by Tracey Ward
“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.”
“But the draft isn’t until April.”
I fall back into my seat on a sigh. “By April, if he can’t make a mark at the Combine I’d agree that he’s second round. He’s not gonna get a signing bonus bigger than two million. Five over four years. The firm wouldn’t see more than two hundred thousand of that.”
“An eight hundred thousand dollar pay cut,” Hollis clarifies for me. “That’s the number your dad sees. And it’s a big one.”
“He’s wrong to pass on Domata,” I argue uselessly, unwilling to give up. Unable to call the play dead. Not until the whistle blows and Trey signs with another agent. “He’ll be huge someday. Another Brett Favre or Peyton Manning and Brad’s passing on him because Trey’s having a bad hair day.”
Hollis stands to come around my desk, offering me a hand to help me up. I take it grudgingly.
“You know what you’ve gotta do, right?” he asks.
“Go behind my dad’s back and sign him anyway?”
“You could, but you’d pay for it. So would Trey.”
“So what do I do?”
“You find another angle. One your dad will understand.”
He squeezes my hand encouragingly before turning to head for the door.
I gape at him. “What the shit was that?!”
He pauses. “What?”
“What you just said. What angle? What am I supposed to do, Yoda?”
Hollis shrugs his shoulders lightly. “I have no clue. But you’re smart. You’ll figure it out.”
“Are you for real? That’s your advice? ‘Figure it out’?”
“Basically.”
I groan, burying my face in my hands. “Oh my God, you’re worse than useless.”
“And yet I still make more money than you. Weird.”
I point to the door. “Get out.”
He laughs, unimpressed with my hostility. “Lunch later?”
“Sure, but you’re buying, Moneybags.”
When Hollis is gone I sit at my computer for an hour. I watch the last quarter of the National Championship game over and over again. I watch it on every website Google says it’s playing on. ESPN, Fox Sports, CBS College Sports, NBC Sports, The PAC-12 Network, and The NFL. Every single one of them is streaming the highlights of the game on their homepage, and all of them have commentary. Different guys from different networks, but what they’re all saying is the same thing – Trey Domata has the coolest head on a quarterback anyone has seen in years. He saw a world of hurt closing in on him in the form of Alabama’s massive defensive line, yet he set his feet, held his ground, and made a rocket pass into the end zone that landed in the waiting hands of Eric Capshaw.
Touchdown.
The UCLA Bruins are the National Champions of College Football.
“You saw it coming,” I whisper to the screen, watching him take that brutal hit for the twelfth time today. “You knew it would hurt but you didn’t run. You took it for the win. You wanted it that bad.”
The final moments after the game are rolling. The crowd is on the field but the situation is somber. Medics are with Domata. He’s still on the ground, still dazed, but he’s clutching his right arm. Cradling that right hand. No one knew yet how bad it was.
Finally they get him on his feet. He’s wobbly but he’s up, and when he raises his left arm into the air, pumping it once for the crowd, they go crazy. They start chanting his name. His teammates swarm around him, creating a moving wall of man to keep him covered as they walk him to the tunnel. They’re protecting him even now, even when the game and their time as a team are over. They stay with him because they love him. Because they’d follow him anywhere, do anything for him.
Just like he’d do anything for them.
“You didn’t do it for the win,” I breathe, watching him disappear into the tunnel with his team. “You beautiful, selfless son of a bitch. You did it for the team.”
That’s why he risked everything to take that hit – for his team. He did it because he was their captain and he was determined to go down with the ship. He did it because Domata is not in it for himself or the money or the fame. He does it for the family. He does it for the love of the game.
I hate him for that. I hate him because it’s beautiful. It’s noble.
And it makes me want to sign him more than ever.
I sit back in my seat, staring at my screen. All of the links are up. All of them running on repeat, that final play happening over and over again across the screen. Across the nation, because this is what the fans are thinking about. Not his hand or what it means for his salary. They’re talking about the win. Trey Domata is a household name today. They love him. He’s a rock star, a poster boy for football inside every home in America. And he could be seen there holding the right beverage, wearing the right gear, eating the right food – all for the right price.
Domata might not be in it for the money, but I know at least one man who is.
I open an e-mail to my dad, copy all six links from all six websites, and send it to him with one word in the message. The one and only reason I can give him to sign on a gamble.
#3 – Endorsements
CHAPTER THREE
TREY
February 26th
Magnolia Apartments
Los Angeles, CA
4.72 seconds.
