“I'm going to be honest with you,” I say. “With two years left on your current contract, renegotiating is going to be a tough sell to the team.”

“I deserve to get paid, man,” he replies.

“I hear you, Jared,” I say. “I really do.”

Yeah, I hear you, and I think you're full of crap. I'm sitting at my desk, doing my best to be patient with one of my most difficult, high-maintenance clients, Jared West, on speakerphone. Ordinarily, it's a conversation I'd rather have face to face, but he called me out of the blue and dropped this steaming pile of crap on me.

It wouldn't be so bad if he had the skill and talent to justify the attitude and petulant demands, but he's only a second-tier wide receiver. At best.

Jared benefited from a string of injuries at his position and an uncharacteristically solid year from his quarterback a few seasons ago. We seized on the opportunity and managed to parlay that one-year performance – an outlier in his career, really – into a five-year deal worth more than forty million dollars.

Honestly, while the team’s management was distracted by his overwhelming performance, we robbed them blind. Jared hasn't even come close to putting up the same numbers in the three years since signing the deal.

And yet, here he is, bitching and whining about being underpaid again, looking to renegotiate his deal and make more money.

On the one hand, I want to hang up on Jared for being such an entitled punk. He signed a deal – a deal that far exceeds his actual worth – and he needs to honor it. He needs to suck it up, play out his contract, and let the chips fall where they may.

On the other hand, having been a player myself, I get it. You only have so many years in this game before your time is up, and you need to maximize earnings while you can. Players deserve to get paid, no question about it. I'm sure if I was still playing, this is a conversation I'd be having with my agent too.

Contract values and team revenues continue to rise, and even marginal players are getting huge paydays. We signed Jared to a big-time deal, and it's a contract that's been exceeded by a lot of guys since then. Which is exactly why he's on the phone throwing a fit.

It's my job to advocate for my clients and make sure they're getting fair compensation. Unfortunately for Jared, he's already being paid more than he's worth. I know it. The whole damn team knows it. The only person who doesn't know it, is Jared. There's no way in hell they're going to pay him more money to be as mediocre as he has been the last two seasons. In fact, he's lucky I negotiated a deal with a sizable chunk of guaranteed money on the back end, so they can’t cut him from the team without a significant financial penalty.

Hell, given how little he's produced since signing the deal, they might cut him anyway, and just eat what's left of the contract. Not that I can blame them, really.

“I'm telling you that I don't know if the team will be willing to rip up the last two years of your deal and renegotiate a new one,” I say.

“You're my agent,” he sneers. “This is your job, right? To get me a new deal? This is what I pay you for, ain't it?”

“It's my job to get you a deal, Jared,” I say evenly. “And we got you a very fair deal –”

“Fair deal? Did you see what Watkins just signed for?” he snaps. “He hasn't done nothin' worth that kind of money. He hasn't put up the kinda numbers I have.”

Actually, he has. Trey Watkins has been one of the most electric receivers in the league for the last three years. Over the last three seasons, he's put up more than three hundred catches, nearly four thousand receiving yards, and twenty-nine touchdowns. He's made the Pro Bowl twice, and has been All-Pro three years running.

He's put up numbers Jared will never touch, and I have no idea how he thinks he's a better all-around player than Trey Watkins. All I do know is that I want to end this call. Jared isn't going to get another dime out of the team, and he’s an idiot if he thinks he can pressure them into it.

“Listen, I'll tell you what,” I say. “I'll talk to the team. Feel them out and see if they're receptive to the idea.”

“Make it happen, man,” he says. “I need to get paid.”

I roll my eyes. “Yeah, I'll touch base with you soon.”

I disconnect the call and tip back in my seat, letting out what feels like the longest, loudest sigh in history. Guys like Jared really test my patience and make me question why I went into this business in the first place.

“Day's going well, I see.”

I look up to see Pete Paulson, my second-in-command here, casually leaning against the doorway, a cup of coffee in hand. Pete's a good guy and my most trusted employee here at CEM. Smarter than hell, tough as nails in negotiations, and loyal to a fault. If only I had a hundred guys like him on payroll.

I sigh. “Yeah, that was Jared.”

“Let me guess – he saw the deal Watkins just signed and suddenly thinks he's underpaid.”

“It's like you're a psychic or something.”

“I have my moments,” he replies. “I remember when guys like him were scratching and clawing to hang onto roster spots – and were grateful for deals that paid above league minimum.”

“Yeah, but then all the teams started overpaying for fringe guys.”

“And that opened the floodgates,” he says. “Now, everybody who can run a 4.4 thinks they need to be getting max deals – whether they can actually catch the ball or not.”

“Exactly,” I say and shake my head. “Damn, I sound like a bitter old guy like you. What's next, me telling the kids to get off my lawn or starting conversations with, 'back in my day?'”

