While I was searching the sidelines for Barrett and the stands for my mom, I felt someone tap me on the shoulder. I turned around and a middle-aged white man, wearing a Texas polo jersey and a burnt-orange Texas hat, said, “Great game, Brady. You know, I don’t think I have ever seen a performance like what you did out there on that field today.”
“Thank you, sir. That’s very kind of you to say,” I said, extending my hand toward the man.
“I’m Coach Dennis Watson. I’m the running backs coach and recruiting coordinator at the University of Texas. I have coached some great backs, including Cedric Benson and Rickey Williams, and you are every bit as great as they are.”
“Coach, I appreciate you saying that,” I said. “I used to follow you guys and I loved Rickey Williams, so I was upset when you didn’t even send me a recruiting letter.”
“Excuse me. Do I need to get the wax out of my ears? Did you say that we didn’t send you a recruiting letter?”
“Yes sir, that’s what I said. I never heard from you guys.”
Coach Watson took off his hat and ran his hand through his hair with a perplexed look on his face. He looked toward the warm, metallic sky like he was searching for an answer and then turned back toward me.
“Son, you were at the top of our recruiting board. I know this because it’s my job. We started sending you letters when you rushed for over 200 yards as a sophomore, but every letter we sent was sent back with “Return to Sender” written on it. I even reached out to your coaches in hopes of setting up a meeting with your parents, but I was told you were not interested in the University of Texas and we should cease our attempts to contact you. I just figured your family had some connection with the University of Arkansas Razorbacks or Oklahoma Sooners. That happens a lot in recruiting.”
“Are you sure it was me, Brady Bledsoe, you were talking about? Did you speak with my coach?”
“Son, I spoke with your coach on several occasions. I remember him telling me that your mother was specifically against you talking with Texas. Was your father involved in your recruiting process?”
“My father is dead,” I said. Just as I was going to ask more questions of Coach Watson, I felt a small, delicate hand touch me. I turned around and looked down into the blue eyes of a little boy with hair the color of straw. He was wearing a jersey with my name on it; it fit him like his grandmother’s nightgown. He had a pen and a program in his hand.
“Mr. Brady, will you sign my jersey and program?” he asked.
“Sure I will, little buddy. What’s your name?”
Coach Watson patted me on the back and wished me good luck for the rest of the season, and especially with the Heisman voting.
“Thanks, Coach,” I said as I got on my knees to become eye level with the boy and have my picture taken with him by his father.
After I finished taking the photo, I stood up and saw Barrett walking toward me with a huge smile on her face.
“There is my girl,” I said, smiling at her.
“Does the star of the century need a kiss?” Barrett asked.
“I always need a kiss,” I said as Barrett threw her arms around my neck, her pom-poms still in her hands, and gave me a moist kiss.
When we finished, I looked around the stands, where fans were still celebrating the victory.
“Brady, what’s the matter?” Barrett asked.
“Have you seen my mom?” I asked.
“I think I spotted her a couple of times from the sidelines,” Barrett said.
“I need to speak with her,” I said, squinting my eyes in hopes of seeing her. I knew she would meet me at my locker room door, but I also knew she would sometimes sit in the stands and savor my team’s victories.
“Is everything all right?” Barrett asked.
“Sure. Sure. I just need to talk with my mother about something. Can I get with you a little later?”
“Is it about that agent she met with?” Barrett asked.
“What? No, something else,” I said.
“Okay. You want to meet at my place?”
“Yeah, after I talk with my mom.”
“Okay, boo. I’ll see you later,” Barrett said as she gave me a peck on the lips and raced off the field.
After facing over fifty reporters, all with the same “how does it feel?” questions, I headed for the shower. I still hadn’t seen my mom and figured she was at Lowell’s. It was quiet in the locker room, since all my teammates had showered and headed home. As I lathered my body with soap and shampoo, I thought back to my conversation with Coach Watson and wondered why he would lie about recruiting me. I thought back on all the times my mother and I had shared over the kitchen table talking about what college I would attend. We even framed the first letter I had received, from Grambling University and signed by Coach Doug Williams.
My mother had bought a file cabinet especially for the hundreds of letters that came addressed to Brady Bledsoe and would put them in folders with a list of pros and cons of the programs. I kept an online journal that was run in my school newspaper, and the Atlanta Journal-Constitution even did a story on me when I narrowed my choices down to the five schools I would visit.
As I rinsed my body for a final time, I could picture that file cabinet and all the letters. I remembered the orange and white of the University of Tennessee and Clemson University, and the orange and blue of Auburn University and the Florida Gators, but I knew I had never seen the burnt orange and white from the University of Texas. If the letters really had been sent back, I wanted to know why.
“What are you two talking about?” Lowell asked. He was carrying a silver platter with a pitcher of strawberry lemonade, chips, and salsa. He sat it on the table in front of the swing on his porch. Lowell had sent me a text after the game telling me to come over and that he had solved my Chloe problem. I didn’t ask how, but I was relieved. For days I had checked the Net scared to death I might see my erect penis staring me in the face.
