by Tracey Ward
And the sadness surrounding her is the heaviest weight I’ve ever carried.
March 2nd
NFL Combine Day #4
Lucas Oil Stadium
Stupid. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
I can’t stop. I keep chanting the word, chastising myself for being such an idiot. I kissed him. In a swimming pool. In his underwear.
If any of the reporters in the hotel got a picture of that or even caught wind of a rumor about it, I’d be done for. I’d be the agent/slut who can’t keep her hands off her clients. Who can’t keep her legs together long enough to complete her first Combine without her dad there to chaperone.
The worst part is that if it gets back to Brad I’ll lose Trey. He’ll pawn him off on another agent and I won’t get to finish what I started four years ago. I’ll have to watch my dream walk away from me. I won’t be taken seriously by other agents or coaches or scouts. It’ll take years for this one kiss, one careless moment, to blow over, and that’s just the outside world. My dad will never forget it.
“You’re acting weird,” Hollis comments.
I shake my head numbly. “I’m not. I’m fine.”
“You’re ignoring Trey. You’ve been stalking him forever—“
“I haven’t been stalking him.”
“Whatever you say, Swim Fan. My point is that you haven’t shut up about this guy for the last six months and now here he is exactly where you wanted him and you’re hanging out with me next to a gym bag that smells like sardines.”
“I was thinking clams.”
“I’m thinking about burning it.”
I cast him a wan smile. “I will pay you so much money to follow through with that thought.”
“Or you could walk away to avoid the stench. Maybe thirty feet to your right.”
My smile falls as I look away. “I’m good here.”
“Sloane.”
“I kissed him,” I whisper.
Hollis freezes, his eyes focused straight ahead at the athletes running drills across the field. “Are you shitting me?” he whispers back.
“I wish I was.”
“Bad move, Ashford.”
“I very much know that.”
“Is that all you did?”
“Yes.”
“Did anyone see?”
“No.”
He nods slowly. “Okay, it’s not that bad. Just forget about it and—“
“I keep reliving it. I keep thinking about it and every time I do I…” I close my eyes, licking my lips gently. They were swollen when I went to sleep last night. Nearly bruised from the press of his kiss. “You’re right, I have to stop thinking about it.”
“No shit,” he agrees vehemently.
“I have to stay away from him.”
“You can’t.”
“Yes, I can. It’s the last day. He has these drills and then that’s it. You can take him to the airport for me when you take Reed. Tell them I’m in a meeting or I’m sick or dead. I don’t care what you say.”
“No, I’m serious, you can’t avoid him. Look at him.”
I glance reluctantly to my right where Trey stands against the wall. His eyes are honed downfield where a cluster of quarterbacks are lazily tossing the ball around. After every throw they take a step back, widening the gap between them. Launching the ball farther and farther down the field. Pinpoint accuracy to every toss and the entire building sees it. Every coach and scout in the room is watching them, processing their skill.
And it’s killing Trey.
His face is cut hard, his eyes burning. His hands are clenched. He’s tugging at his splint.
“Ah dammit,” I curse under my breath.
“You better go talk to him. People are going to notice something’s up with him if he doesn’t knock it off soon, and if there’s one thing coaches hate, it’s emotional quarterbacks.”
“I know, I know,” I grumble.
I grab my bag, slinging it over my shoulder before I close the distance between myself and Trey. He doesn’t break his stare on the competition. He holds his rigid posture, his eyes hard on them as they scrimmage, but he knows I’m there. He can feel me lean against the wall next to him.
“I could pull my splint off. It’s coming off next week anyway.”
“You’re not doing that,” I reply calmly.
He licks his lips. “I can throw today.”
“No, you can’t. You throw with an untested, unpracticed hand and you’ll ruin yourself, not to mention all the work I’ve done over the last couple days.”
