Superfan (Brooklyn #3)(62)

“Teamwork,” he pants. “We could get you jerseys. What number do you want to be?”

“I don’t know. What’s your number?”

“You don’t know already? I thought you liked me.”

I laugh. “What are you doing? You sound like you just ran a mile.”

“I just ran five of them,” he says. “Still am. I’m on a treadmill at the practice facility.”

“Oh!” I try to picture a room where Silas and his pals are all flexing their muscles at once, but the idea makes my brain short out. “You can run and talk to me at the same time?”

“Sure, unless you don’t like the panting.”

“Panting can be fun,” I point out. “Under the right circumstances.”

“I completely agree.” He chuckles.

I close my eyes and wish that everything was easier. “I called to give you some bad news. Unfortunately I can’t fly out this week or next.”

“Oh. Shit,” he says. “You aren’t coming?”

The disappointment in his voice is so genuine that I already regret my decision. “My manager came through for me on a whole bunch of songwriting dates at once. So my schedule is really tight. I thought about asking you to fly out here instead, but that’s a shitty offer. I’d be spending a lot of hours in the studio with composers and producers.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “So this is good news for you, right? You need this.”

“Yeah. It’s forward momentum. Charla did exactly what I asked her to do, which is create opportunities for me. She’s trying to put pressure on—” I refuse to bring the jerk into this phone call. “—my record label. To get off their butts and do the right thing. She’s making it look like I’m producing all kinds of new music without them.”

“Okay,” he says. “Let me stop this thing.” I hear a beep, and then more deep breathing. “Glad to hear that your first session worked out.”

“It really did. I’m not sure yet if the song is a keeper. But I learned a lot.”

“What if you don’t come up with anything good? Does that ever happen?”

Nobody ever asks me these questions. I mean—Brett asked me questions about music all the time. But he never asked me how I felt about the process. “Sure, it happens all the time. I can finish a song and then later decide it doesn’t fit the album, or it doesn’t sound right in my voice.”

“Huh. I can’t imagine having to sit in a windowless room and just invent things with music. Hell, I can’t imagine even playing music. I can’t even whistle in tune. Next time I see you, will you play me some guitar?”

“Sure.” And the sooner the better. I want to pick up my guitar and fly to New York to give him a private concert.

Can’t I just have everything? Am I a horrible person for wishing I could?

“The next time I see you will probably be in California,” I point out. “I’ll be playing for you and ten thousand of your closest friends.”

“I know,” he says. “Where are you staying, by the way? Should I get us a hotel room? Now there’s a fun thought.”

It is a fun thought, but I’ve already beat him to it. “Oh, I got a room. Big enough for both of us. Brett offered me the Ferris guesthouse again, but I didn’t even respond to the email.”

“He did? You’re shitting me.”

See? I shouldn’t have mentioned him. “It’s just posturing. He wants to appear accommodating in the hopes that I’ll sign on for a third album.”

Silas makes a noise of displeasure. But he doesn’t say any more about it. And I love this about Silas—he lets me know that he cares, and yet I know he’s not going to lecture me, either. That’s what real support looks like, I guess.

“Anyway.” I try to lighten the mood. “You and I are going to make mojitos and go to the beach. And then I’m going to play a concert where you’ll be in the first row. And I’m sorry I can’t come to Brooklyn.”

“I understand. I knew I signed up for this.”

“For what?”

“Missing you. Lots of phone calls and tricky travel arrangements.”

“How early can you come to Darlington Beach? I got the hotel suite for four nights.”

“Well…” He chuckles. “That’s still under negotiation. In order to see your concert, I have to miss the first two days of training camp. Nobody ever misses training camp.”

“Ouch. Maybe you shouldn’t—”

“Oh no, I totally am. I made a deal with my coach that I’ll show up to work out with the prospects in Hartford—the young draftees that Coach is looking at. I’m giving him the end of my vacation in trade.”

“Wow. I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be, it’s fine. But I’ll be racing back to jump on a plane to you, that’s all. There are lots of flights to L.A., and we’ll just play it by ear to see which day I can get there.”

“Okay. Don’t stress over it.”

“I won’t. Pack a cocktail shaker and very little clothing.”

I laugh. “Fine. Pack your big hot self and some surfing shorts. I still want my surfing lesson.