“There you are.”
I nearly groan out loud in dismay to see Van Riley appear at my table.
Fleur wrinkles her nose. “What do you want?”
Which is what I'd like to say, but he's technically my boss so I paste a pretty smile on my face and say, “I'm here. Did you need something?”
“Come in early tomorrow,” he orders.
“Tomorrow's Sunday.”
“Aren't you bright? Seven am.” He walks off without another word.
“What an asshole,” Fleur gripes.
“Assholes are ashamed to be compared to him,” I mutter, but enter an alarm in my phone. I’ve always felt a tad guilty about Van Riley, which is why I let him abuse me. It took him three years to get hired at Marissa Baron’s gallery. It took me three minutes. And Van has never let me forget it.
7
Ty
After Ara leaves, I kick Remy's ass in FIFA for a couple hours.
“Ara turn you down or something?” he whines after I score another goal on him.
“Nope.” I position my player on the left side of the pitch. “Never asked her.”
“Why not?”
“Because she'd take my balls and toss them on the street, like what I'm doing to you now.” Plus, it’d ruin our friendship. Besides, you don’t play games with people, especially ones you care about.
Remy mutters a curse and jogs his gassed-out star player to meet mine. I power kick the ball down field to avoid Messi. Remy chases after me and pokes the ball out of bounds, giving me a free corner kick.
“Goddammit!” he yells, throwing his controller on the cushion. “I'm going to get a drink. You?”
“Pass.” I'm not drinking until after the draft. As I'm lining up to do my free kick, my phone buzzes. I grab it.
Wanna skype?
Y. 5 min.
“Remy, it's your lucky day. I’m done. Gotta call my bro.” I toss my controller on the coffee table. “Practice, will ya? I'm getting bored,” I call over my shoulder.
A booming “Fuck you!” follows me up the stairs to my room.
Grinning, I flick on my laptop and ring up Knox.
When he appears on the screen, I nearly fall over in surprise. “When'd you get your hair cut?”
He rubs a hand over the back of his undercut. “Weird, isn't it? I got it done yesterday. You?”
I catch myself almost doing the same action and stuff my hands under my thighs. “Day before.”
Looking at Knox is like looking in the mirror. We're exactly the same, down to the small mole we both have at the base of the neck. I'd been growing my hair out since the Championship game, but decided that I should have it cut for the combine. And now here is Knox, who lives a thousand miles away in New York City, getting the same exact cut. Sometimes even I am weirded out by the twin connection.
Knox laughs. “Wait until I tell Ellie. She's gonna freak.”
That makes two of us. “Did you have something you needed?”
“I felt a disturbance in the force.” He grins.
We're twins. A thousand miles of distance and we still know exactly how the other feels. In some ways, it's comforting. I'm never really alone. In other ways, it's a hassle. It'd be nice to have a moment of privacy, but since that's not the case with us, there's no point in lying about it.
“Rhyann broke up with me.”
“Good. She wasn't right for you,” he says blithely.
“She broke up with me because I forgot her birthday.”
“Nah, you forgot her birthday because she wasn't the right one.”
Knox believes in destiny. He said he felt the earth move when he first laid eyes on Ellie and knew immediately that she was his soulmate. He uses that word, too. Soulmate.
That's where we differ. I believe in making your own future. Knox believes in fate, and when he met Rhyann and she couldn't tell us apart, he immediately dismissed her as not for me.
“Well, whatever the reason, I'm currently single. Dana thinks that's going to hurt my draft stock.”
Knox falls silent at the mention of my agent. My brother is not a fan of Dana's, disliking the way Dana hounded me right after the Championship game. Knox felt like I should sign with his agent, but I wanted to go my own path.
“I don't know. I did get questions at the combine about Ellie, and they all seemed pretty happy to find out we were married. That said, as long as you can deliver on the field, it doesn't matter what you do off of it. I can't imagine someone passing you up for another player because you don't have a girl.”