“Are you kidding me?” He points downfield. “Look at that. Two of those guys are already ahead of me in the Draft even on a good day when I’m still ranked number four. Every time they throw a pass I disappear a little more. I fall a little farther.”
I reach for his arm, laying my hand on it to gently push it down. “Stop pointing and stop staring. You’re cracking.”
“Hell yeah, I’m cracking. I’m a ghost here today!”
“Would you calm your shit,” I whisper harshly, turning to stand in front of him. To try to block his view of the other players. It shouldn’t work. He towers over me, but his eyes are on mine when I glare up at him. He looks desperate. Restless. “Breathe. Chill out. You’ve got to keep it together for one more afternoon, then it’s over. The next time any of them will see you is on Pro Day when you’re out of the splint and back in action, so take it easy.”
“Not all of them are coming to Pro Day.”
“Coach Allen is.”
He blinks in surprise. “He’s really coming?”
“Of course he’s coming. He’s a UCLA alum, he lives in L.A., and he’s crazy in love with you.” He nods his head, not convinced. I decide to play my ace in the hole. “He’s already made a trade.”
Trey’s eyes snap to mine. “A trade for what?”
I smile. “A first round draft pick.”
“You’re fucking with me.”
“I’m not. He made it official late last night. He traded Duncan Walker and his second round draft pick this year to the Montana Miners for their first round pick and tight end Kurtis Matthews. Now the Kodiaks have the number four pick and they’re in the market for a quarterback.”
I expect Trey to smile, but his face is unreadable. His tone, however, is very clear. He’s worried. “And without Walker, they’re also in the market for a running back. One like Andre Larkin.”
“It’s not going to happen, Trey,” I promise him evenly. “I don’t care what they keep projecting Larkin at. No one takes a running back in the first round. It’s not worth it. Their injury rate is too high to burn a first round pick on them. Coach Allen would be a fool to pick him over you.”
“He gave up his second round pick?”
“Yes,” I admit reluctantly. It wasn’t part of my original plan, but nothing about the pre-Draft shuffle goes the way you want it to. Not perfectly.
Trey shakes his head tightly. “Coach Allen would have to wait until the third to fill the hole in his roster. He won’t find another running back like Walker in the third round.”
“He’s not looking for one. In his mind a stellar quarterback and a great tight end are worth the loss. I’ve got this under control, okay? Just relax.”
“I’m having trouble with that today.”
“Do you need to go take another swim?”
He grins faintly. “I think that would make it worse.”
“Then you should listen to music. Did you bring your iPod down with you?”
“No, I forgot my headphones, remember?”
“Lucky for you, I do. And even luckier for you, I got you a present last night.” I dig into my large purse dangling at my side. I pull out a pair of Beats headphones and hand them to him.
Trey takes them from me slowly. His face changes as he does, lightening by degrees. Loosening ever so slightly. “You went out and got these for me?”
“After I dried off and changed clothes, yeah,” I joke, immediately wishing I hadn
’t. The memory of the kiss hits me like a truck. It’s so much worse than before now that I’m standing in front of him. I shift on my feet, fighting the urge to turn away. “I got you orange, one of the Kodiak’s colors. Is that okay?”
He grins crookedly. “It’s tight. Thanks. I’ll pay you back.”
“They’re on the agency. No paybacks. You need them, I got them for you. It’s my job. But now you need your music. Do you want to give me your key and I’ll run up to your room?”
“There’s not enough time. I’ll be up for the 40 yard test in a few minutes. I’ll be okay without it.”
“Like hell. You’re talking about ripping your splint off and throwing cold in front of every GM in the NFL. You’re definitely not ‘okay’.” I pull out my phone, bringing up my most recent playlist. “We’re going to have to improvise. Put the headphones on.”
“What am I listening to?”
“Something calming.”
I hit PLAY. Alessia Cara’s Here bursts through the headphones.
