Total pages in book: 58
Estimated words: 55153 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 276(@200wpm)___ 221(@250wpm)___ 184(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 55153 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 276(@200wpm)___ 221(@250wpm)___ 184(@300wpm)
“Uncertainty?” I say, throwing something out there. “Is that an emotion?”
Hector shrugs a shoulder and smiles. “Not exactly, but it’s a good starting point.”
An avid runner, he’s maybe five foot seven and a buck fifty. He wears tailored suits and is completely bald, his smile perfectly white. In the few months we’ve been working together, Hector has gotten to know me decently well. He occasionally tells me things about his own life, but for the most part, he’s all business.
“What are you feeling uncertain about?” he asks.
I sigh heavily and sit back against the center cushion on his plush leather couch. “The new owner situation, mostly. I felt like we all had our shit together heading into the new season and now…” I wave a hand instead of finishing the sentence.
“Change can be hard,” Hector says. “But what specifically are you concerned about? The owner has very little to do with your ability to perform.”
“He could trade any of us at any given moment.”
“But the former owner could have, too.”
I nod in acknowledgment. “Croft says he wants to be more hands-on.”
“And you find that unsettling?”
“I do. I think it’s our coaching staff’s job to be hands-on.”
Hector seems to be suppressing a smile. “And what’s the owner’s job?”
I shrug. “To sit in his box with his rich buddies and take credit when we win.”
A brief smile appears on Hector’s face before he turns serious again. “You’re not alone in feeling that way. Athletes often feel there’s a wall between themselves and their team owners. But what I’m most interested in, Pax, is your apparent disdain for wealthy people. You do realize that in the eyes of most people, you yourself are wealthy?”
I look around his office, scanning the titles of the books organized on a nearby bookshelf, and decide to avoid the question altogether.
“What’s the last great book you read?” I ask him.
“An autobiography of Billie Jean King. How about you?”
“It’s been a long time since I read a book.”
Hector stands and walks over to the counter where his fancy espresso machine sits. He also keeps a kettle of hot water for tea and has a small refrigerator stocked with other drinks.
“What can I get you?” he asks me.
With a single note of laughter, I say, “Definitely not espresso. I was up past midnight last time you made me one. Never thought I’d find myself organizing my closet at ten at night.”
“Water?” he offers, his brows crinkling with amusement. “Lemonade?”
“Lemonade would be great.”
He passes me a cold bottle from the refrigerator and then starts the process of making himself an espresso. “Last time we talked, you were on the fence about recording a congratulations video for your father’s Hall of Fame induction,” he says. “What did you decide?”
He did it. Hector is good. When I don’t want to talk about something, he’s adept at finding something I want to talk about even less, making me glad to circle back around to the first thing.
“I know I’ve got more money than most people do,” I say. “But a few million isn’t owning an Italian villa and a yacht wealthy. Lots of people are born into that and they’ve never worked hard a day in their lives.”
“Interesting,” Hector says, leaning back against the counter and crossing his arms. “You were born into a family with a great deal of money yourself, Pax.”
I shift, uncomfortable with the direction this is heading in. “Yeah, I was, but my father never just gave me anything. I worked for it.”
“Can you tell me more about that?”
I twist the cap on the lemonade to open it. Somehow, we’re talking about the very subject I had hoped to avoid.
“I was privileged to be born into the family I was,” I admit. “But my father had expectations. Steep expectations. My sister and I didn’t come home from school and watch TV. We studied our asses off, because anything less than an A was unacceptable. And basketball wasn’t optional, either. We trained and drilled with private coaches year round. He wanted the world to think his kids were basketball prodigies, and we had to pretend we wanted to be just like him, but all we really wanted was to play with our friends.”
“You wanted what all children want,” Hector says.
I nod.
“I imagine Nathan Bishop casts a big shadow.”
I shake my head and rub the scruff on my jaw. A big shadow. That’s the understatement of the decade.
“You might say that,” I say, unwilling to go any further into it.
“How does he feel about your choice to play pro hockey rather than basketball?”
I clear my throat. “Can we get back to the uncertainty? I feel like we’re off track.”
“Of course. Do you remember the session we had as a group on making a list of things you can and can’t control?”
“Yeah.”
“Have you tried that?”