I scrub a hand down my face. “This is bullshit, you know. I'm not going to date some random chick just to up my draft stock.”
“Speaking of the bullshit—” His face slides off the edge of the camera lens as he digs for something. He returns with a piece of paper. “I'm gonna send this to you, but here's a list of questions that me and a couple of my teammates remember being asked at the combine. Want to practice?”
I grimace, but nod. “Go ahead.”
“Okay, first up, 'Do you want to be a cat or a dog?'“
I'm prepared for this one, because it's one of the more well-known stupid questions we get.
“Depends on what type of cat or dog. Are we talking domestic or wild? Is it small lap dog versus kitten, or hunting dog versus a Maine coon?”
Knox gives me the thumbs up. It's always good to ask for clarification to see if the questioner will give you a hint as to what answer he's looking for. “Let's go with domestic animals, regardless of size.”
“It'd depend on the situation. If I need to climb, I'd want to be a cat. If I need to find something, then a dog.”
“I like that.” He nods approvingly. “Looks like you prepared for that one. Okay, let me see if I can find one you aren't ready for…” He trails off as he scans the paper. “It's Friday night. You're at an away game and a fan finds her way into your bedroom. Do you have sex with her or do you send her away?"
“Is that really a question on the list?”
He peers at me over the paper. “Are you refusing to answer?”
“No.” I scowl. “I'm tired and I've got to sleep.”
“Are you a pussy?”
“I already answered the cat versus dog bullshit.”
Knox busts out laughing. “All right. But there're going to be questions like that. I had an exec ask me if Ellie was going to travel around with the team. Apparently, some of the new wives do that.”
“What'd you tell them?”
“That she'd be at home.”
“Was that the right answer?”
“Don't know. I was drafted before the team that asked got a crack at me. You're going to be fine. Don't worry.”
“I'm not worrying.”
“Sure.”
We both know I am. Everyone is. An athlete that says he isn't nervous before the combine is one that's going to fall on his face. Nerves keep your edges sharp.
Knox fills me in on his plans to take Ellie to France before draft day, but assures me he'll be back in time to go Eakins Oval with me. Everyone assumes I’m getting an invite to the draft which is only extended to twenty-five or so players.
Even if I do get the FedEx-ed letter that is sent out, I’m not sure I want to attend. There's always a small percentage that turn down the invitation. I’ve never enjoyed the celebrity part of the game, but Knox says I shouldn’t miss it. We’ll see. After discussing what to get Mom for Mother’s Day as well as her upcoming June birthday, we say our goodbyes.
I climb into bed and shoot Ara a text.
Me: What's better? Cat or dog?
Her: Why not both?
Me: Choose one.
Her: Don't want to.
Me: U really want to have both a cat and dog?
Her: Yes. And to eat ice cream for breakfast. Why? Is that bad?
I start chuckling.
Me: No. We're adults now. We get to choose how we adult.
Her: I'll bring you a pint of Cherry Garcia tomorrow.
My mouth salivates at the thought of ice cream. When was the last time I had something good like that?
Me: Don't tempt me.
Her: Party pooper. Day after draft, we're eating everything. French fries, double cheeseburgers with fried onion rings, chocolate shakes with the real whipped cream.
Me: Stop.
Her: I have sexy pics. Will send.
An image of Ara's smooth, bare skin flashes in front of me. My tongue tingles, as if it just tasted something sweet. My fingers curl into my palms, recalling something soft and knee-weakeningly wet on them. Forcefully, I push those sensations out of my head. Ara's a friend, not an object of lust. I shake myself like a dog and reply.
Me: I'm blocking you.
She sends me a picture of a Shake Shack burger. The girl is evil.
Me: I'm done with you.
Her: You'll never be done with me. Mwahahaha
She attaches a gif of Gru laughing maniacally.
Her: Off to bed. Will send you more food porn in the morning.
Me: I'm really blocking you.
Her: I know you can't live without me. Kisses!