“You're just about there as it is,” he chuckles. “You gonna call the team?”

“Do I look like an idiot?”

“Not as much of an idiot as you would be if you actually called them.”

“Exactly why I'll keep kicking the can down the road as far as I can,” I say.

“Smart man.”

“That's why they pay me the big bucks.”

Pete laughs and shakes his head. He knows what it's like to have to babysit clients who think they deserve more than they're getting. He's been in the game long enough to have seen everything. At least twice. Given that he has a lot more experience than me, I tend to lean on him for knowledge and skill. His advice and guidance have been invaluable to me – especially in CEM's early days. I think it's fair to say that without Pete Paulson, CEM never would have gotten off the ground, let alone rise to the level we're currently at.

He's also my Narcotics Anonymous sponsor. It's where we met. Originally, I started going to NA because I was under court order after another DUI. It was the lowest point of my life. But, I met Pete and he helped me get back on the straight and narrow. He never gave up on me and pushed me to become a better man than I ever thought possible.

Not only would CEM not be anywhere without him, I know that as a person, I wouldn't be either.

“Come in,” I say. “Shut the door, I want to talk to you about something.”

Pete's brow furrows, but he closes the door behind him and drops into the chair across the desk from me. He takes a sip of his coffee, his eyes never leaving mine as he waits for me to tell him what's on my mind. There's no reason to beat around the bush with Pete, so I don't.

“So listen,” I say. “I'm thinking about pulling the plug and leaving the game.”

“You're kidding me,” he says, his eyebrows arched in surprise. “You're not the retiring type, Brice. You won't know what to do with yourself.”

I chuckle. “I'm sure I can figure something out.”

“So, no plan?” he asks. “No outline for the next chapter of your life?”

“Just kind of winging it right now.”

“I know you,” he says. “You need a challenge. You need that constant mental stimulation.”

“I know,” I reply. “I just need to figure out what that next challenge is going to be. Haven't quite gotten there yet.”

Pete runs a hand over his face. “I gotta be honest. I don't know that this is the smartest move for you. You know what happens when you don't have something –”

“I know,” I reply gently. “But, I also think I'm at the point where I need to stop hiding behind the things I did in the past to justify my bad behavior. I think I've grown – no, I think you've helped me grow – to a point where I can take the training wheels off and not fall back into old habits.”

“A lot of people say that,” he says. “And then they relapse.”

I run a hand through my hair. Honestly, Paul is right to be concerned. I’ve never been someone who's done well with time on their hands, historically speaking. It's one reason I developed the habits I did to begin with.

I'm not that person anymore though. I'm stronger. A lot stronger. In many ways, I've grown up over the past decade or so. I used to be an immature, entitled prick. I know that now. Back in the day, I probably would have acted like Jared – calling my agent to rattle his cage about somehow finding me more money because I felt like it was owed to me.

That's what tends to happen when you grow up in an affluent family. That's what happens when you never want for anything, and you get everything you ask for – mostly so my folks, who were always busy on the social scene – didn't have to deal with me.

I know, I know. Poor little rich boy, cry me a river.

Point is, the way I grew up left me with an attitude and superiority complex. I can admit that now. It's a part of myself I’ve had to confront as a part of my recovery.

“I'm stronger now, Pete. Better able to deal with life and my own shit,” I say. “That's in large part because of you.”

He shrugs. “You're the one who put in all the work.”

“And you're the one who put your foot in my ass if I didn't.”

“Somebody had to.”

I give him a long, measured look. “No, they didn't. Nobody had to do anything for me,” I say. “You took that on yourself. And that's something I'm never going to forget. Ever.”

A faint smile touches his lips, and he looks away. Pete's a serious, unemotional guy. He's never been one to be overly sentimental about anything. And he's certainly never been able to accept praise well.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says. “Don’t start crying on me now.”

I laugh and take a drink from the mug of coffee that's been cooling on my desk – and find that it's grown tepid while I had to sit there and hold Jared's hand through the phone call. I drink it anyway. Coffee's coffee.

“Anyway,” I say as I set the mug down. “I'm burned out, Pete. I think it's time to close this chapter and start another. Whatever that may be.”

“So, you're going to shutter CEM?” he asks, his eyebrows arched.

“Hell no. Not after all the blood, sweat, and tears we put into this thing,” I say.

“Then what are you thinking?”

I lean forward in my seat. “I'm thinking about stepping back from operations. Permanently. And letting somebody else take over here. And I want it to be you.”

As stoic as Pete usually is, it surprises me to see him sit back in his seat and look flustered. Like this is an idea he can't possibly fathom.

“There's no one I trust more to uphold the standards we've set here than you, Pete.”

“You just want to pawn Jared goddamn West off on me,” he says and laughs.

I shrug. “Maybe that too,” I say. “But, you've been here from the beginning. Who better to keep this place going and growing than you?”

