morning sports show for the ASPN channel. It’s called Smack Talk and it’s exactly what it sounds like: some guys sitting around showing highlight reels from last night’s games, giving each other shit. So anyway, just basic camera-ready makeup. And be there by seven.”
“Ah, easy enough.”
“Yeah, they’re a riot. You’ll love working with them,” Topaz says. “Anyway, I should probably get off the phone. If you don’t hear from me tomorrow . . .”
“Topaz,” I say. “The storm will pass. I promise. You’ll be home before you know it. Call me when you’re back in the city and we’ll do coffee, okay?”
“Thanks, Aidy. Love you.”
Setting the alarm on my phone, I plug it into the charger and head to the bathroom to wash my face and brush up for bed.
I think about that guy – Alessio or Ace or whatever the hell his name is, and I think about what Wren said. Maybe he was just having a bad day, but it doesn’t give him a free pass to treat people however he wants.
When I’m back in bed, I pull up his text message again, wishing purely for Enzo’s sake that I’d have taken the high road earlier. I’d like to think that if I ever ran into this guy again, and I probably never will, that I’d make things right – at least for Enzo.
But I’m still pissed.
So who knows what I’d actually say?
I fall asleep, mentally berating him, practicing all the things I’ll probably never get a chance to say.
6
Ace
Never in my wildest dreams did I think eight years in the major leagues and two World Series pennants would land me a guest co-host chair on the set of Smack Talk.
I’m not talk show material.
I don’t even watch this shit. Not anymore, anyway.
No part of me wants to be here today.
But I let my old agent, Lou, talk me into it. It was one of the few things he ever said that actually made perfect sense, and I couldn’t argue his point.
“Ace, your career was cut short and it was wicked shitty what happened, but you can’t hide out the rest of your life. You still have fans, and you owe it to them to show them you’re gonna be okay,” he said, his words coated in a gruff Boston accent. The man was my biggest fan and number one supporter, he was like the father I never had. The only times his loyalty temporarily abandoned me was when the Firebirds played the Red Sox, but at least he was always honest about it. Lou was never a bullshitter, and that’s what I loved most about him.
I told Lou I’d never hosted anything in my life, I knew nothing about broadcast journalism, and I tended to avoid cameras every chance I got because their invasiveness almost always puts me on edge.
His response? “Can ya read a teleprompter?”
I make my way through the front lobby of the High Park Center building, stopping at the security checkpoint and emptying my pockets.
The guard ahead stares at me like I’m familiar to him, and just when I think he’s about to say something wise, he clears his throat and says, “Belt.”
My hands go to my waist when I make eye contact with a scrawny intern up ahead wearing gray slacks and a loose white button down. He’s carrying a clipboard and taps the guard on the shoulder, leans in to say something, and then the guard waves me through.
“Mr. Amato, I’m Blake,” he says. “I’ll be showing you to the studio today. If you need anything, please don’t hesitate to let me know.”
He speaks calmly and clearly, though his eyes are lit with excitement. Blake can’t be much older than twenty or twenty-one, but I can tell he takes his position here very seriously.
“Have you ever co-hosted with us before?” he asks.
“No.”
We make our way to an elevator labeled “private,” and he punches in a code that opens the doors.
“We have you set up in one of the guest dressing rooms. I was told you didn’t have a rider, so I did my best to stock your room with the kinds of things most of our guests ask for. Bottled water. M&Ms. Pretzels. Fresh fruit. If there’s anything else you need, please don’t hesitate to let me know.”
“Thanks.”
We ride the elevator to the fourth floor, and the moment the doors part we’re greeted by a woman with wild dark ringlets and a wireless headset on her ears.