Rookie Mistake

by Tracey Ward

  An Offensive Line Novel

  By Tracey Ward

  An Offensive Line Novel

  By Tracey Ward

  Text Copyright © 2016 Tracey Ward

  All Rights Reserved

  All Rights Reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the author, except as used in book review.

  This is a work of fiction. Characters, names, places, events or incidents are products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to places or incidents is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  LAWLESS Preview

  TREY DOMATA

  SCOUTING REPORT

  Position: Quarterback

  Height: 6-4 Weight: 224 Age: 21

  Born: Oahu, HI

  College: UCLA

  High School: Pearl City High School

  Draft Declaration: November 28th

  Awards

  SENIOR YEAR:

  Heisman Trophy

  Manning Award

  All-Conference 1st Team

  Academic All-Conference

  CFPA Quarterback Trophy

  Polynesian CF Player of the Year

  Sports Illustrated Cover (November 10)

  JUNIOR YEAR:

  Maxwell Award

  Sports Illustrated Cover (September 29)

  Manning Award

  Davey O’Brien Award

  Johnny Unitas Golden Arm Award

  SOPHOMORE YEAR:

  Sports Illustrated Cover (December 2)

  Maxwell Award

  Associated Press Player of the Year

  Records

  Single Season Total Touchdowns

  61

  Passes Attempted w/out Interception

  349

  Career Total Passing Yards

  10,805

  Career Passing Touchdowns

  102

  January 8th

  College Football National Championship

  Miami, Florida

  “You’re runnin’ outta time!”

  88, 42, 25, 13, 57, 21

  “Come out of the pocket, you pussy!”

  Waters, Berdette, Cummings, Defoe, Fredericks, Folk.

  “You sweatin’ yet, Domata?!”

  I’m not. There are eleven reasons in red that I should be, over a thousand pounds of angry Alabama defense shouting at me over the line of scrimmage, but I’m not sweating. I’m not scared, and I have only six reasons why I shouldn’t be.

  88, 42, 25, 13, 57, 21

  Waters, Berdette, Cummings, Defoe, Fredericks, Folk.

  This is my offensive line. This is my family. My first, last, and only line of defense.

  It’s all I need.

  ‘Bama hasn’t been able to touch me all night. Not one single sack. It’s pissing them off. I can see it in their eyes burning like fire; like the torches of an enemy camp. They want to burn me to the ground. They want to shut me down, but they should have done it sooner because now they’re out of time. This next play is the last play. The last play of the game, the last play of the season. The last play of my college career.

  Alabama 28 - UCLA 24.

  4th and Goal.

  Thirteen seconds on the clock.

  This is when quarterbacks crumble. Interceptions happen in crunch time. Nightmares are born in the Red Zone. In ’09 Bates threw high, bouncing it off the goal post; cost Texas the BCS title. In ’97 Griffith passed right into the hands of a cornerback; Stanford lost the Rose Bowl on the resulting 92 yard touchdown. Hassleback in ’94. Gensing in ’03. Yates last year at the Fiesta Bowl.

  Choke. Choke. Choke.

  The magnitude of the moment is too much for so many.

  But not for me.

  I crouch down, opening my hands to take the pass from Cummings the same way I’ve done a million times over the last four years, because this play is no different than any other. I’ll run it the same way I always have. Calm. Cool. Precise.

  I take a deep breath. I call for the snap.

  My heart is a metronome.

  Tick…The ball is in my hands…Tick…The line of scrimmage is a war zone…Tick…My receivers are on the move…Tick…Capshaw breaks loose…Tick…My pocket is gone…Tick…Capshaw is in the end zone.

  I pull up, planting my feet. In my peripheral I see chaos closing in. Red rushing at me. I feel them crowding me, but I take my time. I milk every second to make sure I’m right, and when I rear back to launch the ball down the field only inches ahead of Capshaw, I know it’s good. I can feel it in the release; it’s a perfect spiral.

  It’s a touchdown.

  I feel it as sure as the air in my lungs.

  As sure as the lineman crashing into my right side.

  As sure as the bones breaking in my hand.

  January 9th

  The Ashford Agency

  Los Angeles, CA

  I perch on the arm of the white couch in Brad’s office. He’s miles away with a call on the other side of the country, on the other side of the room, the other side of the shining sea of black floor between us. The monochromatic surfaces of his office are dappled in watercolor pinks and grays from the coming dawn pouring in through the windows, and still it looks cold somehow. It must be the hour. It’s ungodly early. We’ve barely slept, but no one does this time of year. No one in the business, anyway.

  Last night was the final game of college football, meaning today is the first day of work for sports agents like myself and Brad Ashford, King of Killer Agents in L.A.; also known on Christmas cards as my dad. He started the Ashford Agency where I’ve been a junior agent for the last two years, but this is my year. This is the year I’ll land the client that will get me on the books. Get me out of Brad’s shadow.

  This is the year all of my hard work finally pays off.