“I can think of a thousand other people,” he replies.

“I can't.”

I hold his gaze for a long moment. Pete is a natural born leader. In my mind, he is the perfect, logical choice to take over my role here.

“Look, I get that you're burned out,” he says. “But, maybe you should just take some time off. Step back and clear your head. Go on vacation. You haven't been on a vacation in – shit, I don't even know how long. You need to go have some fun, Brice. I think you've forgotten how.”

“What? I have fun.”

He scoffs. “When? As near as I can tell, you work, work some more, and then go home. To work.”

“Not true,” I say, feeling strangely defensive. “I go out. I have fun.”

“When's the last time you went out for something not work-related?”

I sit back in my seat and grin at him. Yeah, he's got me there. Back in the day, I was a party guy. I loved going out to the clubs and having a good time. But, that's back when drinking, drugs, and women were my vices. I'm not that guy anymore. I've grown since then. Evolved.

I guess I've also become something of a homebody as well.

That wild lifestyle just isn't for me anymore. But, it's not like I don't want to have fun – it's just that my definition of fun has changed.

“That's what I thought,” Pete says and laughs.

“Glad you're amused,” I reply.

“I just worry about you, kid,” he says. “You're still young. You need to find a nice girl and settle down.”

“And drive a minivan, live in a house with a white picket fence, and coach my kid's little league team? Hard pass.”

“Sure, why not?” he asks. “What's so wrong with that? You've worked hard, got your house in order, you've made a ton of money – why not learn to enjoy it with someone else?”

“You work just as much as I do, Pete,” I say. “If not more.”

“But, my wife makes sure I get out there and have some fun,” he says. “She keeps me young. You need to find you a woman who will do that for you.”

“Yeah, easier said than done,” I say. “The only single women I seem to meet anymore are only interested in one thing – my bank account.”

Pete nods. “One of the drawbacks of being rich and successful. Not to mention a former NFL quarterback. Certain kinds of women tend to line up for a guy like that.”

I shake my head, unable to keep the grin off my face. “We're getting into a whole other conversation here. Let's get off my love life and back to the topic at hand. And that's you taking over as the head of CEM.”

Pete sighs and stares down at his hands for a moment before looking back up at me. “Believe me, I would be honored. Truly honored. But, I don't want you to rush into anything. I don't want you to regret a decision you’ve made just because you're bored and burned out.”

“I've already given it a lot of thought, and I really believe CEM has run its course for me,” I say. “I'm ready. I want to move on to something different. As much as I love sports –”

Pete holds a hand up to stop me. “Do me a favor,” he says. “Before we discuss this further, or commit to anything, sleep on it for a while. If you still feel the same way about it a couple of weeks from now, we'll address it again.”

I open my mouth to argue but quickly realize that Pete is done negotiating. Those are his terms, and I can either accept them or take this as a loss, and walk away. And since there is no one else I trust with CEM, nobody else I want in the big chair, I would be smart to play by his rules.

“You really don't want to deal with Jared West alone, do you?” I say and laugh.

“No, not really,” he replies with a grin.

“Fair enough,” I sigh. “We'll do this your way.”

“I want you to consider this from all angles, Brice,” he says. “Really think about and reflect on the decision you’re making here.”

“I will.”

He looks at me for a long moment and then gets to his feet. Carrying his cup of coffee across my office, he stops by the door before turning around to look at me.

“Thank you, Brice,” he says. “To even be considered for the job – it means a lot.”

“There would be no CEM without you, Pete,” I say. “It's only right that you take over for me.”

“If – and that's a big if – you decide to step down.”

“If,” I say, shooting him a gentle smile.

With an inscrutable look on his face, Pete leaves my office, shutting the door softly behind him, leaving me alone with my thoughts. I really don't think anything is going to change between now and – well – whenever Pete wants to address the situation again. But, I'll humor him for a little while and pretend to seriously consider it.

As I sit there, lost in my own thoughts, an email pops up on my computer. I turn in my chair to the monitor and call it up. It's from an old friend of mine named Mitch. He's from my hometown of Morro Bay and is one of the few people I've actually kept in touch with over the years. He and I played ball together in high school, and in college. Like me, he earned a scholarship to play at USC, and was always my go-to target on the field.

His message is simple – “Don't know if you saw this. Call me when you get time.” The email includes an attachment, so I open it and find an article from the local paper up there. When I read the headline, I feel my heart stutter, and a sharp stab of anguish pierce my body.

Arnold Simmonds, Beloved Teacher, Football Coach, Passes Away

I read the article a couple of times as tendrils of grief wrap themselves around my heart and squeeze it tight. Coach Simmonds was more than just a high school teacher. He was more than just a coach. He was the closest thing I had to a father figure growing up.

And now he's dead.

I check my schedule and start making plans to clear it. There’s no way I’m missing the only chance I’ll have to pay my respects.