I shove the phone under my pillow. She's probably right. I'll miss my friends when I graduate, but not Ara because we'll always stay in touch. I can't imagine life without her.
I wake up to the smell of pancakes and bacon grease. My stomach rumbles in anticipation.
“You don't get any of that,” I tell it. It rumbles again mockingly. Damn it, Ara. She knows better than to tempt me. I'm going to have to replace her saltshaker with sugar or something to get back at her.
I haul my ass out of bed, get my running clothes on, and wander downstairs.
Instead of Ara, though, it's Remy's girlfriend frying up food at the stove. Guess Ara is saved. Remy's at the counter shoveling carbs in his mouth while his girlfriend flips over another piece of fat. I grow faint with want.
“It's whole wheat made with agave syrup and oats. The meat's turkey bacon. Grab a plate.” She waves a spatula in my direction.
I don't have to be told twice. I rush over to the counter and fill up a plate. “You're an angel, Nichole.” I kiss her cheek.
“I know I am.”
I give Remy a thumbs up, which he returns. His mouth is too full to answer and soon mine will be too. With a grin, I dig in.
“I hear you're taking applications for a new girlfriend,” she mentions as she flips another cake from the pan to the plate.
“Yes. Is this a proposal? Because if so, I accept. I knew you'd wise up and realize the better man is me.”
“Fuck you, Masters. You can't take my girl,” Remy protests, spitting bits of cake and syrup out.
“I'm not taking anyone. It's Nichole who's leaving you. And I'm sorry, man, but it's every dude for himself.” I pat my lap. “Come over here, sweet thing. Let me give you some morning love.”
Remy turns to his girlfriend for help. “Baby, stick up for your man.”
“What's your offer?” she asks me instead. “Remy's promised to buy me a Beemer out of his signing bonus.”
“What a cheap bastard. A Beemer? That's the cheap B car. I'm springing for Bentleys for everyone.”
She pretends to think it over. “I don't know. That sounds intriguing.”
My roommate jumps out of his chair, grabs his girlfriend, and throws her over his shoulder. “I'll show you intriguing.”
She beats her small fists against Remy's back. “Put me down! You're messing with my hair.”
“You shouldn't have threatened me.” He slaps her ass. “Better get the stove, Masters,” he cautions before disappearing up the stairs.
“Ask Ara,” Nichole yells.
“Ask her what?”
But Remy's carried Nichole too far away for me to hear her response.
I pull out my phone and send Ara a text.
Me: Am I supposed to ask you something?
Her: Like how amazing I am?
Me: Besides that. Nichole said I should ask you.
Her: What?
Me: Dunno. That's why I'm asking you.
Her: No clue. Go ask her to clarify.
Me: Can't. Remy hauled her away for being mouthy.
Her: *cue 100 eyerolls*
Me: Want to come over? I've got turkey bacon and ww pancakes.
Her: I'd rather stab my throat with a fork. Besides, am waiting for Jerkface to show up. Supposed to meet him at 7.
Me: It's 7:20.
Her: I know.
Me: It's Sunday.
Her: I know this too.
Me: Why are you meeting him on Sunday?
But I know why. Ara feels guilty because, according to Van Asshole, she took the job that was supposed to go to him. She tried to quit after she found out, but instead the gallery owner hired Van Asshole, too. Ever since then, Ara’s bent over backwards to make up for what she calls her ‘privileged background.’ And Van Asshole takes full advantage.
Her: Bc I'm still in my sucking up phase.
Me: You've been in your sucking up phase for almost six months now.
Her: Again, I know this.
Me: Let me know if i can talk some sense into him.
Her: With your fists?
Me: I'm not ruling it out.
Her: Shit. He's here. Talk to you later.
I drop the phone on the counter and pick up my fork. I'm not a fan of that Riley guy. He's been abusing Ara for months. She said it’s easier this way, less drama. But it shouldn’t be either scenario. She sucks Riley's metaphorical dick for the better part of two semesters or she endures endless sniping and criticism? Fuck both those options.
