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Here, folks.”
    The television station went to commercial at the same time Roper yelled aloud, “Somebody shut that damn thing off before I rip the speakers off the wall.”
    When nobody moved, Yank added his two cents. “Can’t you hear the man? Shut off the noise or we’ll sue you for intentional infliction of emotional distress.”
    The weights clanged hard as Roper dropped them to the floor.
    “Morgan, what are you doing here?” he asked.
    “Visiting the dumbbells.” Yank laughed at his own joke.
    Roper didn’t.
    “You still upset over Buckley the Bastard’s tirade? Grow up and get over it,” Yank said. He’d already tried coddling Roper through his rough patch and it hadn’t worked. He was moving on to tough love.
    “Someone dropped off a Roper bobblehead doll with my doorman.
    Damn thing had a knife stuck in the shoulder.”

    Yank groaned. The fans wouldn’t let Roper forget his nightmarish last season. He hadn’t been able to hit or throw, and to make things worse, he’d sprained his shoulder in a failed attempt to stop a game-winning home run by slamming it into the center field wall. This in addition to striking out earlier when the bases were loaded and the Renegades had a chance at the go-ahead run. Their team had lost, the fans needed a scapegoat, and they’d chosen the highest-priced center fielder in the game to sacrifice. Not that the man wasn’t in a slump, but losing had been a team effort.
    Now Buckley insisted on continuing the torture in the off-season.
    Roper had every right to be pissed. He didn’t need Buckley riling up the fans against him in his daily tirades.
    “Are you sure Buckley doesn’t have a personal grudge?” Yank asked.
    Roper rose to his feet, looming large over Yank. “I screwed his ex-girlfriend. She just didn’t see fit to mention she was no longer his ex on the night in question.”
    Yank chuckled. “He oughta let it go.”
    “She’s his wife now,” Roper said.
    “Shit.”
    “Yeah,” Roper agreed. “You do realize that if this was a lesser market, nobody would pay attention to anything Buckley said?”
    Yank shook his head. “But it isn’t a lesser market. It’s New York.”
    And that said it all.
    Athletes were like movie stars here, back-and front-page news and fodder for gossip. “You used to love the attention,” Yank reminded him.
    Prior to his funk, Roper had been known for being a high-maintenance outfielder. ESports TV, Magazine and Radio named Roper among the top metrosexual athletes of the year. Yank didn’t get why grown men like Roper spent good money on the best clubs, gyms and hairdressers. What normal man had his back waxed? Yank had no idea.
    But Roper’s good-looking mug had made them both a boatload of money, so Yank wasn’t about to complain.

    “I did love the attention,” Roper said. “Until my talent went south.”
    Roper leaned forward on the bench, elbows on his knees, and stared ahead at nothing in particular. “So what are you really doing here?”
    Roper asked.
    “I came to cheer you up. I don’t want the media to see you down and I sure as hell don’t need you taking a swing at one of them, no matter how much they provoke you.”
    “That sounds like a message from Micki.”
    Yank’s niece, Michelle, was Roper’s close friend, as well as his publicist. She was the resident expert at the Hot Zone for keeping her high-maintenance client out of trouble and out of the press.
    Then again, maybe some good press was exactly what Roper needed. “I have a present for you. Here’s a gift certificate.” Yank pulled a piece of paper from his back pocket. “Go get yourself a massage and a manicure.”
    “Not in the mood.”
    Yank didn’t know what else to do in order to help his dejected client. “Don’t you want to look your best for the annual Hot Zone New Year’s party?”
    “I’m not going.”
    Yank smacked him upside the head. “You sure as hell are. You’re going to hold yourself up and make like