by Tracey Ward
“We’ll be friends,” I compromise. “That’s what we’ll do. We’ll sit down, we’ll have dinner, and we’ll talk about how we have to be friends. I can be friends with a client. Just look at Demarcus and I. If he lived in California I’d be hanging out with him all the time.”
“Not the same.”
“It’s close enough.”
“Not even a little.”
My phone rings in my hand, making me jump. I hadn’t realized I was carrying it. I look down nervously at the screen, terrified it’s my dad calling to tell me that he knows and I’m fired and I’m a whore.
“It’s Trey,” I whisper in shock.
Hollis waits for it to ring again. “Are you going to answer it?”
“He just left. Why is he calling me right now?”
“Probably to tell you he wants to be friends. It’s the only thing that makes sense.”
I glare at him as I nervously swipe my finger over the screen, lifting it to my ear. “Hello?”
“Hey,” Trey replies, his voice calm and deep. “Sorry to call you like this already, but I’ve got a problem.”
“Don’t we all?”
He pauses. “Yeah, well, I need to ask you a favor.”
“What do you need?”
“A ride. I can’t get home.”
“How’d you get here?”
“My truck.”
“And your truck is…”
“Gone. Towed.”
I stand up, heading for the door. “Why did it get towed?”
“Good talk, Sloane!” Hollis calls after me. “Goodnight to you too!”
I wave at him over my shoulder before I disappear into the hall.
The sound of traffic echoes behind Trey’s voice in my ear. “I might have parked it illegally.”
“How illegally?”
“On the curb in the fire lane illegally.”
I laugh before I can stop myself. I press the back of my hand over my smile to quiet it. “That’s… that’s a choice, Trey.”
“I was mad,” he replies defensively, but I can hear him smiling too. “I was in a hurry to yell at your dad for being a dick.”
“Let’s be sure to expense the cost of freeing your truck from impound to the agency.”
“Fuck it. Let them keep it.”
I grab my purse out of my office. I lock the door behind me as I leave and I hope to God it doesn’t smell like sex when the janitors come by tonight. Of course the used condom in my wastebasket might be a dead giveaway. I consider going back for it but wonder what the hell I’d do with it? Walk out of the building with it in my hand?
I’d rather roll the dice with the janitor.
“Are you saying what I think you’re saying?” I ask Trey excitedly. “Are you finally buying a new car?”
“I’m saying I need a ride tonight. That’s all.” He drops his voice until I can barely hear him. “What do you say, Sloane? Will you save me?”
“I’m already on my way. Where am I taking you?”
“Magnolia Apartments.”
“You’re still living with Cummings, huh?” I ask, cruising through the lobby and out the door without making eye contact with the receptionist.
“You know, if you weren’t my agent, the amount of shit you know about me would be really creepy.”
“If it makes you feel any better, for every scrap of knowledge I have on you, I’ll give you the same on me. Call it trust building.”
“You have a lot of scraps. That could take a while.” He pauses, the sound of the traffic fading away then coming back with a roar. “How about we swap scraps over dinner? I’m starving.”
I smile at the elevator door, my distorted reflection smiling back at me. She looks like an idiot. “So am I. I’ll be down in a minute.”
“I’ll be waiting.”
I drop my phone into my purse feeling strange. Feeling light and off kilter, like I’m floating. It’s dangerous, what I’m doing. I won’t lie to myself and say I think this dinner is going to be all business, but I promise myself I’ll make a point of laying down the law with us. For both our sakes.
What happened in my office can never happen again. Not as long as I’m his agent. And I’m not about to give that up, not for anything. Not when I’m so close to making both our dreams come true.
Wurst Bar
Los Angeles, CA
“Worst Bar?” I ask skeptically. “That’s for real. That’s its name.”
Sloane smiles. “Vurst Bar. It’s German. They pronounce the W as a V.”
“That’s weird.”
“Blame Latin. They started it. Anyway, it’s delicious. You’re going to love it.”
“I would have loved a burrito from Taco Bell.”
She slides her silver Mercedes into an open spot across the street from the bar, smiling at me sideways. “Then you don’t know what love is. Don’t worry. I’ll show you.”
I maneuver myself out of her car, feeling like I have too much leg for the thing. I have to adjust my pants when I finally make it vertical. Sloane drove me by my apartment on the way to the restaurant so I could change out of my workout gear. I put on an old pair of jeans, a plain gray T-shirt, and my nicest Nikes. I also slapped on deodorant and cologne to cover what sweat scent I could, and dodged back out before the guys could get back from the gym. I don’t want to tell them what I’ve done or where I’m going. Who I’m going with. I don’t want to do that to Sloane.
The building is plain on the outside. It looks like an office except for the large, blocky letters spelling out Wurst Bar in gold and blue across the front. I follow Sloane inside, immediately hit with the smell of bread and beer when the door opens. It’s dimly lit under high ceilings with large exposed beams running the length of the room. Long wood tables with matching benches mirror the beams, spanning to the back where a bar dominates the wall with glowing bottles and neon lights in a language I can’t read.
