working against mine. Our tongues tangle and I shift from my seat to his lap, sitting astride him and hoping the chair holds.

He’s certainly up for it, his hands wrapping around my waist, pulling me tight to him. His mouth moves away from mine, across my cheek and down, nibbling momentarily on my earlobe. If I thought the kiss was good, I don’t even know what to call the feeling that skitters down the back of his neck as his teeth scrape against my skin.

“Have you ever…had someone’s mouth on you?” he whispers, so low I have to pause to make out what he’s saying.

Shit. I guess the time for honesty has come.

I pull away, just a bit, meeting his eyes. His green irises are almost invisible, eaten up by pupils that are dilated.