by Tracey Ward
My phone rings in my pocket. I pull it out, immediately answering it because this is the one woman I’ll never screen. I’ll never tell her to call back later. I’ll never brush her off, because she’s the only woman in the world I respect enough to give her all of my time. All of my love.
“Hey, Mom,” I answer quietly.
“Hi, honey. How was your flight?”
“It was good. I slept for most of it.”
“Were they waiting for you at the airport?”
“Yeah. I’m in the van on the way to the hotel now.”
“Are you nervous?”
“No,” I lie.
She doesn’t buy it. “Keep your head up, Trey. You belong there. You don’t have to worry.”
“I’m not.”
“Alright, have it your way. Your cousins said to tell you good luck. We’re all going to watch when they have it on TV.”
“Where are you going to watch it?” I ask curiously. My parents have one TV in their apartment and it’s not connected to any kind of cable. They can’t afford ESPN.
“My manager at the hotel said we could watch it in the breakroom. The Draft too.”
“Mom, I told you, I’m going to fly you in for that.”
“I don’t want to argue with you about this again,” she tells me firmly. “There’s no money for it, and if you have any you need to save it. It’s yours. You earned it.”
I bite my tongue even though I want to argue. Even though I want to send her the entire check in my wallet.
“Trey?”
“I’m here.”
“Do you understand me?”
“Yeah,” I answer obediently. “Maopopo i aʻu.”
“Now you’re trying to soften me up. Don’t think I don’t know you and your dad speak the language when you want something.”
“Aloha au ia ‘oe, makuahine.”
“Stop, stop, it’s too much,” she laughs. “I love you too, Trey. Try and have fun while you’re there, okay? Remember, it’s supposed to be a game.”
“I’ll try.”
“Bye, baby.”
“Aloha.”
“Kiss ass,” she scolds.
Then she hangs up on me.
I stow my phone in my pocket. I’m very aware of the silence in the car and the fact that everyone heard at least my side of that conversation. Sloane probably heard my mom’s side too, but if she did she doesn’t let on. She sits stick straight, her face blank as she stares out the front windshield at the city surrounding us. Behind me Reed starts to snore peacefully.
I envy him.
March 1st
NFL Combine Day #3
Crowne Plaza Union Station
Trey is a surprise in a lot of ways. Some of them good. Some of them bad. Some of them nothing but trouble.
The good news is he’s comfortable in interviews. With the coaches, the GMs, the scouts, the media. Everybody. They love him with his cocky smile and his relentless swagger. It doesn’t look good on everyone. On some it’s a hideous color, but on Trey Domata, swagger is a little black dress. He can wear it anywhere, anytime, and every guy in the room gets hard just looking at him working it.
The bad news is that he’s nervous and it shows. Not in interviews, not when it counts, but in the quiet moments when he’s alone with his thoughts, he starts to twitch. I always thought he was Mr. Freeze, a bronzed statue as still and composed as the Heisman, but nobody can live like that all the time. It’s a problem, one I’m pretty sure is made worse by his injury and the uncertainty of his situation. Luckily he only has to make it through the Combine. The splint comes off soon. He should be in fighting form by Pro Day, and I really hope that’s true because the form he’s in now is stressing me out.
And the trouble? Oh my God, the trouble… It’s in his eyes. It’s his thick brown hair. His caramel skin. His deep, rumbling voice, his large, elegant hands, his flat stomach, the rounded rolling muscle on his arms. It’s his smile, his big laugh, his little flirtations. The brush of his hand on my back leading me through a door. Into an elevator where I’m trapped with him. Where I can smell him. I can feel him.
It’s the fact that I haven’t returned Kyle’s calls since Trey showed up.
“Boyfriend?” Trey asks casually.
I silence my phone, dropping it back into my pocket. My eyes stay focused forward on the elevator doors, but the damn things are mirrored. I’m looking right at him no matter what I do.
“No,” I reply coolly. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
“But it is a guy,” his reflection challenges with a grin.
