“That’s what I got into this for. You promised me fame!” Waters said.

“I promised you a chance at fame, which you blew by being a hothead. And I told you the conditions were that after ten years, you retired and went and wrote cookbooks or something. Or, God forbid, coached.”

“You stupid vampire. You made a fortune off of me, and I got screwed.”

Flynn stiffened, perhaps because of the insult. His tone grew sharp.

“Compared to most clients, you gave me pennies. And I should ruin you for flying down to New Orleans with some cockamamie scheme of trading yourself to the Saints. Idiot.”

“At least I seek fame, instead of just money. Is it true you take IVs of melted gold to get you going in the morning?” Waters shot back, flushing angrily.

“Oh no, I just swim in it, а la Scrooge McDuck,” Flynn said.

Griffen laughed at Flynn’s easy volley, and Waters grew more sullen. Flynn winked at the young dragon, even though he didn’t look much older than midthirties himself. Griffen doubted his age matched his face.

“Pull up a chair, Griffen. No reason for you to stand there.”

Flynn pushed a chair toward Griffen. A drink was already waiting, and as Griffen reached into his wallet, Flynn waved him off, putting a few bills on the bar. The Quarter had broken Griffen of refusing free drinks, but still the gesture surprised him from an utter stranger.

Waters put a hand on the back of the chair, knuckles grazing Griffen’s back.

“No, don’t pull up a chair. I’m not done talking with my agent about extending my ball contract.”

“Not a chance, Waters,” Flynn said. “You don’t have anything to offer me.”