He casts me a wary look, but I ignore him. I lean back against the wall next to him, nodding my head to the beat I can hear thrumming low and steady through the cans on his ears. It takes him a few seconds but eventually he relaxes against the wall next to me, his head bobbing in time with mine.
When the song ends he glances down at me, a half smile on his lips. “Chick music, huh?”
“It’s this or nothing. Are you complaining?”
He rolls his hand, calling for me to play it again. When I do he closes his eyes. He sways back and forth, his arm bumping against my shoulder every time he comes my way. It’s mesmerizing and enticing. Hypnotic to the point that I catch myself swaying with him, pushing into him each time we move. He’s solid, a mountain of a man beside me, but he rocks me softly. He’s careful and intentional in his contact. Controlled. Calm.
Suddenly his eyes open, finding mine. Catching me watching him. I feel an apprehensive flutter in my stomach as he stares at me for a second too long. As we linger a moment beyond comfortable.
As I remember the ten TV cameras watching every inch of the arena.
I look away, putting a step between us. My arm feels cold without him, my stomach drops, but his eyes are still on me. He’s tracking me the way he follows players on the field. Like a hawk in the sky. Like an animal on the prowl.
He’s himself again; the god on the field full of focus, but he’s something else too. Something I never saw before, no matter how many hours of footage I watched or how deep into his life I thought I delved. I didn’t know because I’d never been in a room with him. I’d never smelled his sweat, felt his skin against mine. He’s more than a Heisman trophy come to life. He’s a man full of faults and flaws. He’s worried eyes and a troubled brow, an anxiously beating heart. He’s impossibly long fingers on large hands, long limbs, hot skin, smooth and tatted, dark and winding around corded muscle wrapped over broad bone.
I’ve never broken him down before, never taken in his parts piece by piece, but when I do it’s intimidating and exciting. So fucking alluring I’m numb with need. Need to touch him, need to hear him, to understand him. To help him. It’s a magnetism I’ve never felt before, not for anyone.
It scares the shit out of me.
April 12th
UCLA Campus
Los Angeles, CA
“Eight… nine… ten… come on, you pussy, one more. One more!”
I growl in the back of my throat as my muscles convulse under the weight of the bar on my chest. It’s two hundred and twenty-five pounds of steel weighing down on me. The same weight they had at the Draft that I wasn’t asked to lift. The same weight I pushed here at UCLA on Pro Day. Ten was as many as I could manage before my body gave out. I won’t be happy with anything less than eleven today. Tomorrow it will be twelve.
“Come on, come, come on,” Folk chants, wiggling his fingers eagerly under the bar as it slowly starts to rise. “Do it, bitch! Do it!”
Sweat streams down my face, dripping onto the floor. I yell from between my gritted teeth. I give it everything I have. I see stars in my vision. I feel myself getting faded, my peripheral going dark. I’m worried I’ll pass out or shit myself on the bench the way Defoe did last month.
And yet still I push. Still I strive.
I’m halfway there, my arms shaking. My right hand is screaming. Just a little farther. A little bit more…
“Ahhh!” I cry, pushing myself to the edge.
My arms straighten. I’m there. I made it.
I’m back.
“Yeah, Trey! Fuck yeah!”
Folk cheers me on as he helps me lay the bar down on the supports. I breathe out in a painful rush when the weight is gone. My arms collapse onto my chest, quivering uncontrollably.
Folk grips my shoulders, shaking me excitedly. “Good job, man. You killed it.”
I chuckle breathlessly. “You can do twenty-two reps. I almost died doing eleven.”
“And you can pull Grade A pussy any day of the week. We all got our strengths, baby.”
“I don’t get why you’re killing yourself,” Defoe calls from across the weight room. He’s sitting on his ass on the leg press watching Sports Center on the big flat screen. “The Combine is over, Pro Day is done, and you don’t have to worry about training camp until after the Draft.”
I groan, sitting up on the bench. “I’m getting ready.”
“You should be relaxing.”
“Yeah, I don’t do that very well,” I mumble.