“I know a lot of guys.”
“How many? Ballpark.”
“I’m a sports agent. How many do you think?”
“How many are in your phone?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “How many girls are in your phone? Ballpark.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“Obviously.”
We ride in silence for three floors. They tick off slowly, dinging over the gentle hum of the elevator. Over the rhythmic sound of his breath.
“I bet I have more than you.”
I scowl at him in the mirror. “Are you for real?”
His mouth is curved in a half-smile, his face so arrogant it hurts. “I’m competitive. What can I say?”
“Save it for the Combine.”
“I’d rather give it to you.”
I shake my head, refusing to rise to the bait.
“Come on, Sloane,” he taunts quietly. “Play with me.”
I swallow thickly, taming my heart. It beats erratically, threatening to run away from me. To leave me hollow and stupid in this box with him.
He’s not the first guy to flirt with me here. I get it all the time. Agents, coaches, scouts, reporters, players. It’s one of the reasons why my dad doesn’t think I can do this job effectively. He’s convinced I’ll get pulled in by some guy’s line, get knocked up, and fall out of the game.
I’m not about to let that son of a bitch be right.
“How’d your interviews go yesterday?” I ask cordially, ignoring Trey’s line.
His smile widens, but he straightens. He shrugs. “Good. It’s hard to tell, you know? They don’t give you much to go on.”
“Who’s your favorite pick?”
“It doesn’t matter who I like. It matters who likes me.”
“That’s not true. You have more control than you know, but you’ve got to give me something to go on. Who should I be talking you up to?”
“Shouldn’t your boss be asking me that?”
I roll my tongue inside my mouth, willing it to stay put. To keep quiet.
I nod my head slowly. “It would be better if he was here, yes. I agree. But he’s not, and I am. I’m here and I’m asking. Where do you want to go?”
This isn’t the first time I’ve asked him this question. I asked him twice the first day. Once last night. He never answers, and this time doesn’t look like it’s shaping up to be any different.
We hit the ground floor in silence, the doors opening slowly. Outside the lobby is bustling with other prospects, other agents. GMs and scouts and media. His future is there waiting for him, but he has to tell me where to guide it. I want to open up doors for him if he would only tell me which one, but he won’t.
I turn in the elevator, putting my back to the lobby. Focusing my attention on him. “What are you afraid of?” I ask quietly.
He pinches his lips between his teeth, turning them ghostly white. When he releases them they burst with color, fluttering faintly on an exhale.
“I don’t want to pick a team and have them not pick me,” he answers reluctantly. “I know where I want to go, but it’s not up to me. It’s up to everyone except me and I fucking hate that feeling.”
I’m floored. It’s not the answer I expected. I knew there was a problem, but I thought he was torn between two teams or he didn’t like any of the ones looking at him and maybe he
didn’t want to say anything. I had no idea his issue was so… emotional. I’ve never imagined him this way, not in all the time I dreamt of representing him. I saw the bravado and the bluster, the girls and the god on the field, and I thought that was all there was. That, and a boatload of talent. I never knew there was this vulnerability underneath it all. This angry, anxious guy holding himself back.
“You feel powerless,” I tell him quietly. “I get that. Everyone does. Everyone feels that way, but, Trey, I swear to you, you are not powerless.”
“Last night ESPN said I’m going in the second round in the Draft,” he whispers vehemently. “Maybe the third.”
“Brett Favre went in the second,” I respond calmly. “Tom Brady went in the sixth. Hell, Tony Romo wasn’t even drafted. The Draft doesn’t mean anything. It’s a chance for the NFL to televise drama, drumming up viewers for the next season. It’s a starting salary, that’s it.”
“Yeah, well maybe that matters to some of us. Maybe some of us need a paycheck.”
“We all need a paycheck.”
“Not all of us. Not when daddy’s the boss.”
I pull up short, my momentum lost in surprise, derailed by the sting of his words. “Did Hollis tell you that?”