Ara got that job because she knows a helluva lot about art, not just because her dad is one of the foremost modern sculptors. She would’ve gotten the job regardless of who her father is. Not that I can convince Ara of that. If she were an athlete, she could prove herself on the field. Apparently in an art gallery you can’t do that.
The one thing I've always loved about sports is that you're measured by your skill and performance, not by how good of a public speaker you are or how many people you know. It's the stats you rack up on the field that count.
It's why I hate the drama of the non-physical shit at the combine. I'm fine with grading us based on how fast we run the four/forty or how far we jump. But whether I've got a girlfriend? Whether I answer the cat versus dog question right? Whether the president of operations think I smell okay? I hate all of that.
I hate it for me and I hate it for Ara. Since I can't punch out the NFL execs, though, maybe I could pound Riley's face into the dirt.
I sigh. Yeah, probably not.
But if Ara asked, I definitely would.
8
Ara
Van sneers at my yoga pants and T-shirt. “This is an art gallery not a gym. Wear something appropriate next time.”
“I thought I was here to copy.” I give myself a once over. I showered this morning and felt good about even doing that.
“It's still a place of business and thus, you should wear business-appropriate attire.” He sniffs and readjusts the sleeve of his perfectly pressed black button down.
I swear I took a shower. “Okay. Next time I come in on a Sunday morning, I'll dress up. For now, I'm here.” I spread my arms out. “What do you want me to do?”
“Copy this.” He shoves a handout at me.
“How many?” I ask. They look to be prints of Thompson Moore's gagtastic work.
The brochure is a five-color glossy touting the upcoming showing of a local multimedia artist specializing in grass art, which is exactly what it sounds like—the application of grass on canvas.
Thompson Moore, whose name makes me think of the paint line, is selling moderately well to a certain set that finds his rural paintings appealing. I find them boring and try-hard, and despite his niche audience, I don't find him worthy of a showing. I suggested to Marissa that Moore's work might not be the best use of her space. Van bit my head off for being non-supportive an
d Marissa cried.
Dad, on the other hand, nearly laughed his ass off when I told him of Marissa’s new signing.
“Five hundred. And then bind them. Or is that beneath you?”
Despite the fact I was hired a year before Van Asshole and despite the fact that we are both in the same grade, he became my de facto supervisor when Marissa extended him the full-time assistant’s job after graduation. That invitation came after Marissa learned that Dad was marrying Holly.
“Five hundred folded brochures coming right up.” I'm in no mood to argue. My heart's a little sore over the idea of Ty dating someone new already.
I almost fell apart when I heard he was getting back together with Rhyann after the Bowl game. They had been broken up since Christmas and I thought it was over for them or I'd like to think I'd have never kissed him Bowl night.
It doesn't matter. He doesn't remember what happened. If he did, he would've said something to me.
Right?
Ty’s been a stand-up guy to the girls he's dated. He was never into one-night stands despite the many, many, many offers. He tried to be upfront with the girls, telling them that football was his focus. I have to believe if he remembered our hookup, he wouldn't have jumped at Rhyann's invitation to return to her side.
Or he hated the experience with me so much that he had to erase that from his mind by immediately having sex with someone else.
That thought causes actual physical pain. I hold a hand to my stomach.
“Are you actually going to make copies, or is that kind of manual labor too menial for von de Menthe's daughter?” Van Asshole snipes.
I look up from the copier to see him standing at the door, hands on his hips, disgust on his face. He really hates me, from the moment that we first met. I got the job because of who my father is and he doesn't let me forget it for a minute. On the plus side, Van Asshole is consistent, if nothing else. Since he got the job in August, he's done nothing but look at me with jealous loathing.
“I'm copying.” I set the papers into the machine and punch the start key. To irritate Van and make myself feel better, I smile as bright and wide as I can.
Played: A Novel (Gridiron Series Book 4) Page 6