Chapter 6: Seven
Tyler opened his mouth.
"You're right, we don't," J.D. finished for him. "No one from the Human Resources Department is telling the Executive Committee they need to increase the percentage of white males they make partner. So we"—he pointed—"have to fend for ourselves by making sure we don't give them any excuse not to promote us."
Tyler held up his hands. "All right—just take it easy. I know you're stressed out these days—"
"—I'm just saying that everyone should be judged solely on merit. No 'plus' factors for gender, race, national origin, or—"
"—what with the partnership decision coming up and all, I realize you're nervous—"
"—so that each person is given a fair chance—" J.D. stopped. He had just caught Tyler's last words. "Wait—you think I'm nervous about making partner?"
Tyler looked him over. "Are you saying you're not nervous?"
"Are you saying I have a reason to be nervous?"
J.D. glanced around and lowered his voice to a whisper. "Why, what have you heard? Do you know something? Wait, never mind—don't tell me. No, really—what?"
Tyler laughed. "Take it easy, buddy. I haven't heard a thing. The Executive Committee doesn't exactly let lowly sixth years in on their partnership decisions."
J.D. exhaled in relief. "Right, sure." Resuming his façade of nonchalance, he tossed the ball to Tyler. "Your serve."
The two played in silence for a few moments, the only sound being the repetitive bounce-smash! of the ball as they volleyed back and forth.
Finally, J.D. broke the silence. "For the record, I don't believe I'm 'stressed out.' " But if, for argument's sake, I am a little anxious, it would only be natural. After all, it's been eight years. It's my job, you know. It's—"
"—the only thing you've ever done without your father's help and you don't want to screw it up," Tyler cut in. "I get that."
J.D. stopped dead in his tracks. The squash ball whizzed by, careened off the back wall, and bounced around the court until it finally rolled to a stop. He faced Tyler in stony silence.
Tyler smiled innocently. "Oops—was that one of those things we're not supposed to say out loud?"
J.D. still said nothing. As his best friend, Tyler understood that the topic of his father was distinctly off-limits.
"But I thought we were bonding," Tyler continued. "You know, one oppressed white male to another."
J.D. gave him a look. "Very cute. Laugh now, but we'll see who's laughing in two years when you come up for partner and they toss your ass out onto the street with nothing more than a 'thanks for your time.' " J.D. gestured to the court. "Now—if we're finished with your little personal insights into my psyche, do you mind if we play some squash here?"
Tyler bowed agreeably. "Not at all."
The two once again resumed their game. Silent. Focused. J.D. was just getting back into his groove when Tyler brought up another topic of conversation he had even less interest discussing.
"So I saw you walk by my office this afternoon with Payton," Tyler said. "You two looked chummy as always."
J.D. dove for the ball and narrowly missed it. Cursing under his breath, he picked himself up from the floor and walked it off. He knew Tyler was baiting him once again and was hardly about to give him the satisfaction of being successful at it a second time.
"Payton and I had a meeting in Ben's office," he replied matter-of-factly. He tossed Tyler the ball.
As their play continued, so did Tyler's taunting. "So . . . did you congratulate her on the Chicago Lawyer article?"
J.D. smiled, thinking back to his conversation with Payton earlier that day. "Yes, as a matter of fact, I did. In my own way of course."
"You know, maybe you should run your whole 'women just have to stay in the race' argument by her," Tyler teased. "I'm sure she'd have a few thoughts."
J.D. scoffed at this. "Please—as if I'm worried about anything Payton has to say. What's she going to do, give me another one of her little pissed-off hair flips?" He flung imaginary long hair off his shoulders, exaggerating. "I'll tell you, one of these days I'm going to grab her by that hair and . . ." He gestured as if throttling someone.
Without breaking stride, he returned Tyler's serve. The two smashed a few back and forth, concentrating on the game when—
"Is violence always part of your sexual fantasies?" Tyler interjected.
J.D. whipped around—
"Sexual—?"
—and got hit smack in the face with the squash ball. He toppled back and sprawled ungracefully across the court.
Tyler stepped over and twirled his racquet. "This is nice. We should talk like this more often."
J.D. reached over, grabbed the ball off the floor, and hurled it right at Tyler.
J.D. HEADED HOME later that evening, still smarting from the squash-ball blow to the cheek. He didn't know what hurt more—his face or his ego. A very competitive player, he couldn't believe he had let Tyler distract him so easily. Taunting him about Payton, it was so . . . simplistic. But what could he say? As always, she brought out the worst in him. Even while playing squash, apparently.
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