“But is she having the kale smoothie before Zumba?” I ask.
“Whatever. That’s Haven. She’s . . .”
“She’s the ballbuster?” I supply.
Walker pats Josh’s shoulder. “Maybe you need your balls busted. Ever consider that?”
“No. But maybe you need yours waxed. Ever consider that?”
“Who’s to say I don’t wax them already?”
Josh cracks a rare smile, then signals a time-out. “TMI.”
“We’ll put a pin in the ball convo for now.” Walker turns to me. “All right. Serve it up, man.”
I heave a sigh as the bartender brings my drink, and I thank him then answer Walker. “I’m just annoyed. I was on Ryder’s show this morning, and everything seemed to be going well. He asked me to come back—there’s an opening there, and I felt like I was primed to nab it. On my way out, though, I ran into this other guy—who’s bloody fucking British too—who might as well have been carrying the job around like a wrapped present, playing with the bow so everyone looks at it.”
Walker sighs sympathetically. “Happens to the best of us, man. Somebody’s always taking jobs. That’s just the way it goes.”
“Not really what I wanted to hear.” I knock back some whiskey.
Josh shoots me a look. “Why is that not what you wanted to hear? That’s the truth. That’s the truth of business. I lose business to Leigh Jensen, to Scott Borehead, to CAA and that guy who looks like Dwayne Johnson. And they lose business to me. We’re all reeling our lines off the same boat, angling for the same fish. Right now, the shortstop on the Yankees is up for grabs. And Haven wants Lorenzo too, I’m sure.”
“The shortstop. Always the shortstop,” I say with a groan.
Walker simply shrugs. “If I were a shortstop, I’d literally want for nothing in life.”
“Yeah, no kidding,” I say.
Josh barely notices our exchange. He just picks up where he left off. “I’m not going to let Haven win him though. Not after I lost two clients to her in the last month.” He growls in her general direction. “Haven Fucking Delilah.”
Walker rolls his eyes. “Hey, Josh. Why don’t you tell us how you really feel?”
“You want to hear what happened? Because she poached my clients, man.”
“Yeah, I’m dying to hear all about the poaching. Tell us about Leather-Pants Poacher,” Walker says dryly.
Josh huffs, dismissing it with a wave. “I’m not talking about her. I’m done talking about her. She pisses me off too much. Plus, look at her.” Our eyes drift toward the aforementioned Haven. The poacher. The evil one.
The complete and absolute babe.
“Seems you can’t stop looking at her,” I remark, and he snaps his gaze back to us.
“Anyway, let’s help our sorry-ass friend,” Walker says, meaning me, and downs his water quickly. “I have five minutes.” Walker turns to me. “Here’s the deal. You had an opportunity. It looks like it went to someone else. You just move on.”
“I know. I know. It’s just that some days I feel like I make progress, then I’m back to square one.”
Josh lifts a glass. “Welcome to the grind, man. That’s how it is. You have to get used to it, and don’t stop moving.”
“I’m used to it. Don’t you see? It’s what I’ve been doing for the last six or seven years.”
Josh shoots me a look. “Dude, I’m in my mid-thirties. I’ve been hustling since I was twenty-one. Wait, no. I’ve been hustling since I was six and watched Montana win back-to-back Superbowls, and decided I wanted to rep superstars like him. It never ends.”
Walker points to himself. “I’ve been a hardcore music fan since, well, since I was in the womb, I think.”
Josh nudges him, a smirk on his face. “Please, tell us about the music you listened to in the womb. That sounds really fascinating. Was Mozart playing when you were in mommy’s tummy?”
I laugh. “Or did your mum get you addicted to Cyndi Lauper?”
Walker scoffs. “My mom played Mozart for me, and I’m damn proud of it. Made me smart. I graduated early from college. But the point is, this is how it goes. You take the awesome highs with the messy, muddy middles and the dreary lows, and we’ll be here to support you. That’s what good friends are for. To stop you from wallowing in your own misery. You have friends because you’re not always going to get what you want at work. Work is a fickle mistress. But friends?” He gestures from himself to Josh to me. “Friends are the glue.”
Josh nods, holding up a fist. “Bro code.”
“Man code,” Walker corrects as he knocks back. I join in, though a voice in the back of my head tells me I’m the worst violator of the code, in spite of my fresh-air sabbatical.
“Friends make it all more bearable. You see your friends, you have a drink, you listen to a tune, and you kick back. You reflect on the state of the world. You realize that there’s all sorts of shit going on that’s way worse than a gig not going your way. You donate a little money to a charity. You move on, and then you pull yourself up. When you get home tonight, give money to the homeless or to rescue dogs or to kids living in poverty, okay?”
A bit of shame coats my throat as I finish my drink. I have been wallowing, and I’m not a wallower. “You’re right. I can’t feel sorry for myself. What the fuck is that? One hundred percent unacceptable is what.”
Josh lifts his glass. “Amen, brother. To never feeling sorry for yourself.”
I clink my glass to his. “I’ll drink to that.”
“Besides, I still have the regular weekly gig. I haven’t lost that. So I’m just status quo.”
“And speaking of keeping things status quo, I need to have a few words with Haven.”
Josh stalks over to confront his nemesis, and I hear a few words of their conversation.