  Brad hangs up the phone. Without missing a beat, he commands, “Talk to me about the hit on Domata. Do we have an update on his hand?”

  “It was bad,” I confirm, the info locked and loaded. “A late hit by Alabama’s biggest defensive tackle. He pulverized Domata. Almost knocked him unconscious. It’s not fractured, he doesn’t need surgery, but he’ll be in a splint for at least a month. Maybe longer.”

  Brad sits back slowly in his large leather chair. He laces his fingers together over his chest in that way he does when he’s thinking. When he’s plotting.

  “Damn shame,” he mutters to himself.

  “He’ll heal,” I remind him defensively.

  “Not in time for the NFL Combine.”

  “He can do practically all of the drills with a broken hand.”

  “That doesn’t matter. Do you know what bothers me most?”

  I have a hunch.

  “He. Can’t. Pass.”


  Yep, I think morosely. That’s it. And it bothers me too.

  “No, but he’ll go anyway,” I promise.

  Brad chuckles dryly. “He got an invite. He’d be an idiot not to, but the fact that he can’t throw is going to kill his draft stock.”

  “We don’t know that for sure. He’s been on everyone’s radar all year. He has hours of highlight reel. Coaches will remember that.”

  “Not while they’re staring at twenty other quarterbacks making a showing at the Combine. He’ll be over in the corner licking his wounds, being forgotten.”

  “Not if we remind them who he is.”

  He looks at me hard, his gaze appraising. “He’s been your pick from the start of the season, I know that, Sloane, but you have to be realistic. The kid got hurt at the worst possible time. He would have gone number three or four in the Draft, but he’s looking at having a splint on his hand at the Combine and a half-ass, rehab showing at UCLA’s Pro Day. Not to mention people had reservations about how well he’d fit in at the NFL level to start with.”

  “You have reservations. You said he’s not aggressive enough.”

  “He’s sunk,” Brad tells me plainly. “He’ll be lucky to draft in the second round.”

  “Are you saying we aren’t going to sign him?” I ask calmly, my blood pressure rising.

  He turns to gaze pensively out the window, but I know it for what it really is; a tactic. A stall. He’s making me sweat as he takes in the sprawling Los Angeles skyline banked in smog. A cloud of pollution hangs low over the streets twenty-eight stories below us like fog on a lake. When I was a teenager and I’d visit him here, dreaming of the day when I’d be just like him, I’d stare out those windows for hours watching people move like ants below. A lot has changed in my perspective since then, but one thing I know for sure; Dad still sees ants.

  “You’ve been following him all year,” he muses. “Give me three good reasons why we should bank on him and I’ll consider it.”

  “Heisman,” I reply immediately.

  Brad raises one finger in the air, counting.

  I stand, rising to the challenge, because if he thinks I can’t give him a million reasons to bet on Trey Domata, let alone three, he’s out of his mind.

  I started tracking Trey during my sophomore year at Stanford. He was only a freshman at UCLA back then. A red shirt not allowed off the bench, but I knew what he had. I knew what he was capable of. I got ahold of his high school tapes, I memorized his every stat. I watched him make his debut the next year where he systematically blew everyone’s minds playing the high-pressure position of quarterback like a seasoned vet. I was there when he led UCLA to a decisive 38-17 victory over my Cardinals in our own stadium. The crowd went wild in anger against him, but I stood in the middle of it all and I smiled. I watched Trey walk through the crowd on the field, breaking the sea like Moses to seek out our coach, to shake his hand with a genuine grin. He was calm, composed, his mocha brown skin shimmering in the sunlight like gold. Like the ticket to everything I’d ever wanted.

  I knew then that I wanted to sign him. Even before I graduated from college, before I was hired on at my dad’s firm, before he won half his awards or broke a fraction of his records, I knew Trey Domata was exactly the big name waiting to happen that I needed to make my mark at the Ashford Agency. And now here we are, the day after his final college game when it’s finally legal to court him, and Brad is pumping the brakes.

  “One hundred and two passing touchdowns. Fourteen interceptions total for his college career.”

  Brad adds another finger.

  I scowl at him. “That was two.”

  “I want the real reason you’re so hung up on him, because if it’s just stubbornness, I’m not signing him. You’ve had your heart set on landing Domata for months and if you can’t let that go for emotional reasons, then your judgement is clouded and you’re not half the agent I thought you could be. We sign all-stars here. Men who can make money for themselves, for us, and for franchises. I say Domata is dead in the water, not because he can’t recover from his injury but because he can’t make a splash in front of coaches at the Combine. You say he can. Tell me why.”

  I can’t tell him why. I can’t explain the feeling I get in my gut when I look at Trey Domata. The rush of adrenaline when I see him play, the ghost of a grin when I hear his voice in interviews. The warmth of pride that spreads through my chest when I watch the play collapse around him and he stands there in the middle of madness, cool as ice. I’ve never met him, never spoken to him, but I know Trey will be great. I know it in my blood, but I can’t tell that to my dad. He’ll never understand that and he definitely won’t sign a lame horse based on my feelings.

