Page 34 of All's Fair in Love and Pizza
But that was between us. No one else.
And now…Sunday dinner with the family? It was too much.
So why was I grinning like an idiot?
13
ROB
My agent was a good guy and a real pro. We weren’t friends necessarily, but we’d developed a good working relationship over the years. Bill had a sort of “Leave it to me, kid” paternal vibe that instilled a measure of confidence that he’d have my best interests at heart…and my bottom line. That trust had paid off in spades.
Thanks to Bill, I’d worked for top-tier organizations and had made a fuckton of dough throughout my career. I was retired now, though, and my new focus was bagels. Not something a guy who dealt with commissioners, GMs, and hungry athletes could relate to. However, I was still his client, and there was no one I trusted more with my coming-out story.
Not that I was going to tell a story. No, thanks. It would be a quick statement. No fanfare whatsoever.
“Well…how do you want to handle it, then?” Bill rasped, his voice gravelly from a few decades worth of heavy smoking.
I stared at the horizon, cradling a warm mug of coffee. “I don’t know. I think we should get through the bake-off first. You’re busy anyway, and?—”
“I’m always busy,” he intercepted. “Don’t worry about me. You know…you could incorporate this bake-off thing. I’ll tipPeople,Sports Illustrated, and drum up some interest in pizza bagels and we’ll casually let the cat outta the bag. Just like bagels come out of the oven, so have you.”
“So in the that scenario, I’m a bagel.”
“It sounded better in my head.”
“Wow, that’s…terrible. Like, really bad.”
Bill snickered. “Yeah, yeah. I’ll leave the snazzy headlines to PR.”
“Good idea.”
We chuckled softly, each of us no doubt hoping the other would change the subject…pronto.
“Listen, kid. It’s up to you—the timing, the method…as long as you’re the one in control of the narrative. That’s the golden rule.”
“I know.”
“All right.” Bill cleared his throat, a sign he was moving on. “How’s business? They eat a lot of bagels in Northern California?”
“They do, indeed.” I gave him a brief rundown of the store and shared that choosing to open shop in Haverton had paid off. “College students and tourists love their bagels and cream cheese.”
“They probably like that a big-time football player is serving them too.”
“Well, it’s a football town,” I replied neutrally. “One of the owners next door and I played college ball together, which is how the bake-off evolved.”
“Ahh. What’s his name?”
“Mateo Cavaretti. He had a short stint in the pros playing for?—”
“Tennessee. No shit. I remember him,” Bill interrupted. “Huh. Good-looking guy, right? Had a rocket for an arm, but he was…a little temperamental.”
“Sounds like Mateo.”
“Hmm. It’s been years and my memory ain’t what it used to be, but I always thought that kid got screwed.”
“What do you mean?”
“He had the wrong representation. People gave up on him too soon. That messes with your head. You start thinkin’ you can’t throw the ball after a rough practice or two, and next thing you know you’re slinging pizza instead of a football. That’s a damn shame. He coulda been somebody.”