“Nope. That was on ESPN last night too. They got a picture of you laughing with the Commissioner of the NFL, his arm slung over your shoulders, and I thought, ‘How the hell does she know the Commissioner?’ Then they showed your full name and I got it.” He chuckles, running the back of his fingers over his mouth. “I thought for a minute that you were his wife.”
“Gross.”
“Some guys like ‘em young.”
“Still gross.”
He nods his head, not looking at me.
“Does it matter?” I ask, terrified that he’ll say yes. That he’ll tell me he wants another agent.
Trey looks down at me patiently. “It depends on why you tried to hide it.”
“I didn’t try to hide it. I just didn’t tell you my last name.”
“Why?”
I sigh, shifting my shoulders restlessly. “I didn’t tell you because everyone always assumes that since ‘daddy is the boss’ that means I get everything handed to me. What they don’t know is that this is all I’ve ever wanted to do, and I can’t stand anyone thinking that I didn’t earn it, because believe me, I earn this every day. I was earning it before I even started working for him.” I feel my heart race in my chest as I choose my next words. As I make my confession that could send him running. “Do you know I’ve seen footage of every game you’ve played since your junior year of high school? I don’t know my own my sister’s phone number off the top of my head, but I can quote UCLA’s season wins and losses for the last four years because I watched every game. I watched you every game. I brought you to Brad’s attention. I pushed you down his throat for years to get him to sign you because I’ve believed in you and your talent more than any other athlete we’ve seen in years.
“And the Commissioner? I don’t know him through my dad. He hates my dad. He loves me because I went to college with his daughter. We pledged the same sorority and when she got in over her head with partying and started slipping in her classes, I helped her get back on track. I spent the last half of a semester in the library with her every night to make sure she graduated. It’s been two years and he still thanks me every time he sees me.”
“And hugs you,” he reminds me.
I shrug. “I’m very huggable.”
Trey grins, looking behind me as the doors to the elevator slowly slide shut. I know it’s happening by the way the sound changes. The way the noise fades slowly away and the walls feel like they’re closing in on me. Pressing me in closer to him.
“Looks like we’re going for another ride,” he mutters.
“Maybe it’ll give you the time you need to figure out whose ass I’m supposed to be all up inside pushing for you.”
Trey’s lip curls in disgust. “That’s a sick image.”
“It’s my job, one I’m good at if you let me do it, because trust me when I say I’ll work harder for you than Brad ever will. I already have.”
He searches my face. He breathes in and out slowly, but I can see the tension rising in his eyes like the sun on the horizon.
“The California Kodiaks,” he finally admits decisively. “I want to stay in L.A. to play for the Kodiaks. It’s the only team I’ve ever imagined being on.”
I smile large and uncontained, my excitement too much to keep at bay. I was worried he’d say some top tier team with a Super Bowl under their belt in the last five years. Good luck getting them to sign a rookie quarterback. But this, the Kodiaks, this I can manage.
Plans are immediately thrashing through my head. Angles and odds. Trades. Numbers. Ranks. Everything I need to make this happen, but that’s the beauty of it. I’m almost dead sure that I can in fact make it happen.
“The Kodiaks it is,” I tell him confidently. “First round.”
Trey isn’t convinced. “They don’t have any first round draft picks. They gave them up last year in exchange for the eighth pick overall and they’re looking to take a tight end in the second round. If I have to sit around waiting for the third round, I might as well go home.”
“Have some faith, Trey,” I scold lightly. I pull out my phone, swiping past another missed call from Kyle to bring up my phonebook. “No, L.A. doesn’t have a first round pick, but what they do have is Duncan Walker, and Coach Allen can’t stand Duncan Walker. He thinks Duncan Walker is a showboating little shit. Don’t tell anyone I told you that. But, do you know who starts frothing at the mouth every time he hears the name Duncan Walker?”
“You’re saying Duncan Walker a lot.”
“Coach Nuesbaum in Montana. He fucking fanboys for Duncan Walker.”
