"Hey, I know the Rays are coming in town so I went ahead and paid for you and Liz's room for the next four days," Justin said, adding a wink.
He always was a class act.
I woke up the next morning from the sound of my phone ringing; the screen read 'Scott Kazmir'.
"Hello," I said.
"Where am I?" An extremely confused Kazmir mumbled.
"Um, you're in Miami," I told him.
"Oh," Scott replied, and then immediately hung up.
I realized Kazmir was on something. Weed and alcohol don't make you forget what town you're in; I knew it was something else.
Later that day, BJ told me Kazmir showed up to the field wearing a bathing suit and a t-shirt, instead of the customary suit and tie players are supposed to wear.
The Rays to sent him home before the game even started. After laughing at the thought of him walking into the locker room in a bathing suit, I saw his troubles as a gateway for me to work for him. I'm sure he was now aware he needed to change his ways; I just needed to convince him I was the guy who could do it.
After going to the game, BJ invited us to a club in downtown Miami. The lighting was unusually dark and everyone was wearing white, including all of BJ's teammates.
As Liz and I strutted up to meet BJ, the first person we saw was Longoria, a familiar face. Both sides paused like a deer in the headlights – the awkwardness officially began.
This reminded me of the old adage ... don't bring your girl to the club. It's never fun to bring your significant other to a place filled with hunter-gatherers, but it's especially worse when she used to have a fling with a guy in the same setting.
As if my current situation weren't bad enough, BJ walked up to remind me.
"I bet you wish Liz wasn't here, don't you?" BJ said, which was more of a declaration than a question.
The night eventually ended and I was overcome with relief, but this feeling wouldn't last for long.
"I feel sick," Liz claimed, upon returning to our hotel room the next day after the game.
"You didn't even drink last night," I reminded her.
"I know, it's weird, what if I'm pregnant?" Liz suggested, with a more somber demeanor than I hoped for.
"Yeah, that'd be something," I put forth, while my mind became stricken with anxiety.
"Maybe you should go get a pregnancy test, just incase," Liz conveyed, still maintaining a much-dreaded sober assertiveness.
Even though I never usually wore a condom (actually, I never wore a condom), I thought it was typical female emotional jargon; a ploy to get a rise out of me. It wasn't out of character for her to enact a cunning gambit to keep me attached; she was smart and this alleged ruse correlated with her playbook.
I didn't want to argue and the notion actually made me curious, so I walked down to the local pharmacy and bought not one, but two pregnancy tests.
My mind was moving a mile a minute while I strolled down the main strip and back to the Trump. Certainly, I was stressing myself out for no reason, but I couldn't stop thinking about the possibility. Due to her religious background, I knew Liz was pursuing marriage at a young age, but did she want a kid?
Her face was void of any expression when I returned to the room and unwrapped the packaging on the first test. I glanced back at her with a mirrored pose; we weren't Liz and Brad at the moment, we were mimes.
She exited the bathroom a few minutes later and showed me the test ... it was positive.
I was in shock and rendered speechless – in a cold state of disbelief. She looked at me, equally clueless, with a straight face and puppy dog eyes.
Without hesitation, I reached for the second test and suggestively sanctioned it's use. After going in the bathroom, she reappeared with an identical guise – the test was positive again.
We both sat down on the bed beside one another as we–almost simultaneously–collapsed onto our backs and stared at the ceiling. There was no correspondence; if the next ten minutes were made into a movie, it would undoubtedly be characterized as a silent film.
When something you assume to be life altering occurs, you simply can't predict how you're going to react. I say this as a preface because even though I should have stayed in the room, flight took over.
"I'm going to leave for a little bit and get my thoughts together," I told Liz, breaking the silence while I walked towards the door.
"Nooooooooooooooooo!" Liz shrieked with a waterfall of tears to follow.
I turned around and faced her, hoping she could see how distraught and overwhelmed I was – but she didn't, or she didn't care.
