Chapter 3: Thad

Chapter 3

Thad

I await a phone call from Damon for days. The one telling me I’m fired for getting snarky with a client.

I shouldn’t have let my own personal issues with Kelley interfere with my job because then he not only would have my dream, but he’d also take my backup dream away from me. But in my defense, could he be any more of a drama queen?

He’s all, “ I need to get away from the world, but no, I can’t live without my phone. I want to hide away where no one can find me, but eww, roughing it? ”

He was getting on my nerves, and surprise, surprise, I couldn’t hold in my sarcastic comment.

Agents aren’t supposed to talk to their clients that way, but I’m not even that. I’m lower than that. The lowest on the ladder: bitch boy. I mean intern. Same thing.

So since then, I’ve been trying to avoid Kelley as much as possible. Input what I can, which generally consists of getting groceries for Brady or Kelley to cook because after one night of my cooking, they banned me from the kitchen. Unless it’s to clean up.

I’m good with doing menial jobs, the grunt work. As long as it keeps me away from Kelley’s entitled attitude, I might be able to keep my job.

The sound of my ringtone blares through the small kitchen, and I jump. My hands are sudsy from washing up after lunch, and I’m tempted to let it go to voicemail. Oh no, wet hands, can’t reach into my pocket and grab my phone.

Getting fired over voicemail isn’t ideal, but it’s better than having to explain myself.

Kelley appears in the archway to the small kitchen, leaning against the wall. “You going to get that?”

I lift up a plate and let the soapy, hot water run down my arms. “Can’t. Busy.”

The phone stops ringing.

Then it starts again.

Motherfucker. I drop the plate back in the sink and go to wipe my hands on my pants when Kelley throws a dish towel at me.

“Here.”

My eyes narrow because why is he being nice? Oh, I get it. He wants to be here for this phone call, no doubt. He ratted, and now he wants to see the fireworks.

I dry my hands and pull out my phone. I freeze at the name on my screen. It’s not Damon. It’s my mom.

I answer quickly. “Hey, Mom, what’s wrong?”

“Does something have to be wrong to want to talk to my own son?”

“No, but you called twice in a row. Twice means there is.”

“Everything is fine.” Her voice sounds like it’s about to crack.

“And I call bullshit.”

She sighs. “It’s your brother.”

I will kill him. He’s dead. “What has Wylder done now?”

“Well, we don’t know for sure, but?—”

“Don’t be daft, Julie. We know it was him.” Dad sounds as though he’s right next to her.

“Know what was him? What’s happening?” I ask.

My brother is … a handful. Always has been. We’re the complete opposite of each other, and I’ve always got the sense he’s resented the family he was born into.

“We’re missing money from our account, and when I looked, my card’s not in my wallet,” Mom says.

I run a hand through my hair. It would be typical of Wylder to do something like that. Where I’m the prized athlete of the family, Wylder was the little emo boy who hated sports, hated the world, but most of all hated us. Was I the best big brother in the world? No. But who can say that they were?

“Did you call the police or report the card stolen?” I ask.

“But if it was him, I don’t want him to get in trouble.”

Of course she doesn’t. Dad wouldn’t either, even if he’s at the end of his patience with Wylder.

“Maybe him getting in trouble is what he needs,” I suggest anyway.

He’s twenty-one, only did one semester at college before dropping out, and now he mooches off Mom and Dad, who have worked their whole lives to give us what we need.

Mom doesn’t reply.

“How much do you need?” I ask.

Like I can afford to bail my brother out, but I’ll do whatever it takes to help them like they helped me. They paid for so much of my baseball crap, and maybe that’s why I have issues being where I am now. Because they did it all for nothing.

I owe them.

“Enough to cover the mortgage this month.”

“Jesus, how much did he take?”

Mom lowers her voice. “All of it.”

Before when I threatened to kill him, it was hyperbole. Now, I actually want to do it.

“I’ll transfer you the money into a different account so you don’t have the banks breathing down your neck.” And that is banks, plural, because they’ve remortgaged and refinanced their house so many times over the last twenty years I’ve lost track of what they owe to who.

Then all I’ll need to do is find enough money to pay my rent this month. My roommates, all four of them, are going to be pissed.