Over the last four days, ten quarterbacks have already tested and drilled in the first group to attend the Combine, and so far 4.72 seconds is the fastest time any of them could run the 40 yard dash. Earlier today my roommate and center on the field, Cummings, clocked me at 4.64. My group leaves for the Combine tomorrow, and if I can hold onto that time I’ll be one of the fastest QBs to test.
“What else is left?” Cummings grunts, flopping down on the couch next to me.
I glance over, doing a double take. I groan in disgust.
“Jesus, man, where are your pants?”
Cummings looks down at his stark white thighs protruding thick as tree trunks from his orange boxers. “I’m wearing underwear,” he protests.
“Barely.”
“This isn’t church. This is my apartment. I can wear what I want.”
“If I see your dick I’m punching it.”
“I’ll kick your ass if you do.”
He’s talking shit, but I’d hate to see it come to that. Cummings is six feet, five inches of pure mass. I’ve seen him mess up guys almost a hundred pounds heavier than me, and I have no desire to know what that feels like.
He nods to the TV. “Here comes Larkin.”
I turn back just in time to see Andre Larkin, a running back from Ohio State, step up to the line. He’s about to run the 40 and I have no doubt in my mind his time will be better than mine. Normally it wouldn’t bother me because he’s not a quarterback, but he and I have been neck and neck, bouncing back and forth around each other in the Draft projections for the number three and four slots, and if he’s made a strong appearance at the Combine these last four days he’s bound to leap frog me solidly into that number three slot. It shouldn’t feel like a big deal. It’s one slot, and if I make a strong appearance at the Combine when my turn comes, I’ll get that distance between us down to nothing again. Besides, I’ve been labeled as the number four pick before. But it’s a step back, and with my injury holding me down, any backslide feels like quicksand under my feet.
“He’s been killing it so far,” I admit grudgingly.
“He looks good. Tight.”
I flex my hand inside my splint, feeling a pinch in the joint on my index finger. “If you get a hard on, I’m leaving.”
“I might,” Cummings fires back shamelessly. “Look at that dude. I think he had calf implants.”
“He’s been at a Combine training camp since January. The agency sent him.”
His brow furrows. “Brad Ashford is his agent too, right?”
“Yeah.”
“He signed you and Larkin at the same time. Why didn’t he send you to camp?”
I look at him wryly, holding up my splint.
“Right, yeah,” he mumbles. “I forgot.”
Larkin takes his position. He waits for the call, then he’s off like a shot. Like a bullet out of a gun.
When they post his time, it’s no surprise.
4.58
“Fuck.”
Cummings looks at me sideways. “You know what you need to do.”
“Don’t say get laid. Don’t say get laid,” I chant quietly, my eyes on the TV. On that time. Tie a steak to my ass and let a lion loose behind me, and I still couldn’t run that fast.
“You need to get laid.”
I drop my head in defeat. “Let it go, dude.”
“You haven’t had a piece of trim in months! It’s fucked up.”
“I’m trying to focus.”
“You’re focusing yourself right back into virginity.”
“I don’t think that’s how it works.”
“If you don’t use your dick, it will fall off. Scientific fact, bro.”
I laugh. “I’m not taking scientific facts from a guy who failed chemistry.”
“Man, fuck you,” he barks angrily. “You know that professor had it in for me.”
“I know you tried to ask her out and she shut you down.”
“Yeah, and she was a bitch to me for the rest of the term.”
“Don’t tousle with a cougar if you can’t handle the claws.”
“Shut up,” he grumbles.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table. Amber eyes and chocolate hair.
I silence it without answering.
“They’re doing the shuttle run next,” I tell Cummings.
“What’s your time on that?”
“4.2.”
He hisses through his teeth. “Not great.”
“I know. It’s my worst test.”
“Do you wanna go run it again? See if you can shave your time down?”
My phone buzzes again. Same eyes. Same hair.
I give it the same answer. Silence.
“No. I’m taking today off, remember?”
“Then you should stop watching this. You’re torturing yourself.”
“I need to know what I’m up against,” I reply stubbornly.
“Your call, but you know what I think you should be doing.”
My phone dings with a new text message.
“And it’s her,” he adds, pointing to my phone. “Tish. You need to hit it and quit it before you get on the plane tomorrow. Get your head right, ‘cause you’re a mess right now.”
I flip my phone over, hiding her face. “I’m not a mess.”