“What Brady is going to wear to New York if he is invited to the Heisman ceremony,” Mom said.
“Don’t you mean when?” Lowell said.
“Come on, guys. I might not even get invited,” I said.
“Not get invited? That is not going to happen,” Mom said.
“How many players are invited?” Lowell asked.
“Five, I think. It depends on how close the vote is,” I said.
“Then you’re in for sure,” Lowell said.
“I was thinking a three-button black tux and a light green shirt, with a gold tie,” Mom said.
“Yeah, school colors. That sounds nice,” Lowell said.
While Mom and Lowell loaded chips and salsa on plates, I thought back to the game and my conversation afterward with Coach Watson. I thought about how the current process of picking an agent would be similar to my high school recruitment. Maybe Coach Watson had made a mistake, but I still wanted to know what had happened.
“Mom, do you remember ever getting any letters from the University of Texas when I was in high school?”
My mother looked at me, startled. She became so rattled that she dropped her plate to the porch floor and chips splattered everywhere.
“Oh crap,” Mom said as she bent down to pick up the chips. “I’m so sorry, Lowell.”
“Don’t worry, I’ll clean that up,” Lowell said as he went into the house.
“Mom, are you all right?” I asked. I reached down and took her hand and lifted her up. I looked at her face, and her expression had changed from one of calm to an anguished look I had never seen.
“I’m fine, Brady. I don’t know what came over me,” she said. There was an impatience in her voice I rarely heard.
“So do you remember getting anything from Texas?”
“Brady, why would you ask me that?”
I told her about my conversation with Coach Watson after the game and that he had told me their letters were sent back.
“Why would he tell you something like that? Texas neve
r sent you anything,” Mom said.
“Are you sure?”
“Brady! What did I say?” My mother raised her voice at me for the first time in I don’t know how long. It was obvious my questions about Texas were making her angry, but I didn’t know why.
“I’m going in the house to see if I can help Lowell find that broom and dustpan,” Mom said as she rushed off.
CHAPTER
17
Barrett Meets Mr. Big
Dear Diary,
Tonight Nico left me a message and told me to expect a surprise this evening at a certain time. Sure enough, almost to the minute there was a knock at my door. I looked out to make sure it wasn’t Maybelline, and I see this really fine man standing there, so I open the door.
He asked me if my name is Barrett. I tell him “yes” and he hands me a silver box and tells me Nico sent him.
I can’t stop staring at this man. His face is so smooth, almost too beautiful for a man, yet he was decidedly masculine. I asked him who he is and in a gentle voice he said, “Kilgore.” And then he disappeared into the night.
I stood in my foyer and wondered who this mystery man was and then I remembered I had a gift to open.
I ripped open the box and out fell a beautiful silk daffodil-yellow and pale pink peignoir set with a note from Nico that said, Dear Love…This should do the trick…
The next day, Barrett bounced through the lobby of her well-appointed condo building on the way to the gym and spotted a tall, handsome black man looking in her direction. He was smiling, which didn’t surprise her because men always smiled when they saw her coming. Maybe it was her perfect smile? Or the perky twins? Barrett thought she would have a little fun before starting her workout, so she did a playful drop it like it’s hot move with the towel she’d brought to use at the gym.
She could feel the man staring at her firm yet plump ass, so she remained bent over for almost fifteen seconds before turning around and asking him if he lived in the building.
“No, I don’t, but I suspect you do. That boy always does things first class,” he said.
“I just moved here,” Barrett said, ignoring his last statement and moving in closer. The first thing she noticed, besides the expertly tailored navy blue suit, were his eyes. His steel-gray eyes with green rims were so piercing, she thought they could see right through and read everything that was going on inside her—the joy she got from flirting with good-looking guys, but also the pain she’d caused unsuspecting young men seeking their first serious relationship. From the way he filled out his suit, Barrett knew he’d been an athlete at some point in his life.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Barrett. Barrett Elizabeth Manning,” she said.
“Any relation to Archie Manning and his boys, Peyton and Eli?” he asked.
“You mean the professional football players. They’re white,” Barrett said.
“But you know who they are, which I find interesting but not surprising. Were you born with that name, or did somebody give it to you?” he asked.
“Excuse me? You’re asking a lot of questions, so now I’m going to ask a few. What’s your name?” Barrett said.
“John.”
“Do you have a last name, John?”
“You’re one of Nico’s girls, aren’t you?” His voice had changed from friendly to firm and businesslike.
“What’s a Nico?” Barrett asked, wondering how the handsome stranger knew about the man she loved. Maybe he had been sent by Nico to check up on her.
“Don’t toy with me, Barrett Manning. If that’s really your name. You look like the type of young lady Nico would put on a college campus. I could have spotted you a football field away with your perfect breasts, long hair, flawless skin, and that unmistakable aura of a professional gold digger.”