I live with four of the guys from my baseball team at Olmstead in New York. Would I love to live on my own? Damn right, but when I found out the cost of living when outside of student housing, there was no way. Not on this intern salary. Once I become a junior agent and start signing some clients, my wage will increase, but I have to get through my first year of being an intern until I can be promoted.

If Damon doesn’t fire me. Which he probably will.

Fuck.

“We’ll pay you back,” Mom says.

I almost want to tell her not to bother because paying back a couple of thousand dollars will mean both her and Dad having to put off retirement even longer, but who knows? I’m probably going to need the money to keep me afloat until I find a new job.

“When Wylder gets home?—”

“There … was also a note,” Mom says.

“A note?”

“He says he’s not coming back. Said he wants to move to California and chase his dream of becoming an actor.”

I rub my forehead. “Since when has that been his dream?”

“You know he’s been lost ever since he dropped out of Olmstead.”

I would argue it was before then that he started to lose himself. I don’t understand where it went wrong. Wylder and I were close growing up, definitely not besties by any standards, and we would give each other shit all the time, but he was a happy kid. The only complaint he ever had was Dad trying to push him into baseball as well. Wylder was never sporty, had no hand-eye coordination, and would’ve preferred being on his computer or hanging out with friends than practice hitting until blisters formed.

“Do you think he’ll come back?” Mom asks, hope still laced in her tone. No matter what my brother has put them through, my parents don’t know how not to love him.

My sarcastic brain says, “ Yeah, he’ll be back when he runs out of money ,” but I don’t want to break her heart more than it already is.

“He will. And hey, who knows? Maybe he’ll get out to LA and become a huge star and pay off all your debts.”

“You’re sweet to look at the positives that could come from this.”

Only because I’ve been trying to teach myself how to stop with all the negativity surrounding my failed baseball career. Funnily, it’s easier to do it with every other facet of my life except baseball.

“I’ll send that money over now.”

“Thank you, sweetie. Love you.”

I look over my shoulder to make sure Kelley is gone, but he isn’t. He’s standing by the tiny kitchen island, watching me intently. It’s not like I can’t say it back to my mother though. She’s my mom. “Love you too, but I gotta go. Talk soon.”

I end the call and glare at Kelley. “Can I help you?”

“Sounded like someone was in trouble.”

I cock my head. “Eavesdrop much? You don’t see me prying into your life.” Shit. There I go getting defensive again. I slump. “Sorry.”

“Are you though?” A small smile breaks across Kelley’s face.

“What do you mean?”

“What are you sorry for?”

“For speaking out of turn. I shouldn’t talk to a client that way.”

“But not sorry for what you said.”

“What do you want, Kelley? I’m trying to be nice here.”

Kelley scoffs. “That’s being nice?”

“You’re making it really difficult.”

“What did I ever do to you?”

And there he goes, asking the question I often ask myself. Kelley has done nothing to me, but I have all this resentment toward him because of what is lacking in my life. Unfair or not, I can’t get past it.

“Nothing,” I mutter.

“Then why are you so?—”

I grit my teeth. “I know this might be hard for the big, popular baseball player to understand, but the world doesn’t revolve around you. I could be out there, learning how to recruit new clients, getting my first athletes to sign with me, and instead, I’m here, babysitting someone who doesn’t know how good he has it because he doesn’t know how to stop from looking himself up on the internet. ”

Kelley’s mouth drops, but only the tiniest bit, as if he’s about to say something, but it doesn’t come out.

“Whatever,” I say and turn back to finish off the dishes. “You’re probably going to tell Damon how rude I’ve been to you, get me fired, and then all the new clients won’t matter because I won’t be handling them.” I rinse a dish and put it on the drying rack with a clang.

“I’m not going to call Damon on you,” he says. “But if you do want to retain clients, I’d suggest maybe learning a new tact to deal with athletes than berating them for something they can’t control.”

He can’t control his screen time? Is he five?

He’s right that I need to learn tact with him, but I also don’t feel the same resentment for any other client on Damon’s roster. That’s a Kelley Afton–specific kind of grudge. Don’t ask me why.

Kelley turns to go back to the living room but pauses and says, “By the way, you told your mom you’d send money right away.”

Fuck, I’d already forgotten to do that.

I should thank?—

And he’s gone.