Page 62 of The Tryout

Jamie and Ethan look at one another and I remind myself that they are not the enemy here. In the background, I hear the front door close.

“Sorry, guys. Thanks for the info. I’ve gotta go.”

I’d be lying if I said watching Finn in his running clothes wasn’t one of my favorite activities, especially after a run, when he’s sparkling with sweat. That being said, now that the heat of late summer has been replaced by the chilly breezes of fall, I don’t get to see him shirtless and sweaty quite as much.

What a shame.

On his way to the shower, he gives me a quick, “Good morning,” stripping off his shirt.

I spend his time in the shower deciding how to handle this conversation, ultimately deciding that this will be easier over food. I’m kicking myself for burning my one meal for the week on last night’s pho.

“Should we make lunch? What sounds good?”

“Maybe pasta? I could murder some Italian right now.”

I smile, happy that he knows what he wants and is willing to ask for it. I grab noodles out of the pantry as Finn starts to pull out plates and silverware.

“Hey, who’s your agent?” I ask, hoping it sounds casual.

The water is boiling on the stove, and I pour in the box of spaghetti.

“Um, Steve Wilson? He deals mostly with younger players, I think.”

Hm. I’ve never heard of him, but that doesn’t really mean much. Before long, the spaghetti is done, and I drain it in the sink. Pouring in a jar of sauce, I take the bowl to the rarely-used dining room table,where Finn has placed our plates at two seats right next to each other.

As I serve up the food, I broach the subject again.

“Have you thought about having him put pressure on the team? Make sure you get sent up this season?”

His face flushes and his eyes turn downward.

“He’s, uh. I don’t really think he’s very…good?”

I bite my lip. At least I won’t have to talk him into betraying a close lifelong friend.

“What do you mean?”

“Well, I think he gave me some pretty bad advice when I was drafted. I mean, I was totally into the advice at the time, but I was also eighteen and stupid.”

I hate to hear him call himself stupid, especially now that I know he was alone in a way that almost no eighteen-year-old draft picks are, with no adults really looking out for his interests.

“So why don’t you drop him?”

His eyes shoot up to meet mine.

“Can I…can I do that?”

Oh, Finn.

“Yeah. You can do that. The AHL and NHL have slightly different rules, but as long as you aren’t asking for commission money back, you can usually drop an agent with thirty days’ notice.”

“Really? How do you know all this?”

“It was my major in college. Sports management. The contract classes were always my favorite – but don’t tell my Pops that, okay?”

He gestures as though locking his lips and throwing away the key.

“So tell me about this advice, and then we can think of how to get you out of this.”