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B RANDON GLANCED AROUND the Sharks’ workout facility a few weeks after his parents’ unexpected visit, mopping the sweat off his face with a well-used hand towel. He had the place to himself. Early morning sunshine through floor-to-ceiling windows bounced off a fortune in exercise machines, free weights, and other paraphernalia. He glanced up at the ceiling-sized panoramic photo of Sharks fans that the team photographer took during a game last year. Every crunch, every butterfly, every rotation of the elliptical meant he improved his game for those fans and for himself.

The other guys didn’t usually show up here till later in the morning. He stuck the iPod earbuds in, turned the beats up as loud as they would go, and draped the towel over his head. It was time to work his neck.

Forty-five minutes later, the smart phone in his shorts pocket was on perma-vibrate. Five calls from his agent in an hour. The Sharks must have agreed to their latest contract extension offer. He clicked over to an incoming text: CALL MY OFFICE. ASAP.

The team’s front office probably wanted him to sign before the first home game. They’d make a big production out of it, too. He grinned, imagining how long it would take his little diva to choose an outfit before the press conference. Maybe he should buy her a new dress for the occasion. He’d make sure it was scheduled on a day she could attend.

His phone vibrated again. A text from Emily: PLEASE CALL YOUR AGENT. HE’S LOOKING FOR YOU.

“What the hell’s the fire drill?” he muttered to himself. He got up from the weight bench, loped into the locker room, stripped, and stepped into the shower.

B RANDON THREW HIMSELF into his Land Rover twenty-five minutes later, and hit “Josh” on his contacts list. Most guys saw their agent as a necessary evil—someone who handled the business end of football. They didn’t want to think about contracts and endorsements. The year he was drafted Brandon came home from the Senior Bowl with a fistful of business cards from potential agents. He hired Josh when Josh answered his own telephone and didn’t hide behind bullshit when Brandon asked him tough questions. Their relationship over the years was businesslike but cordial.

Josh’s contract negotiations with the Sharks were a work of art. He managed to stay on good terms with the team, while getting Brandon every dollar and perk one of the best pass-rushing defensive ends in the NFL deserved. He put multiple lucrative endorsement deals together for Brandon, endorsements that would live on long after his football career was over. Brandon was a very wealthy man as a result, and Josh hadn’t done badly for himself, either.

Today, Josh didn’t even say “hello.”

“McKenna, where the hell have you been?”

“Lifting. Shower. You must have prevailed in the negotiations.”

Josh waited a few beats. “I’m at Sea-Tac Airport. My flight just landed. We need to meet.”

B RANDON NOSED HIS vehicle into the curb by the Alaska Airlines baggage claim area. Josh moved through the crowd of passengers waiting to be picked up by loved ones, tossed a laptop backpack onto the back seat of the car, and hopped into the passenger seat.

“What’s up?” Brandon asked.

“Let’s get a beer. It’s on me,” Josh told him. He stared out the windshield of Brandon’s SUV.

Brandon felt the first icy fingers of dread slithering up his spine.

T EN MINUTES LATER, they sat down at the bar in a restaurant across the street from the airport. Josh ordered two microbrews. Brandon ordered a glass of ice water.

“Out with it,” Brandon said. “I’m guessing you’re not here because you missed me.”

Josh took a sip of his beer. “I’m not quite sure how to tell you this, so here it is. The Sharks declined your contract extension. This is your last season with them.”

Brandon didn’t drink during football season. He took his training regimen seriously, not to mention his commitment to staying out of trouble. He’d been quizzed on this fact many times by sports reporters over the years. Good thing it was still pre-season. He wrapped one hand around the second beer on the bar, lifted it to his lips, and chugged it. He nodded at the bartender for a second.

“Did they give you a reason?” Brandon said.

“The team wanted a significant pay cut for an extension. They also wanted a waiver from the injury guarantee portion of the contract.” Josh put his empty glass back down on the bar. “I reminded them you restructured two years ago to help them land McCoy when the Vikings cut him loose due to the salary cap, and restructured again when they went after Tampa Bay’s backup QB last season. I reminded them you live here in the offseason. You encourage most of the defense to live here as well, so the group hits the ground running in July. I reminded them you had twelve sacks last season.”

Brandon drained his refilled pint glass in three long swallows. He nodded at the bartender once more and said, “A shot of Jameson’s, too.”

“Please tell me you’re not driving,” Josh said.

“I’ll have my rig towed home.” Brandon dropped the full shot glass into his third beer. “How long until this hits the national news?”

“Not sure. I got on a plane three hours ago.”

“You must have other meetings here today.”

“I didn’t want to tell you over the phone.”

“Thanks.” Brandon stared at the boilermaker in front of him. “I think.”

“You’ll be highly sought after in free agency.”

“ Fuck free agency.” Brandon drained his glass again. He had no interest in getting shipped off to whatever team could write him the biggest check.

The bartender dropped off some bar snacks.

“Where’s Emily today?” Josh asked.

Brandon pulled out his smart phone. “She’s on her way to Atlanta by now. She’s doing promotion or some damn thing for upcoming performances.”

She’d be gone for three days, which meant he’d spend the next seventy-two hours doing whatever he needed to do to keep from picking up a telephone and begging her to come back.

E MILY CIRCLED THE park-and-fly lot just outside of the airport. She wanted to park anywhere there was a chance someone wasn’t going to open their car door into hers. She hated leaving Seattle when the sun was out. Atlanta would be a huge, sticky, humid mess.

She reached out to flip on the car stereo. Maybe some music would help. The last time Brandon was in her car, though, he tuned it to the sports station. She reached out again to change the channel, and her hand froze in mid-air.