"You better not leave me!" Liz yelled from the corner of the bed, perched up on her knees with her hands placed on each side of her head.
My instinctual nature was telling me to get away and assess the situation calmly. I needed time to think and I needed to do this alone, completely by myself.
I pivoted, taking one step towards the door and she immediately pounced off the bed to stop me. It was a stunningly athletic move; she gained enough ground to grasp onto my right leg – with no intention of letting go.
There she was, sprawled out on the floor, bear-hugging my ankle with her face down. My flight syndrome escalated, I knew matters would only get worse if I stayed; at least that's what I thought. So I started inching myself closer to the door, as she latched on and was seemingly unfazed after migrating across the carpet like a slug.
Finally, I was able to release myself from capture and swiftly moved through the hallway, en route to the elevator.
"Noooooooooooooooooo!" Liz bellowed, while chasing me down the hallway.
As the elevator door closed, I caught a final glimpse of Liz's reddened face and smeared makeup while she broke down to the floor in tears. I felt bad, I truly did.
When I exited the lobby, I tried reassuring myself that I was doing the right thing by calmly coming to terms with our circumstance. It was hard to justify and–whether I was right or wrong–I found it best to do this alone.
I asked the cabbie to take me to the one place where a man can be in his own element, my sanctuary; the casino. My phone was being lit up by non-stop phone calls from Liz, coming from our hotel room (sorry for the phone bill Justin). She called me over 50 times and not one of them were answered.
The last call came from an unknown number, and whoever it was left a voicemail.
"Brad, I don't know what's going on but I think you need to get back to the hotel. Ok, bye," Liz's mom recited.
There was no need to call her back and I didn't call Liz back either. I sat on the blackjack table and attempted to get my mind off the issue, hoping to gain a rational perspective.
After inevitably losing a decent amount of money, it was time to relocate, so I called BJ he said to meet him at the club.
I unconsciously made my way through droves of girls up to a platform above the dance floor, a setting I would have otherwise been excited to be in.
"Where's Liz?" BJ asked, with Longoria just inches behind him.
"She's not feeling well," I told him, dodging the issue.
Normally I could discuss anything with anyone, but this matter was different. Although it was somewhat relieving, I spent most of the night staring out into the sea of people – questioning life itself.
A few hours and another 100 missed phone calls later (really sorry about that phone bill Justin), it was time to return to the hotel.
The room was dark; the only transmittable light was reflected from the moon off the ocean. Liz sat upright in the bed with her hair in a ponytail and her face disconcerted. She sat as if she were reading a book, but she wasn't; she was reading my face.
My time away didn't give me any answers, but it enabled me to at least talk to her, breaking me from my speechless spell.
"I'm sorry for leaving but it was good for me to get away and think about it. It's late and we're both exhausted, can we talk about this tomorrow?" I asked.
Her nose wrinkled up like the Grinch, clearly
displeased with my avoidance, and then she quietly sneered at me before rolling over to go to sleep.
We packed our luggage the next morning and loaded the car for our trip home. We still hadn't discussed our dilemma – suitcases weren't the only baggage we took back to Tampa.
Job with Scott Kazmir
It was a long–and awkward–drive home from Miami. Although one would reasonably assume for the matter to be discussed ... it wasn't. It was a sensitive subject for both of us, but even more so for her – so I chose to wait until she was ready to voice her opinion.
In a relationship, most of us know our words often come back to haunt us. Silence for me, at the time, was golden.
However, my inner thoughts were in full swing.
Piggybacking off a rich girl isn't exactly an admirable path to take to achieve your own success. I may have rich friends but I didn't have a job, my own place, nor did I even have my own car. How could I have a kid?
After self-analyzing and coming to that very conclusion, it was time to get the ball rolling on step one; a job.
Kazmir invited me over to look at his new 2 million dollar top-floor penthouse condo on Harbour Island, which overlooked downtown Tampa.