“You’re still doing it.”
I turn around, punching the L button to send us back down to the lobby. “You had your interview with Coach Allen yesterday. How was it?”
“Good.”
I roll my eyes and my hand, giving him the signal to elaborate.
“Really good?” Trey responds uncertainly.
“Coach Allen went to UCLA. Did you guys talk about that?”
“Yeah, for a minute.”
“What’d you say?”
“He told me, ‘I’m a Bruin.’ and I told him, ‘Me too.’”
I stare at him blankly, waiting for him to finish. Right up until I realize that he already did. “That was it?”
“He laughed. He thought I was funny.”
“Jesus, Trey.”
“What’d you want me to do?” he demands. “Ask him what bars he hit when he was on campus? How much ass he got? He’s a hundred years old. He was probably at the school the year it was founded.”
“He’s not a hundred. He’s seventy something and he’s healthier than both of us.”
“I doubt that.”
The elevator doors open.
I walk with Trey out into the lobby, searching for Hollis. “Okay, look, I’ve gotta go talk to some people about a few things before I go to the stadium, but I’ll be there later. You’ll be okay heading over alone?”
“Yes, Mom, I can make it to school all on my own,” he replies sarcastically.
“Good. Oh, here, I almost forgot. I packed you a lunch.”
I pull my hand out of my pocket, flipping him off.
Trey grins, amusement dancing in his eyes. “My favorite.”
When Trey is gone I spot Hollis on the far side of the lobby. I cut across the room to where he’s talking to an older man in his fifties. He’s dressed well but his hair is long and a little wild. So are his eyes. His face is familiar but I can’t place him. Hollis casts me a relieved look when he sees me coming his way. He abruptly cuts his conversation short to meet me.
“Thank God,” he mumbles, taking my arm to turn me around and put distance between us and the man. “He would not shut up.”
“Who is that?”
<
br /> “Berny Dawe.”
“Oh my God,” I gasp, turning my head to get a better look at him. “Are you serious? I’ve never seen him in person.”
Hollis tightens his hold on my arm. “Do not look back,” he hisses. “It’s bad enough he got ahold of me. If he gets Brad Ashford’s daughter in his grip, he’ll never let go.”
“What’d he say to you?”
“What he always says to Ashford agents. That we work for the Devil and we should jump ship to go work for him instead.”
“He should put that on a billboard. Brad would consider it free advertising.”
“It’s not funny. The poor guy used to be a legend in this business before his agency all but collapsed.”
“Thanks to my dad,” I mutter, feeling more than a little ashamed.
“It’s a cutthroat business.”
“Yeah. Hey, speaking of, I need to talk to you.”
“What about?”
“Kurtis Matthews. Is he still unhappy in Montana?”
Hollis grimaces. “Miserable. Thanks for bringing it up.”
“What if I told you I knew a way to make him and you a whole lot happier?”
“I’d ask what’s in it for you?”
“Trey Domata going first round to the Kodiaks.”
He looks at me sideways, his eyes dubious but intrigued. “I’m listening.”
“Good,” I tell him, guiding him toward the dining hall, “because I need you to get Coach Allen listening too.”
I break my plan down for Hollis as we weave through the hotel. It’s simple and sweet, an easy sell to him and his miserable client, but the trick will be convincing a coach to play along. We need Allen on our side.
We find him just finishing his breakfast, alone in a corner in the sunshine. He watches us approach, his wrinkled face kept carefully blank.
Coach Allen is an old man. Trey exaggerated when he said he was a hundred, but there’s a reason he threw out that number; that’s about how old he legitimately looks. His head is completely bald and wrinkled, his face sags with heavy jowls, and the skin on his hands has that thin, papery look that the elderly get, their bones protruding prominently through the surface in an almost disconcerting way. But while his body is showing more wear than his years should allow, his mind is sharp as a knife. I can see it in his eyes, in the way he watches me sit down across from him and his breakfast.