The place is packed. It buzzes with the clink of glass and endless chatter. A huge TV is set into one wall. It’s broadcasting football highlights, probably more of the endless coverage of the upcoming Draft, and I immediately want to leave. I’m about to tell Sloane I can’t stay when she takes my hand in hers and pulls me toward a door on the right side of the room. She’s taking me away from the TV. I follow her mutely.
The door leads outside to a patio area with brilliant green grass, more long tables, and a gold and green canopy filled with humming heat lamps. The late evening light filters through the canopy giving the interior a mellow golden glow.
“I thought we could eat outside,” she tells me, releasing my hand. A small gust of wind rolls through her hair, pressing the strands to her chest. “Get away from the crowd and the TV.”
“Yeah, that’d be good.”
She smiles as she pulls her hair over her shoulder, out of the reach of the wind.
Some strange part of me wishes I had done it for her.
On our way to the tent, Sloane stops at a small white shed covered in ornate black writing. A girl in full beer garden costume smiles at her sweetly, asking for her order. She gets us a couple of beers, handing them to me as she adds on two massive, curved pretzels.
“I got it,” I tell her, looking for a spot to set down the beer so I can reach my wallet.
Sloane waves me away. “No, the agency has it. This is a business dinner. Let daddy pay for it.”
I frown, feeling like a dick. “I’m sorry about that.”
“Don’t be. You’re not the only one to bring it up. Happens all the time.”
“That makes me feel even worse.”
“You’ll find a way to make it up to me someday.” She picks up the pretzels, nodding to the tent. “Do you mind if we sit under a heat lamp? I didn’t bring a jacket and the wind is chilly.”
“Lead the way.”
The patio isn’t empty. Couples and groups are spaced out over the tables. Sloane chooses a spot toward the back, under a lamp and far from the crowd.
; “We’re gonna talk about it, aren’t we?” I ask, slowly sitting down across from her in our secluded corner.
She shrugs. “There’s not much to say, but I think we have to say it anyway.”
“Didn’t we say it in the office?”
“While we were naked,” she reminds me dully. “I think a little distance and a layer of clothing is a good buffer, and it won’t hurt to say it again.”
“We can’t sleep together,” I supply, getting it out of the way.
“No, we can’t. It’s too risky for both of us. And right now, this close to the Draft, surprises can hurt you.”
“Got it. We won’t do it again.”
“Okay.”
“Okay.”
I lean forward on the table, taking a sip of my beer as I look her over with interest. “Now, about those scraps…”
I love it when she smiles. When her pink lips curve into that wicked grin that’s real and honest and ready. “What do you want to know?”
“Let’s start with what you have on me. How many siblings do I have?”
“None,” she answers immediately. “You’re an only child to Donna and Lono Domata. Your mom is from Idaho originally. Your dad is a Hawaiian native.”
“All true. Now you.”
“I have a sister. Ellen. She’s younger. She’s studying abroad in Italy.” Her smile slips a little as her hands pick at the salt on her pretzel. “My dad you know. He grew up in L.A. No surprises there. My mom’s name is Bridge, but she tells everyone its Bri. She’s from Louisiana. She came to L.A. to be an actress when she was seventeen. It didn’t work out, but my dad did so she’s happy.”
“Was your dad already a sports agent when they met?”
“Yep. He was working for another agency back then. One he snaked clients away from to open his own firm six years later. Mom was working as a cheerleader for some low division basketball team. He was scouting a guy on the team, spotted her, and the rest is history.”
“Love at first sight, huh?”
“Sure.” She takes a long drag from her beer. “What other scraps do you want?”
“Where did I go to school?”
“Come on,” she laughs. “Everyone knows that. Give me something challenging.”
“Nah, I want to know where you went so I have to ask. Scrap for scrap.”
“You went to UCLA. I went to Stanford.”
“Fancy.”
“At times.”
“Pets?”
“You had a bird in Hawaii. He died two years ago. That was a rough week for you.”
I flex my hand around my glass, surprised by her insight. “Why was it rough?”
“It was the same week your parents were evicted from their house,” she answers quietly. She’s watching the bubbles roll up through her glass, giving me a break from her eyes. “They were on the streets for two weeks, bouncing between relatives. Your dad eventually got a job at an auto body shop and they were able to get into an apartment, but it was a bad time for you. You threw your first interception during the second week.”
I stare at her face, stunned by her knowledge but not offended. It’s surprising how nice it feels to have someone know. I never told anyone on the team. “I couldn’t do anything to help them. I was in this nice apartment in Los Angeles, paid for by the school and my scholarship, and my parents were homeless. I didn’t have any extra cash to give them, and they wouldn’t have taken it even if I did. They’ll never take money from me. Not even to come see me be Drafted.” I take a breath, pulling up short before my frustration runs away with me. “I was going crazy that month, you’re right. It was a bad time.”
“Because you were in the passenger seat.”
“Yeah. I spent every day waiting and wondering. I couldn’t take it.” I clear my throat, ripping a chunk of pretzel free and gesturing to her with it. “Now you.”
Sloane meets my eyes warily, her head cocked to the side. “Trey, we don’t have to do this.”