“Twitter is on fire with the news that the Sharks declined the contract extension Brandon McKenna was looking for. We’re trying to get some official confirmation. Our phone lines are burning up right now, but if you’d like to weigh in on what might be the biggest story of the Sharks’ preseason, give us a call. Will McKenna demand a trade as a result? He always said he wanted to retire a Shark, but this might be enough to make him think the grass is greener in Dallas or Green Bay. Call us.”

Emily steered into a parking place that materialized from nowhere, stepped on the brake, and pulled her phone out of her bag. Brandon didn’t answer. She scrolled through “calls received,” and hit “dial” on Josh’s phone number.

“Josh Williams.”

“Hi Josh, this is Emily Hamilton. Where is Brandon right now? He’s not answering his phone.”

E MILY WALKED INTO the dim, old-fashioned bar area of a restaurant she hadn’t been to in at least ten years. Josh was gone. He was already on a plane, flying back to Los Angeles; one of his kids had a soccer tournament.

Brandon was hunched over the bar with a string of empty pint glasses lined up in front of him. He didn’t glance up when she slid onto the barstool next to him. “Hey, bruiser,” she said softly.

“They cut me off,” he said.

She counted four pint glasses and three shot glasses. Brandon’s eyes were red-rimmed, but he wasn’t slurring his words. Yet. The bowl of peanuts in front of him was untouched.

“Want to go home?”

“Hell, no. I want to drink.” He shook his head like he’d been caught in a rain shower. “I thought you were going to Atlanta.”

“I thought I was, too. Damn mechanical problems.” She set her handbag down on the bar.

He turned to look at her. “There was nothing wrong with that plane.”

“You’ll have to update the pilot. He was pretty convinced.” Emily nodded at the bartender. “I’d like a club soda with a twist of lime, please. Also, I’d like an appetizer or two, if there’s a menu available.”

“Coming right up.” The bartender moved away from them. She reached out and laid one hand over Brandon’s bigger, warmer one. He narrowed his eyes.

“Don’t give me any of that ‘It’s going to be okay’ shit.”

She swallowed hard. “Of course not.”

“I don’t want anything to eat. I want to get so drunk I don’t sober up for a week.”

“I guess I’m driving, then,” she said.

Emily’s club soda with a twist of lime appeared, and the bartender brought one for Brandon, too. Brandon studiously ignored it. He asked for another Guinness with a shot of Jameson’s.

“You know I can’t serve you if you’re drunk,” the bartender said.

Brandon fixed laser eyes on him. “I’m not drunk.”

“Trust me. You’re drunk.” The guy moved the second glass of club soda in Brandon’s direction. “Maybe you should talk about it. The booze won’t fix it.”

The look on Brandon’s face was murderous. Emily slipped both hands through his arm.

“Take it easy,” she said into his ear.

“Maybe we should leave this dump. I can drink as much as I want at my house.”

A platter of meatball sliders landed on the bar in front of them, along with saucers, silverware, and napkins. The bartender moved away. Emily arranged two sliders on a saucer, grabbed a napkin, and put them down in front of Brandon.

“Eat.”

“Not hungry.”

“If you don’t eat, I’ll check you into a hotel without an honor bar. You are not throwing up all over my house, Brandon McKenna.”

“Who said I was going to your house?” He took a bite of one of the sliders.

“I’m driving.” She helped herself to a slider. Brandon’s phone vibrated so hard with incoming calls it slid across the bar. He grabbed it, switched it off, and put it back in his pocket.

“You should have gone to Atlanta,” he said. The expression in his eyes was bleak as a bitter-cold morning in January. “I can grab a cab home.”

She raised one eyebrow.

“I can take care of myself,” he said.

She picked up a fork and took a bite.

“You’re using a goddamn fork to eat a goddamn burger—”

She spoke into his ear again. “I realize you’re having the worst day of your life, but this does not mean you get to act like an ass toward me.”

“You can leave at any time.” He looked down his nose at her.

She sat up straighter on the bar stool that must have been pressed into service for the first time during the Cold War. The bar was still deserted, but she spoke loudly enough to be heard over the omnipresent soundtrack of rock n’ roll oldies from the sixties and seventies playing from tinny-sounding speakers.

“No, actually, I can’t leave. I have other commitments and responsibilities right now, but you are more important. I would spend the rest of the night worrying that you didn’t make it home, you fell down the stairs, or you gave an interview that made Charlie Sheen look like a Rhodes Scholar.” She looped her handbag over one arm. “We’re packing up the rest of the food I ordered, and we’re going to my house. You’re going to sober up. We are going to talk about what to do next.”

“There’s nothing to do next.”

She captured his chin in her fingertips. They stared into each other’s eyes. Her voice dropped. “That’s bullshit, and you know it.”

Neither of them moved for a few moments. The world shrank to the circle of space around them. His eyes dropped.

“Bossy little thing, aren’t you?” he said.

Emily took a deep breath. “I’ll tell you what you’re going to do. You’re going to put up stats this season that will make the Sharks GM and front office the laughing stock of the league. You’re going to go into free agency with more buzz than Peyton Manning did. You’re going to get the biggest contract offers Josh can field, and you will decide when it’s time to walk away. Not them.” She let go of his chin, picked up the slider on her plate in two fingers, and consumed it.

“More buzz than Manning.” His voice was dry.

After listening to Brandon’s football tutorials, she knew her example was over the top and more than a little ridiculous, but Brandon’s agent’s phone was probably already ringing.

“It’s your choice. Let them beat you, or beat them at their own game.”

She sipped her club soda. She knew her words were like waving a red flag in front of a six-foot-four, two-hundred-seventy pound bull who didn’t consider losing an option.

He met her eyes again. He reached out for her hand, and squeezed it. Despite having drunk enough alcohol to anesthetize an elephant, one side of his mouth twitched as the supremely self-confident, ultra-competitive Brandon McKenna roared back to life.