Page 55 of Full Contact

“Monday I need to talk to Carla,” I said.

Trier turned his head to look at me.

“About us,” I said. “She hears it from me, first, in a room with the door shut. Then we put the arrangements for your media coverage in writing. Leah will have final approval on anything involving you.”

“You’ve been drafting this since yesterday.”

“Well, since you left for the road trip.” There was no point denying it. “I’d rather build the structure before questions than after.”

“You’ll still handle the Peaches series?”

“Yes, she knows me, and the arrangement works. Leah will approve the final cuts. All the media requests involving you personally go through Leah and Carla.”

I left at ten with my bag over my shoulder and Thursday confirmed.

Back at my condo, I unpacked, started a load of laundry, and answered the four messages that actually needed me out of the nineteen that claimed to. Then I opened a new document.

The internal proposal came easily. Leah would have independent approval over Trier’s media coverage, including the final cuts of the Peaches series. Carla would oversee budgets and sponsorships involving him and resolve anything Leah couldn’t. I sent Carla a meeting request for Monday.

The statement to hold in reserve took six attempts. The first sounded like a denial. The second practically begged someone to ask a follow-up question.

Eventually, I had two sentences.

Trier and I recently began a personal relationship. We intend to keep the details private.

I sent him both documents.

Mark: Proposed arrangements and a statement for use only if asked. You hold the veto.

Trier: Both look good. You write clean memos.

Mark: Eleven years of practice.

Trier: One omission.

I opened the proposal again.

Mark: What did I miss?

Trier: You can stay Thursday.

Mark: I’d like that.

Chapter nine

Trier

The locker room filled a few players at a time before Saturday’s afternoon practice. I arrived at one fifteen, still smiling about waking up beside Mark that morning.

Callahan was at his stall with a new pair of gloves across his knees. He’d made the roster in September, but he still sat as though someone might come and ask for the bench back. He was working a thumbnail along a seam in the left palm.

“Those are new,” I said.

He looked up. “Danny got them for me. Ordered them, I mean. Off the pattern from my Rockford pair.” He turned the glove over. “Sorry about all the trouble.”

“What trouble?”

“He had to send measurements and call the company twice.”