He walked me through each room, which I labeled the 'tour on marble floor' while he tried to avoid coming off as boastful or excited about his new domain.
"You don't have to hold back your smile, this place is fucking sick," I told him, which triggered a release of enthusiasm and put him at ease.
There were two bedrooms; the living room and kitchen in between each, occupying the vast majority of square footage.
Eight-oversized glass paneled windows stretched throughout the living room perimeter, leading to a colossal balcony with views reaching as far as Raymond James Stadium (which is not close by any means).
One wall was adorned with painted-red alligator skin, and another–beside the pool table and arcade–was custom made with $30,000 worth of bamboo.
Each closet in each bedroom was stuffed with Nike gear, mink covers on the bed, alpaca carpets, a sink with neon blue or red lights (depending on the temperature of the water) and showers sprinkling down from the ceiling.
I was delighted enough just to be there, but my day was about to get better. Scott asked me to join him on the balcony for a sit-down, a meeting of sorts, 21 floors above the city.
"Do you want to work for me?" Scott asked.
"Yeah, only because I think I can help you," I told him, which he seemed to appreciate.
"Ok, I'm going to pay you $2,500 in cash per month, but you have a lot of responsibilities," Scott advised.
"Which are?" I responded.
"You have to be my personal trainer, manager, assistant, driver and anything else I ask of you ... you also have to be on call 24-7," Scott asserted.
"That's fine with me," I replied.
"I have two more perks, I'm going to give you the keys to the Escalade and let you stay in my other apartment," Scott revealed, wrapping up our firstbut not lastbusiness meeting.
I guess the text message Liz relayed to him did the trick, no longer was I working 'scott-free'.
This would be my last night going back to BJ's house and although it was fun, my days as Dupree came to an end. The condo where I initially met Scott two years earlier ... was now mine. I also drove a brand new Escalade on 22-inch rims, but Scott wouldn't miss it; his all-black 2005 Ferrari 430 was there when he needed to drive.
From an outsider's perspective, I went from bum to businessman in about 5 minutes. I knew he was doing this for a reason, and it was because he wanted a return on his investment. Deep down, Scott cared about his performance and he really did need someone to hold him accountable ... so I went to work right away.
The first step was ordering workout gear. After he made the all-star team, Nike upped his contract and gave him an account on NikeElite.com, a website where he could order up to $25,000 in gear per year, free of charge. Oddly enough, out of everything Scott had, this was the aspect I envied the most.
He placed a MacBook air on his granite countertop, logged in his account and let me have at it. I ordered shoes, shirts, shorts, socks, medicine balls, weighted vests, water bottles, stretching cords, stopwatches, gym bags and headbands. I was locked in, this was the first time (but not the last) I had an adrenaline rush from being on the computer. I'm sure it would have been different if he were required to pay for it, but he didn't, it was free of charge!
"Anything else you want to add?" I asked, after showing him the online shopping cart.
"Add some soccer goalie gloves, I've always wanted a pair," Scott said, followed by my own evil rich-guy laughter.
A few short days later, everything we ordered arrived in boxes in front of the door it was too good to be true, much like the job I currently held.
Not only did we look sharp and professional with all this new gear, but it also gave Scott a reason to workout; which rarely happened. He grew somewhat lazy after receiving his contract and although I couldn't put myself in his figurative shoes, I could berate him into putting on his literal shoes ... to run.
I packed up the gym bag with all of our accessories and we took the elevator down to the weight room – it officially began.
The first hour consisted of lightweight shoulder exercises, stretching, leg presses and an abs routine. During the second hour, we hit the streets running, crossing over one bridge to mainland Tampa and returning on the other. Not only was this good for his conditioning, it was also great for his PR appeal. On the flip side, after lagging behind his consistent and personally unobtainable pace; my PR was taking a hit.