“Nah, it’s good. Come on. I want to know. Trust, right?”
She pinches her lips together briefly. “I don’t have any pets. I never have. My mom says she’s allergic to everything with fur and feathers. My parents live in a house in the hills. Same house Ellen and I grew up in.”
“Big?”
“Huge,” she answers honestly, refusing to elaborate.
“Your family has never had any money trouble?”
“I heard my dad complaining when I was in high school that he ‘made too much fucking money’ and the IRS was taxing his ‘fucking balls off for it’.”
“Those are the kind of problems you want to have.”
“You’re about to,” she tells me seriously. “When you sign up with a team you’re going to be a millionaire in a matter of seconds. Have you thought about what that means?”
I sit back, shaking my head. “No.”
“Have you sat down with a financial advisor?”
“I don’t even know what that is.”
“It’s an accountant. Someone who will help you manage your money.” Sloane’s face falls, shadowed by worry. “Brad didn’t send you a pamphlet on managing your finances?”
“No. I didn’t even know what to do with that check he wrote me. I was too nervous to ask.”
“The advance on your endorsements?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you cash it?”
“Finally, yeah. The money is sitting in my bank. I haven’t done anything with it.”
“It’s sitting in your checking account?”
“Yeah.” I frown, put off by her amazed tone. “Should it not be?”
“It’s fine there, but it could be working for you if it was somewhere else.” Sloane pulls out her phone, tapping wildly. “I’ll set up an appointment with my financial advisor. He can give you some ideas on what to do with the money to make it grow. He can help you handle the money you’re going to get after the Draft.”
“Will you go with me to meet him?”
She looks up in surprise. “If you want me to.”
“You’re my agent, right? Seems like you should be there.”
Sloane lowers her phone slowly. “Technically I’m not. Your agent, I mean. I’ll go with you, absolutely, but you’ve got to remember that I’m not your agent. Brad is.”
“Is it hard to do that?”
“What?”
“Remember when to call him Brad and when to call him Dad?”
She snorts. “I’ve called him Brad longer than anything else. The real trick is remembering to call him Dad. Mom insists on it whenever she’s around. Sometimes I slip up just to piss her off.”
A waitress appears, all cleavage and ruffles in the plunging neckline of her Bavarian costume. She smiles down at me happily. “Hey. Are you guys doing okay over here or can I get you something to eat?”
“Yeah, can we get a menu?”
“We don’t need a menu,” Sloane interrupts. “We’ll have a number seven and a number fifteen to share so we’ll need an extra plate or two. Thanks.”
The waitress smiles politely at Sloane before retreating slowly.
I cast her a wary glance. “I’m not used to having people order for me.”
“It’s all part of the trust exercise. Speaking of which, where were we?”
We pick up somewhere new, leaving the heavy conversations about money and family behind. We quiz each other on books and music. What movies we love. TV shows we’ve been addicted to. These are where the gaps in her info on me are. She doesn’t have any of this, but I give it to her as she shares hers with me, fleshing out the scraps for each other until they’re more meat than bone. By the time the food arrives we’ve exhausted almost every topic. All but the big one. The important one.
Football.
“You’re a traitor,” I inform her, stuffing a forkful of schnitzel into my mouth.
She was right to order for us. Her pick is perfection.
Sloane laughs, shaking her head. Her hair floats around he
r face in the firelight from the heat lamp, glistening and golden. “I’m not! I’m just… the Kodiaks are not my team.”
“You were born here. You grew up here. You have no excuse for not loving them.”
“They’re not any good.”
“They’re about to get a whole lot better.”
“And when they do, I’ll reconsider them.”
“That’s how you choose your team?” I ask her doubtfully. “By how good they are?”
“I’m superficial like that.”
“I think you’re lying.”
“I think you want me to be lying.”
“When I’m a Kodiak, are you gonna cheer for them?”
“Every game. Every season,” she swears.
I point my fork at her menacingly. “I’m gonna hold you to that.”
She bats my fork away with her own, swooping in to steal a gravy coated fry from my plate. “Put it in my contract.”
“Show me where to sign.”
Sloane smiles wanly, the expression falling before it gets off the ground. “You already did. With Brad.”
“What if I wanted to change that?”
She shakes her head, wiping gravy from her lip with her napkin. “No, don’t even ask that.”
“Why not?”
“Because it’s a bad idea. You signed with Brad. He’s bringing you endorsements. His name alone can open doors for you. You don’t want to burn that bridge and I don’t want him to think I’m snaking clients.”
“You’re not snaking me when you’re doing all of the work,” I tell her tightly.
She shakes her head again, not listening.
“Sloane, you deserve the credit when I sign.”
“Trey, don’t, okay?” she pleads, looking at me imploringly. “Promise me you won’t bring this up to my dad. We can’t do something like this, not after what we’ve already done. Let’s just sit tight, try not to rock the boat any more than we already have, and make it through Draft day without any drama. Can you promise me that?”
I lick my lips, sucking a deep breath in through my nose. I’m trying to stay calm, but the idea of her being shafted after everything she’s done for me leaves me hot inside. Boiling and angry in my veins.
