First Chapter: The Last Guy on Earth
Jethro
December
Later, when I’m cruising at thirty-thousand feet over the Great Plains, I’ll replay the morning in my mind, trying to remember how I felt before my life was upended.
I’ll recall trudging from my car to the practice facility under a pale winter sky—the same walk I’ve taken for nine years.
I’ve got no idea what lies in store for the day. All I’m thinking about is Christmas, and whether it’s a good idea to pay a premium for that sold-out gaming console.
On the one hand, it will make Toby happy. On the other hand, I’ve officially become that parent—the kind who spoils their kid because gaming consoles are dope, and I don’t know how else to show love.
Old Bob, the security guy, holds the facility’s door open. I give him a nod of thanks the same way I always do. In the corridor, I’m a little surprised to see my agent waiting for me. Bess used to live in Detroit, though, so running into her isn’t that weird.
Then I get a look at her face. Time slows as I take in the grim line of her mouth and the worry in her eyes.
“God, what?” I swallow and it’s more difficult than it should be. “Christ. It’s not my dad?” He’s not in the best of health.
She gives her head a quick shake. “No, no, it’s nothing like that. Management wants a meeting.” She puts a firm hand on my arm and steers me toward the executive suite.
“Oh.” I consider this for a moment as we enter the suite’s double doors. “And they asked you to be here? Am I being reprimanded for…” I break off because I can’t honestly think of a thing. I’ve had a slow start this year, but that’s not a punishable offense. Either I’m being disciplined for something I said, or…
Another idea slices through me, but it’s almost too outrageous to say out loud. “They didn’t trade me.”
Bess actually flinches.
“Jesus Christ,” I sputter. “They wouldn’t do that.” But even as the words leave my mouth, I realize they could absolutely do that. We gave up my no-trade clause on the last contract negotiation in order to get other concessions.
Still, it doesn’t make any sense. You don’t get traded after fifteen years and a couple championships just because of a slow start to your season.
Or that’s what I believed until right this second.
“Let’s just go see what they say,” she says quietly.
“But you think they’re trading me.” I can tell because Bess looks upset, and that never happens. She’s steely in the face of adversity. Quicker to anger than worry.
“I got a bad feeling,” she whispers.
“Jethro? Bess?” We both look up to see Carla, the General Manager’s assistant, poking her head out of the GM’s office. “If you could come right this way,” she says, avoiding my eyes.
My heart drops even further. I gave everything I had to this team. Years of service, and it ends like this.
* * *
The next ten minutes are some of the most confusing and humiliating of my entire life. The jowly GM mutters platitudes about how difficult this decision was. And the head coach is all full of shit when he tells us how this new situation gives everyone involved an opportunity for the best possible season.
“They need your experience,” he says. But all I can hear is the drumbeat of rejection inside my skull. Traded. Traded. Traded. They might as well throw me in the Detroit River. I’m not even listening when they explain who they traded me for. Some forward from Florida.
Florida. I picture the arena down there and try to imagine myself on the home team’s bench. Impossible. In my panic, I lose the thread of the conversation again. They drone on and on. Turns out I’m a pawn in some kind of complicated, three-way trade.
I hear Bess say, “That must have taken weeks to put together.”
Weeks? They’ve been setting up the gallows for weeks, and I had no idea.
How am I going to explain this to Toby? And when? A new wave of panic washes through me, because midseason trades happen fast. There’s probably a plane ticket in my email inbox right now.
I glance at the clock on the wall and do the math. It’s ten a.m. and Toby is at school. He doesn’t get out until three o’clock. Shit. “Excuse me,” I say, interrupting the conversation. “What’s the timeline here?”
The coach and the GM stare at me for a beat. “Well, as you’re aware, these things happen fast…”
“I know that,” I say through gritted teeth, “so let me repeat the question, because I got a kid’s heart to break after you’re done breaking mine. Tell me the fucking timeline.”
A shadow of something that looks like shame passes through my coach’s eyes. “You’re on a three o’clock flight to Denver.”
“Denver?” I hear this word like a record scratch. “Why Denver?”
There’s a deep silence in the room while three people stare at me. “As Coach was just saying,” Bess says carefully, “Colorado needs seniority between the pipes…”
Holy hell. I missed a crucial detail about the three-way trade. They’re not sending me to Florida at all.
“Are you kidding me?” I yelp, speaking before I’ve even processed this latest disaster. “I cannot play for Colorado.”
More silence. Bess recovers first. “Let’s head out now, Jethro. You’ll process this news, and we’ll discuss your options.”
But even as she says it, the awful truth is sinking in. I don’t have any options. I’m playing in Colorado, or I’m not playing at all.
That’s when Bess stands up to shake hands.
Somehow, I force myself to my feet, allow my hand to be shaken, and my shoulders to be slapped. I hear a few more platitudes thrown my way, but fuck that. I don’t have to pretend this isn’t devastating. I don’t owe them a fucking smile.
I let Bess herd me outside the facility, where she opens the passenger door to a rental car in a visitor’s parking space and sort of shoves me inside. “I’ll look up this flight they have you on. We’ll make a plan. Do you want me to fly to Denver with you? Or should I stay back and help your dad?”
This question does the trick of snapping me out of my stupor. I turn to Bess and really look at her for a second. She’s sitting in the driver’s seat, body twisted toward me, concern in her blue eyes. I’m pretty sure I could assign her any task at all right now, and she’d do it. No questions.
I’m fucking grateful, but it still doesn’t help the situation. “You don’t have to fly out there with me,” I say, my voice gravel. I clear my throat. “That’s not the hard part.”
“What is the hard part?” she asks carefully. “Why did you say you can’t play for Colorado?”
I look away, out the window. Bess and I are pretty close, and I don’t hold stuff back from her. Until now, that is. There’s no way I can explain this. It’s not even my goddamn right to talk about it, even if I wanted to.
Which I don’t.
“You know Clay Powers, right?” she asks. “Weren’t you in the minors together?”
Fuck. Her memory for details is often handy. But not today.
“Hmm,” she says when I don’t answer. “So you’re not a fan?”
I shake my head, because I don’t trust myself to speak.
“He must not feel the same, though,” she says carefully. “Or he wouldn’t have approved the trade.”
“Right,” I agree, just to move the conversation along. “Maybe he’s forgotten all about me.”