We continued doing this methodically, to the point where I no longer needed to chide him into doing it because he could feel the results, but not yet see if they transferred over to his performance on the field.
He remained on the DL for the time being, nonetheless, I still drove him to the field for each game. This is a time when I realized the college baseball mindset is much different from the MLB mindset; a fact highlighted when Lebron James came around to play the Orlando Magic.
"Come pick me up," Scott texted, during the fifth inning.
"For what? I thought you had to stay," I fired back.
"Never mind that, I got us first row tickets to the Cavs-Magic playoff game ... come pick me up," he explained.
He exited the stadium with his head held low, attempting to avoid being detected during his early escape (although I'm sure his teammates noticed he was no longer in the dugout). After an hour or so on the road, we arrived in Orlando just in time for the start of the game.
We took our seats directly behind the scorer's table. I immediately looked up in amazement at the daunting display of blue lights and the cluster of white towels being waved around by rambunctious fans.
BJ showed up with Stephanie just before halftime, shaking his head in disgust over Scott's dugout disappearance as they sat down. Once the second quarter finished, the four of us went to a VIP lounge where we rubbed elbows with the rapper Plies (who is smaller than T.I.) and were introduced to Tim Tebow (who most athletes despise, due to his unmatchable reputation).
Then, in the third quarter, Lebron began to flop. My anger grew each time he went down the court and passed the ball to his subpar teammates. I couldn't fathom why he wasn't taking control of the game and I got a chance to let him know when he leaned against the scorer's table.
"Shoot the damn ball Lebron!" I yelled, after standing up and leaning in.
He instantly began laughing with his teammate and then quickly turned around, looking me right in the eyes. I guess he wanted to put a face on his heckler – I really just wanted him to shoot the damn ball.
"Hey, I see you on TV!" Liz texted.
"Really?" I asked, previously unaware of this possibility.
"Yeah, why didn't you invite me?" she asked.
"I didn't know we were going, sorry," I told her.
The truth is my job with Kazmir gave me very little
time to be around her. It's not like we were growing apart, because we never stopped texting (and I mean never ), but we still hadn't discussed the situation that arose in Miami; which I found to be extremely odd, almost troublesome.
I mean who gets pregnant and then doesn't talk it over with their partner?† My silence strategy was still in effect but it was beginning to feel like a game of risk; with neither side making a move. To be honest, she waited so long I started to question the validity of the tests, but I couldn't or wouldn't dare say it.
Before the game was over, I told Liz I would call her when I got back, but then my phone was stolen at the blackjack table after we stopped at the casino. I told her the next day but I'm not sure if she even believed me. There was mutual distrust and our bubble was about to burst, I just never imagined it would have happened ... the way it happened.
The Rays were traveling to New York for a series against the Yankees the following weekend and interestingly enough, Liz informed me that she and her cousin were taking the trip as well.
The ominous red flag, which should have presented itself when she first announced her itinerary, didn't appear until Kazmir was gone and I was sitting in the penthouse all by myself.
"Just saw Liz in the lobby," BJ texted me, which was cryptic, although I didn't pick up on it at the time.
"Yeah, she's up there with her cousin," I replied, to which he didn't respond, another indicator I failed to notice.
She returned three days later and invited me to sit third row behind home plate at the next home game, her parents coveted seats. Call it a sixth sense or–if you picked up on the clues unlike me–call it blatantly fucking obvious ... but I knew something was up.
I grew up playing video games with my brothers religiously, and it was always a competition of who could outwit the other; often by cheating. Whenever one of them was bending the rules, I could always sense it on their face, it was an indicator they were attempting to pull the wool over my eyes. As I sat beside Liz, I saw the very same look on her cheeky dolled up face.
Now it was all a question of how to handle it. I chose to ask her subtle questions before revealing my suspicions, this way I could reference her answers once my cover was blown. It would also require some acting of my own.
Player Season: The Pickup Artist Who Hacked Nike Page 11