I look over at Quinton and I swear I can see the rigidness through every line in his body. His hands are balled in fists so tight, it’d be a miracle if he doesn’t draw blood.
“The pension pre-’93 players are receiving is about one-third of what today’s players are receiving. To put it this way, a basketball player who played for ten years and retired after 1965 receives around two hundred and fifteen thousand dollars a year at age sixty-two. A football player who played for ten years and retired before 1993 will receive a little over forty-three thousand dollars, pretax, at age fifty-five.” Patty scoots to the edge of her chair; her kind eyes look tired. I know she has to be tired of feeling ignored. “Like Bill said, these are men who are suffering. They played the game when it was at its most vicious. The little money they are getting is going right back out of the door for medical bills and medicine, and some of them can’t even afford to get the proper care. All we want is a pension for these men that’s equal to those players are receiving today. Nothing else.”
“More and more of us are dying every year,” Bill says. “We want pension parity before we all disappear.”
“Okay.” I set my glass on the table, finally understanding why Quinton feels so strongly about this. “What can we do to help?”
Bill lifts his beardless chin Quinton’s way. “Well, Quinton’s doing a lot of it. People don’t know this is a problem and because of that, the League doesn’t feel any pressure to make changes.”
Quinton is still as stoic as ever. With a stiff upper lip, he looks unbreakable, but something seems off. I know how unprofessional it is and I’ll kick myself in the ass for it later, but I reach across the distance between us, and wrap one of his fists in my hand. I can’t stand to see him fighting whatever demons he’s fighting without knowing I have his back.
Patty’s eyes follow my movement and a warm smile lights her face as she directs her attention to both of us. “With a new agreement getting ready to be worked out, all we want is a seat at the table during this negotiation.”
“But in order to get that,” Bill says, “we need Quinton to get more current players on board. I’m not sure they understand the power they wield.”
I think back to all of those angry emails I’ve received from the players union and teams around the League and I finally understand why. Right now this is a Mustangs problem, but once people realize the way these retired players are being treated, this is going to be an issue all teams are going to start facing.
“I got you,” Quinton says. “We owe this to you and I will do everything I can to get my peers on your side.”
Underneath my hand, I finally feel some of the tension fall out of Quinton’s body. It’s like as soon as he has a call to action, purpose and determination take hold and nothing can stop him.
“Wonderful!” Patty claps her hands together. “Now can I dig into this board? I’ve never seen such a beautiful spread before.”
As if I didn’t like her enough already. Boards for the win!
Thirty
I feel like I’m living a double life.
And I’m really fucking terrible at it.
At the end of every day, I take a scalding-hot shower to try to wash the grime off me. I just don’t know what to do.
Even though I want to, legally I can’t tell Quinton what I’m doing for Mahler. And I might despise the man I’m planning this event for, but I can’t help but try my hardest as I put in the work. This is still my job. And working in PR, I know there are times where I have to spin something I don’t want to. And yes, this might hurt someone I really enjoy kissing, but I can’t flush my career down the toilet over it.
But after two weeks of living like this, I’m on the verge of a nervous breakdown. I don’t handle stress well at all. It manifests very physically and I almost drove myself to the emergency room last night when I was convinced I was having a heart attack. I have to tell someone.
“Vonnie!” I look into the camera on her doorbell. “Let me in!”
“Damn, girl.” Vonnie pulls open her front door, looking glam as always, even at noon on a Thursday. “Is everything alright? Your texts were a little manic and you aren’t looking much better in person.”
She steps to the side as I bulldoze my way in. I’m so stressed that I can’t even focus enough to drink in the grandiose decorating I know she has put into this house.
“You’re a lawyer, right?” I ask instead of answering her question.
“Technically, I guess.” She narrows her eyes before pointing a blood-red nail at me. “Why? Are you in trouble? Do you need legal advice?”
“I am in so much trouble that I don’t even know what to do with myself.” I tell her the god’s honest truth.
“Oh shit. Come on, girl.” She walks past me and I follow her as she makes her way to the kitchen. “Sit.” She points at the stools lined up on her kitchen island and walks to the wine fridge a few feet away. “Champagne okay with you?”
“I’ll take any and all things alcohol. I officially have no standards.” In life and in drink preference.
She pops the cork with experienced precision and