“I’ll teach you.”
“You’ll teach him to be a fat ass,” Cummings snaps.
“He could use some weight on him. Make it harder to sack him.”
“If you did your job protecting him, he wouldn’t have to worry about being sacked.”
“He does his job,” I argue. “Remember that girl at the bar? The tall one with the red hair and the… the, uh… shit, what is it called?”
“A scrunchy,” Defoe reminds me proudly. He remembers.
I snap my fingers, pointing at him. “Yeah, that’s it. The scrunchy thing with my number on it. She wouldn’t get off my ass all night, and when she licked my ear on the dance floor Defoe was in there, man. He bounced her right out of that bar.”
“He banged her,” Cummings says, unimpressed with my story.
“What? No, he didn’t.”
“He did,” Folk confirms. “In your car.”
I scowl at Defoe. “You fucked that psycho in my truck?”
“I got her off your back, didn’t I?” he demands defensively.
Cummings snorts. “Yeah, and onto hers in his ride.”
I shake my head in disbelief. “You asshole.”
“What?” Defoe cries. “She was into it. I told her it was your truck and she got all excited. What was I supposed to do?”
“The bed or the cab?”
“Come on, Trey, don’t be pissed.”
“The bed or the cab?” I repeat clearly.
His shoulders slump. “The cab.”
“Asshole.”
“It was too cold for the bed!”
“You’re scrubbing my seats. Today.”
“It’s been months.”
“I don’t care. You’re doing it.”
“That truck is a piece of shit anyway. I don’t know why you’re getting so mad. Go buy a new one.”
“I’m with him on that,” Cummings agrees. “That beast is trash, Trey. You have the money. Go buy a new one.”
I ignore him and this argument that never ends. They all want me to blow through the money in a matter of hours buying a car, buying a house, buying all new clothes and watches. Folk has been on my ass to get a pimp cane every hour of every day for a week. I’m tempted to buy one just to beat him in the head with.
What I really want to do is send the money to my parents, at least part of it, but they won’t take anything. It’s driving me crazy. Not cash, not gifts, and not plane tickets to the Draft in two weeks. They said they’ll watc
h it the way they watched the Combine – on the TV in the breakroom at the hotel where my mom works the front desk. I’d rather they were here. I’d rather not be alone.
The guys are always around, but not all of them are graduating with me. Cummings and Folk, they’re sticking around for another year. Defoe is graduating but he isn’t entering the Draft. His career is over, which is probably why he’s parked on the leg press, sitting there like none of this matters, because for him it doesn’t. Once he’s graduated he’s going back home to Texas. The guy has been my family for four years and I’ll probably never see him again.
I only have one class this term, one class next term just to keep me on campus and eligible for graduation in June. The class is weight training. I’m in it right now. This is me learning.
This is me leaving.
I feel lonely. It’s a weird feeling when you’re surrounded by people. When your face is on the cover of magazines, on billboards and websites. It doesn’t seem right that you be alone when the whole world knows your name, but I am. The media makes it more obvious to me, because every time they take my picture who am I with?
No one.
“Dude, isn’t that your agent?” Cummings asks, pointing to the TV.
When I look up I expect to see Sloane, and I’m surprised by how eager I am. I haven’t seen her since Pro Day, and even then it was only for a minute. She gave me a hug that caught me off guard, told me I’d be great, and disappeared into the crowd of coaches. I saw her later walking across the field with the offensive coordinator for the Buccaneers. Some early thirties asshole that kept touching her shoulder. Kept making her laugh.
I’m excited to see her face on the screen, but it’s not her. It’s Brad Ashford. He’s on Sports Center talking to an analyst about the upcoming Draft. The logo for the California Kodiaks is in the corner by his face.
So is a stern faced photo of Andre Larkin.
“What the fuck is this?” I whisper to myself.
I grab the remote from Defoe with shaking hands, cranking the volume.
