Sure Shot (Brooklyn #4)(47)

“If you can’t find a place in DUMBO, try the Heights or Manhattan. I’d help you look if I could.”

“I’ll take care of it,” I say, just to make him happy. “When am I visiting you?”

“Don’t come here,” he says with a wheezy sigh. “It’s fucking depressing. Bess Beringer came up here, and I scared the poor thing to death. And that woman doesn’t scare easy. You know Bess, right?”

“I know Bess,” I say, smiling as I walk down Front Street.

“She’s a great agent. Great person. You need another agent, Tank.”

“Someday,” I say lightly. There’s no way I’m going to discuss those plans with him. It’s morbid.

“Find an apartment, then. Soon. Get a cat.”

“A cat?” I laugh out loud. “What for?”

“Even grumpy men deserve pets. A cat won’t take any shit from you. But it will still be happy to see you, even if he won’t show it.”

“You are full of advice today.”

“And now you are obligated to listen to it,” he growls. “If I kick off before we speak again, you’ll regret not listening.”

“I’m listening,” I promise. I’d say anything to stop the talk about dying. I’m nowhere near ready for Henry to go.

“Good,” he rasps. “Now go home and call the realtor.”

“Fine,” I grumble. “Text me a date when I can stop by, though. I’m heading to California for a three-game road trip. But after that, I’m around for a while. I’ll bring you lunch or something and you can give me my divorce papers.”

“All right, kid.” He sighs. “Soon.”

“I’m gonna hold you to it.”

After that, I let him off the phone. He’d sounded exhausted, and I feel blue. I head towards the team headquarters, where I have an appointment. And I try to summon some enthusiasm for calling the real estate broker.

When I pause at the next stoplight, I check my phone and see a new message that grabs all my attention. It’s from Patrick O’Doul, of all people, and the subject is Apartment for rent.

No way! Thanks, universe.

I open that sucker immediately. It’s addressed to both me and the Finnish kid—Ivo Halla. Hey guys—Ari and I are almost ready to rent out the studio, starting December 1st. I don’t know if either of you are still looking for a place to live, but before I tell the whole world, I want to offer it to my teammates first. Rent is $3,900 a month. If one of you is interested, please stop by tonight. I’m home. —P.

Whoa.

On my way, I reply immediately. And then I turn on my heel and reverse my steps toward Water Street.

He’d sent the message only ninety minutes ago. It takes me five minutes to literally run over there. When I get to the front desk, I have to stop to catch my breath before I ask the doorman to buzz me upstairs.

The guy picks up the phone, but before he speaks to anyone, Ivo Halla appears from the direction of the elevator banks. He’s smiling, of course.

When he spots me, his smile slides off. “Ah, nej,” he says. “Sorry.”

Patrick O’Doul appears behind him, and when he sees me he winces.

“Hey, men,” I say as lightly as I can manage. But is this the worst day, or what? “I’m too late, huh?”

“It wasn’t supposed to be a race. I didn’t know if either of you was still looking.”

“It’s fine,” I say quickly. “I haven’t even started looking. I gotta get on that.”

O’Doul shakes Halla’s hand and waves goodbye. The kid lopes out the door looking as happy as I’ve ever seen him. Which is, to be fair, always pretty happy.

“Dude, I’m sorry,” O’Doul says again. “I wasn’t even sure if he could read my email.”

“There’s always Google translate,” I say drily.

O’Doul shakes his head. “He just signed the lease without reading it and handed me a check.”

“He’s a good kid,” I say, looking out the door where he’d disappeared. “And it’s no big deal. I could have gotten here quicker, but…” I actually laugh, because I’m a fucking mess right now. “I just got off the phone with my agent, who’s dying. He called to tell me that my divorce papers are ready.”

Now O’Doul looks really uncomfortable. “That’s terrible. I work with Tommy Povich. If you need somebody eventually, I could…”

“Nah, it’s okay. I’m going to work with Eric Bayer.”

O’Doul’s eyes widen. “Really? That’s cool of you, man. His first client. He’s gonna be really good at that job.”

“Yeah, great guy.” Not like I’m worried. Bess will have my back, anyway.

“You want to grab a beer or something?” O’Doul asks, rubbing the whiskers on his chin. “I could tell Ari that I’m stepping out for an hour.”

For a moment, the invitation tugs at my brittle soul. O’Doul isn’t a bad guy. He might even be a good guy. But I don’t think I can sit in a bar and make small talk today. He doesn’t really want me to say yes, either. He’s just doing his job as captain to make my grumpy ass feel welcome.