Moonlighter (The Company, #1)(70)

“I need that contract extension,” I remind her. “And so do you.” Fifteen percent of nothing is nothing.

“Not if you’re miserable, Eric. Not if you regret it.”

This is why I trust Bess. This is why I signed with her when she was just a green agent at a big shop. And this is why I followed her to the boutique firm she runs now.

Just as I’m picking up a chicken wing, she points her phone at me and takes a photo. “Say cheese and thank you!”

“What’s that for? Social media?”

“Well, you’re wearing a tight Brooklyn shirt and dining in a local restaurant. The fans will eat that up. So thanks for the suggestion. But I really took it to send to you later.”

“For what?”

“Someday soon, you’ll find this photo in your inbox. And you’ll say—’oh yeah, I remember eating avocado tacos with Bess on a day when I thought avocado tacos were all I had going for me. She was right. I have so much to celebrate. Actually Bess is a genius.’”

“That doesn’t sound like something I’d say. And what the hell is an avocado taco anyway?”

Even as I say it, another plate lands on the table, laden with tiny little taco shells stuffed with bright green guacamole. And my mouth waters on command.

I pick one up and bite into the creamy, spicy goodness. And, wow. Avocado tacos might actually be the best thing in my life.

“Take another one,” Bess says. “If I eat all those, my ass will be as wide as the F train. Besides—rehab takes energy.”

She’s not wrong. So I reach for another one.





After lunch and a nap, I’m feeling almost human again. So I do some stretches in the practice facility gym and wait for my workout buddy to show up.

“Drake, you’re late!” I call from the mats when the rookie finally walks in.

“Dude, I didn’t know you were coming!” He removes his backward baseball cap and grins at me.

“What do you mean? It’s Saturday, right?”

“Yeah, but…” he drops his gym bag. “With your knee, I thought you’d skip.”

“Skip chest day? Who’s going to motivate you? Who’s going to teach you about nineties grunge music? Put some plates on the bar.” I clap my hands together. “Let’s go.”

“Wait. Isn’t it my turn to pick the music?” Drake asks.

“I guess.” Last time I put on Soundgarden, and the rookie claimed he’d never heard “Black Hole Sun” in his short little life.

Kids these days.

Drake fires up some Twenty-One Pilots, which I can live with. And I slide onto the bench for the warmup set. The music is already pumping when I push the bar overhead for the first time.

“So it’s chest day!” the new trainer says, strutting into the room like a muscle-bound peacock. His name is Gino, and he enters bodybuilding competitions when he’s not training hockey players. “Anybody need a spot?”

I sit up after my set. “Drake will need you in about ten minutes. I’m not allowed to spot him on this knee yet.”

“No problem. I’m here for you guys.”

We rotate through some sets, and Gino spots Drake when the weight starts to climb. And when Drake steps out to refill his water bottle, he spots me, too.

“How’s your knee?” he asks between sets.

“It’ll get there. I have daily PT with Chip.”

“No, I meant your other knee. The stiff one.”

“Oh. The same, I guess.”

“You gonna have the surgery?” he asks. “I wouldn’t.”

My first reaction is a grumpy one. Who asked you? But I’m curious anyway. “Why wouldn’t you?”

“If you let them tidy up your meniscus, that’s a big, destabilizing surgery. Guys never really come back from that. Not at the same level.”

He’s not a doctor, I remind myself. “I’ll take that under advisement,” I grunt.

“But there’s a lot we can do to make you more comfortable. You could have some injections in the right knee and play like a champ just as soon as your left knee is ready.”

Now he’s got my attention. “What kind of injections?”

“Hyaluronic acid. Or corticosteroids. I know a doctor you can see for that. He trains at my gym. He can take care of your pain, and the swelling, too. You could finish the season.”

“What’s his name?” I hear myself asking. Nobody mentioned this option to me, and now I wonder why.

“Ivanov. I have his card in my locker.”

“Yeah, okay. Do that.” A little research wouldn’t hurt, right?

Drake comes back. “Ready to switch it up?”

“Sure. Leverage decline press?”

“Let’s go!” the youngster says. Then he shakes his hips. “This is the music, geezer. This right here.”

I squirt him with my water bottle, and he lets out a howl. “That’s for calling me a geezer.”

To think that I get paid for this job. It’s like summer camp every day.





When five o’clock comes, I shower and then check my phone. The screen lights up with texts from teammates who are trying to decide between poker and clubbing. I don’t feel like weighing in, because I haven’t decided if I’m going out.