Talk Hockey to Me (Bears Hockey #3) - Kelly Jamieson Page 0,77
bumps my shoulder with his. “We’re young guys. This is heavy stuff. Hard stuff.”
“You gonna be okay, Morry?” Josh asks.
His question could be about so many things. Is my PTSD going to be okay? Am I going to be okay playing with them? Am I going to be okay with Kate?
“I don’t know,” I finally answer. I could have nightmares tonight, flashbacks tomorrow, and Kate may never want to see me again in which case I…I don’t know what the fuck I’ll do. My goddamn heart will be busted up, but…I’ve survived bad things. I can survive again.
I just need to make sure she knows I’m sorry and that I love her and that she’s okay. My busted-up heart isn’t as important as she is.
23
Kate
I wait anxiously for word from Easton or Josh about how things went. Did Hunter kick them out? Did he talk to them? Was it ugly? And…is he mad at me?
He probably is. I already know how he felt about me interfering in his life by trying to tell him he should face Easton and Josh and deal with his feelings about that.
I’m not a psychologist and I probably shouldn’t have gone there. I need to tell him I’m sorry about that.
Would I have done the same for any other client?
I don’t know.
I exhale slowly. Knowing what I know about his past and these players…I think I would have. But I don’t really know.
Probably I’ve overstepped. Again. This could totally backfire and cause even more problems.
Maybe I do get too involved in my clients’ lives. Maybe I should pull back on that. No more bailing them out of jail. No more counseling them on how to apologize to their girlfriends or what to get them for Christmas. No more house hunting for them.
I’ll be like that with Hunter. Even though I care so much about him.
I stand up from my desk and roam my tiny apartment. I’m not getting any work done. I’ve read through a contract sixty-seven times and still don’t know what it says. I check my phone and scroll through Twitter. I’m kind of hungry. There’s a salad in the fridge I could eat, but I don’t feel like salad. I’d like a big bag of potato chips and French onion dip.
What the hell. I grab my purse and my keys and jog downstairs. Out on the street, it’s a gorgeous summer afternoon. I love my neighborhood and I take in the people and the shops and restaurants as I stroll the sidewalk to the nearby store. There, I grab my chips and dip, along with a six pack of Miserable Bastard brown ale (the name fits my mood). I carry my bag home, pausing to listen to a busker on a corner who’s fantastic. The love song makes me wistful, though, so I continue on and climb back up the stairs to my apartment.
I open the beer first and glug back half of it. Excellent.
I’m opening the bag of chips when my phone rings.
I peer at the screen and see it’s Josh Heller calling. Ack! My heart leaps, then races as I try to answer it, my fingers shaking. “Hi!”
“Kate?”’
“Yes.” I close my eyes. I don’t usually answer so unprofessionally.
“It’s Josh Heller. Listen, we managed to track down Hunter. We’re back now and we’re wondering if we could meet up with you and talk?”
I can’t breathe. “Is he okay?”
After a short pause, Josh says, “Yeah, he’s okay. Can we meet?”
“Um, sure. Where?”
“How about Central Park?”
I frown. “Really?” I guess that’s close to them? But I can get there. “Okay.”
We arrange to meet inside the entrance on Fifth and Fifty-ninth.
“There’s a statue there,” Josh says. “Meet us there.”
“Now?”
“Can you come now?”
I pout at my chips and dip and unfinished beer. “Sure. It’ll take me half an hour or so.”
Should I change? I’m wearing ripped jeans and an old Bayard T-shirt. Nah. They don’t care what I look like. But wait. I’m an agent. I’m not their agent, but I should look somewhat professional. This is sort of a business meeting to discuss a client.
I quickly change into a long flowy skirt, a white T-shirt and chunky white sneakers. I grab a denim jacket and my purse and once more leave my apartment, this time going to the nearby subway station. It’s about a twenty-five-minute ride, during which time I keep anxiously checking my phone and wondering what the hell they need to talk about.