  Brad curls his fingers into his palm, shaking his head slowly. “He’ll get picked up by an agent today, Sloane,” he consoles me coolly, “but it won’t be us.”

  I purse my lips, feeling my temper flare. Feeling my dream slip through my fingers onto the floor at my feet. “Okay,” I grind out.

  “Get with travel. Start making plans for the trip to Indianapolis for the Combine. How many clients do we have attending this year?”

  “Without Trey?” I ask bitterly. “Two.”

  His brow tightens. “Two then. I’ll be on Larkin. Hollis will be with Reed. You can either shadow me or Hollis. Your choice.”

  “I choose Hollis.”

  “Fine.”

  Brad sits forward, bringing his laptop to life.

  I take that as my dismissal.

  My heels click loudly on the hardwood floor leading out into the hall. They snap decisively with each step as I trudge my way to my office on the far side of the building. It’s a long, angry walk to the other side of the world, the office size shrinking with every step.

  Everyone thought when I got hired straight out of college that I’d be Daddy’s Little Girl. That he’d give me the best office, the best clients, the best salary in the business. That’s bullshit, though. That’s not my dad. He’s running a business here and if I can’t prove myself just like every other agent in this building, I’m out. I’m on my ass. If anything, I have to work harder because I’m his daughter. He doesn’t want to hand me anything, and if he tried I wouldn’t take it. I want to make my own name in this business. I even considered changing my last name to my mom’s maiden name, but she pitched a fit. Apparently once she left the low income Greenes behind, she never had any intention of looking back. Ever.

  Hollis is waiting in my office. He spins around in my chair dramatically, a bottle of champagne in his hands, a smile on his lips.

  It fades the second he sees me. “Oh no.”

  “Oh yeah,” I growl low and angry, pulling the white oak door closed behind me.

  “What happened?”

  “You get one guess.”

  Hollis stands; tall, thin, impeccably dressed, and surreptitiously gay. His sexual orientation is nowhere in his appearance. It’s not in his speech, not in the way he handles himself. Not in his clothes or his carelessly mussed black hair. If you sat him down at a table with any straight guy in the city and told a stranger to play Find the Gay, they’d pick the other guy. Every time. Hollis is that kind of sleeper. He’s that scared of being found out.

  He frowns knowingly. “He shot you down.”

  “With both guns.”

  “Because of his hand?”

  “Because he’s an old hack who doesn’t follow his instincts anymore.”

  “I think we’re talking about different people.”

  I sigh, running my hand through my long, blond hair. “Yeah, because of Domata’s hand. Dad thinks it’s going to kill his draft stock because he can’t perform for the coaches and scouts at the Combine. He’ll probably be weak at Pro Day too.”

  “He’s got a point.”

  I glare at him. “Don’t you start too.”

  Hollis raises his hands in surrender, the unopened bottle of champagne still in his left hand. “Hey, I’m with you. I think Domata’s got talen
t for days. The coaches know that. They know a guy can recover from an injury.”

  “But…”

  He lowers his hands slowly. “I also think you can be forgotten in the excitement of the Combine. Including Domata, there are twenty-two quarterbacks going to Indianapolis next month. All of them heavily scouted. Maybe Domata was a draw before, but if he can’t prove himself by April, I see him drafting third round. Second at best.”

  I collapse in defeat on my couch. “That’s what Dad says.”

  “Great men and all that shit.”

  “Yeah.”

  Hollis sits down slowly, clunking the heavy bottle of bubbly down on my desk. “You still want him, don’t you?”

  “So fucking bad!” I cry in frustration. I sit forward, my elbows on the knees of my black linen slacks. “He’s the real deal, Hollis. I swear to God. He’s got the skill and the strength, but it’s his mentality that’s absolutely killer. He has ice in his veins and a computer in his brain. He processes situations like lightning. It’s unreal. And he never quits on a play. It’s not dead to him until the whistle blows. You can’t teach that. That’s instinct. It’s the stuff the greats are made of.”

  “Did you tell your dad that?”

  I snort. “That I can feel it in my gut that Domata’s a god? No. He wouldn’t want to hear it. He wants to see numbers. How far can he throw? How much can he bench? How much can he contract for?”

  “How much do you think he can contract for?” he asks, quizzing me.

  He does this sometimes. When I was first hired Brad paired me with Hollis to be trained. We hit it off immediately and since that day we’ve been inseparable, even when Brad would like us to be. Hollis became my best friend in the world, and even though I’ve been with the agency for two years now I still go to him when I need advice or help with a deal. In return, he plays teacher sometimes for the fun of it, drilling me on stats and figures.

  I never disappoint, especially when it comes to Trey.

  I look to the ceiling, imprinting the numbers in my mind across its blank surface. “If the draft was today I’d say at least eleven million guaranteed in signing bonuses. Probably nineteen mil over four years. The firm would pull a million dollars guaranteed.”