Barrett looked at him, puzzled and troubled. He did have Nico’s MO down to a tee, and now she was determined to let him know he wasn’t right.
“You must have me confused, John, but thanks for the compliments since you described me correctly, minus the gold digger part. I don’t know who your friend Nico is,” Barrett said.
“He’s not my friend and I’m not his,” John said. “And trust me when I say he’s not yours either, but you’ll find that out soon enough. But let me give you a bit of advice so you won’t end up like Brittany and Katie. Get your shit and run before you end up in jail like some of his other girls. You’re very pretty and won’t last long in the joint. But if you don’t stop what you’re doing, I’ll tell Brady and his mother what you’re really up to, and I think you know Nico won’t like it if you fail.”
And then he walked out the door, leaving Barrett with her mouth open and her beautiful body visibly shaking.
Barrett took a few moments to compose herself. She was debating if she should go to the gym or up to her condo when John walked back into the building. Barrett quickly headed in the opposite direction, but she could feel him close by and wondered for the first time if he was dangerous.
“Barrett,” he called out to her.
“What do you want with your crazy ass?” Barrett said as she turned around to confront him. One thing she’d learned from Lita was to never run away from a fight, even if it was with a man twice her size.
“Here’s my card. And don’t forget to ask Nico about Katie and Brittany—they should be up for parole real soon.”
The man left again and Barrett stood holding a business card that read:
John Basil Henderson, XJI, Inc., President and Founding Partner.
CHAPTER
18
Carmyn’s Confessions
It was a beautiful Sunday afternoon. Lowell and I had just finished a brunch of fried chicken wings and waffles, scrambled eggs, and fruit salad. I was on my second mimosa when Lowell looked at me and asked, “So what happened between you and Brady last night?”
“What are you talking about?” I asked. I wanted to avoid this conversation, even though Brady’s questions had caused me a restless night. All I wanted to do was get in my car and drive to Atlanta and get in my bed.
“Well, if I’m not mistaken, it looked like you two were having a disagreement. And then you dropped those chips like they were covered in cyanide. Do you want to talk about it?”
“There is nothing to talk about. A coach from Texas told Brady that someone had sent his recruitment letters back,” I said, hoping Lowell would leave it at that.
“Why would someone do that?”
“I don’t know what that man was talking about,” I said as I sliced in half the single strawberry on my plate and then plopped it into my mouth.
“Can I ask you something else?” Lowell said as he poured hot coffee into his half-filled cup.
“What?”
“Do you think we’re too old to fall in love?”
“Damn, Lowell, you make it sound like we’re in our sixties. We haven’t even made forty yet. Why the questions about love?”
Lowell sipped his coffee for a few moments, then turned and faced me directly and said, “If I told you something really hush-hush, would you keep it to yourself?”
“Of course I would. Lowell, how long have we known each other? Anything you tell me will stay between you and me,” I said.
“You promise?”
“I promise. Lowell, come on. Tell me,” I pleaded.
“I think I might be falling in love,” he said.
“That’s great.”
“It might not be,” he said softly.
“Why not?”
“Well, he’s young.”
“How young?”
“He’s twenty-four, but he’s very mature,” Lowell said.
“Does he have a name?”
“Yeah, but his age isn’t the only problem.”
“I’m listening,” I said as I poured more champagne into my fluted glass. I could tell this was going to be good, and a little buzz would make Lowell’s news even better.
“He’s one of my
students.”
“Stop it!” I shouted as I hit the dining table with my flat hand.
“I know. Isn’t that horrible?”
“What about your rule?”
“Carmyn, he’s is so damn fine I just couldn’t stop myself,” Lowell said with a swoon in his voice. “He came to my office at the beginning of the school year to get an override for my class. When I first saw him, my heart started beating fast and my neck and forehead started to sweat. He’s built like an Adonis and has these blue-green eyes like Vanessa Williams. Matter of fact, they look like they could be kin.”
“What’s his name?”
“Kilgore Roberts.”
“That’s a different name,” I said.
“Oh, he’s something else. He came to class the first week wearing a tight-fitting shirt and slacks. He didn’t wear those baggy jeans most of my male students wear. You know, hanging down on the butts. Kilgore would be the first one in class and the last one to leave. The one thing he did do, that the boys do, is hold on to his stuff.”
“So how did you know he was gay?”
“I didn’t. But during the second week of school he came to my office under the guise of asking what he could do for extra credit.”
“Extra credit my ass,” I said, laughing. I might have put too much champagne in my glass. I rarely drank, and when I did, it usually gave me the giggles or a loose tongue.
“Exactly. The next thing I knew, we were on top of my desk, kissing like we were supplying the other with lifesaving oxygen. If any of my other students had walked in on us, let’s just say it wouldn’t have been good. And then I just did something real silly.”
“What did you do?”
“I gave him my address and asked him to come after ten. I told him the back door would be open. That evening, I heard the back door open and it was on. I felt like I was twenty years old again.”
“So you think you’re falling in love with him?”
Just Too Good to Be True Page 17