“You’re jittery. You’re doing that thing you do when you can’t control shit. Same kind of crazy you got when you were waiting for the bowl games to start.”
I fall back into the couch with a sigh, running my left hand over my face. “Sex isn’t going to help that,” I lie.
“It couldn’t hurt.”
If only he knew how wrong he is.
It’s not that I don’t want to have sex. He has no fucking idea how bad I want to. Anything to get my head out of the space it’s in right now, but it won’t last. It won’t fix me. It’d be like a drug, a quick hit that will give me oblivion for an hour or so, but the world will be waiting for me on the other side. The anxiety will still be there, no matter what I do.
All I can do is wait and wonder, which is the thing that’s killing me. Being out of control isn’t my style. It makes me itchy. It makes me angry. Worst of all, it makes me stupid.
“Did you go to the bank today?” Cummings asks, changing the subject.
“Nah, not yet.”
“They’re closed by now. You still haven’t packed yet, have you?”
“No.”
“Dude.”
“I know,” I growl, proving him right. I’m wound too tight. I take a deep breath, slowing myself down. “I know,” I repeat more gently.
“How do you even cash a check that big?”
“I don’t know. That’s why I haven’t done it yet. I’m scared to walk in there and have them stare at me like I’m an idiot. Like I showed up with one of those big cardboard checks they hand out at golf tournaments or some shit. I’ve never had that kind of money before. I don’t know what to do with it.”
“A hundred and fifty thousand dollars is more money than a lot of people have had.” He laughs to himself in amazement. “And you didn’t even have to do shit for it.”
“Not yet, no.”
That’s the other reason I haven’t cashed the check from the Ashford Agency; I haven’t earned it yet. They gave it to me as an advance on future endorsement deals. Handed it to me like it was nothing on the day I signed with them, when I came into the office in the nicest clothes I own and felt like a peasant stepping inside the castle gates. Mr. Ashford was the one who greeted me. He was there in the lobby waiting for me, smiling. He’s always smiling. Old, white, rich, and sharp as a shark. He was intimidating the second he reached for my hand, but I guess that’s what I want; a guy who can walk into a room full of other old, white, rich sharks and make them squirm.
He sat me down with a lawyer and a bunch of other people I didn’t catch the names or titles of, and I felt like a pussy because all I could think was that I wished my mom was there. I felt alone and nervous signing my life away to these people in pleated everything in that stark white office. My skin had never felt darker. I’d never been more aware of the fact that I was only half white, like there was a divide between us that I could never cross, no matter how much money I made. Even if I made more than them, they’d still be richer somehow.
Even with a hundred and fifty thousand dollars in my pocket and the chance to draft for over a million dollars on the horizon, I still feel like the poor kid from Oahu with second hand clothes and nothing but an old football to play with.
�
��Fuck it,” I growl, reaching for my phone.
I bring up the text from Tish, but I don’t bother reading it. I tell her I’m coming over. She won’t argue. She never does, not with me.
I met her last year at a frat party, shared a bottle of Jack with her on the roof of the place, and by morning we were buddies, of every variety. She’s chill. Laid back and always down for a good time, but best of all she’s not easy. She’s not one of these groupies running around in the wake of the team giving it up for anyone with a jersey on their back. I’m the only guy she’s sleeping with on the team, though not the only guy at the school, but the team is what’s important to me. I share a lot with these guys. Probably too much. I don’t think it’s too much to ask to not dip my wick in the same well.
I put my phone in my pocket without waiting for a reply. I go to the bathroom, pull two condoms out of the top drawer, and leave the apartment with a fist bump from Cummings. He doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t ask. He knows where I’m going.
I’m a junkie going to my dealer. I’m getting my fix so I can sleep tonight. So I can shut down long enough to function.
It won’t last. I’ll feel worse when it’s over, but right now it doesn’t matter. As I climb into my truck in the fading light of the sunset, I don’t have much on my mind. I’m getting into the zone. I’m narrowing my focus to this and only this. To the game. To the smell of her perfume, the taste of her kiss. The feel of her skin under my hands; hot, taut, and wet. It’s like being in command of the field. It’s where I call the shots, where I feel in control.
Where I feel like a god.
About the Author
I was born in Eugene, Oregon and studied English Literature at the University of Oregon (Go Ducks!) It was there that I discovered why Latin is a dead language and that being an English teacher was not actually what I wanted to do with my life.
My husband and my son are my world.
Visit my website for more information on upcoming releases, Tracey Ward