by Tracey Ward
“What number was I in high school?” I ask her quietly.
Her brow pinches in confusion. “Eighty-seven. Why?”
“No reason.”
She doesn’t believe me. She knows I’m lying because she’s smart. “Trey,”
I reach across the table, taking her hand. It’s warm from the lamp. Soft and small in mine. “Whatever happens with the Draft, I want you to know I appreciate you. I know you did everything you could for me.”
“I’m not done yet,” she promises with a brash smile. “I won’t quit until your name is called.”
“I know. That’s why I trust you.”
April 15th
Ashford Agency
Los Angeles, CA
I’m done with today. I’m done with this month. With this year. I want the Draft to hurry up and get here so it can hurry up and end so I can hurry up and get working on my next job. My next client. My next shot at jumpstarting my career.
Trey is a dream client turned nightmare. First his injury, then his panic attacks, and now this, the fact that I slept with him. The fact that I wanted it. That I liked it. That I’d do it again.
He’ll go in the first round, I’ll make damn sure of that, but whether or not it’s to the Kodiak’s I can’t be a hundred percent sure. I’ve done all I can to make it happen and with the trade with the Miner’s in place, I have a lot of hope that it will, but I’m not dumb enough to bank on the Kodiak’s alone. I tell Trey I’m getting safety nets into place, but I downplay how important I think they are. Precautions only, that’s what I tell him. I’m thorough. He knows that.
Meanwhile I’m gathering them like a squirrel looking for nuts to get her through the winter, banking them like my life depends on it because Trey’s actually does and that matters to me more than anything else. I’ve been talking to the Ravens. The Seahawks. The Browns. I flew out to Cincinnati yesterday to take a meeting with the GM. I have the head coach from the Vikings flying in tomorrow to talk business. He’s bringing his kids, all six of them. I scored them all day passes to Disneyland, no lines. No waiting. There’s a box in the corner of my office with mouse ears already embroidered with their names because I do my research. I do my job.
I’m busting my ass talking to every team with a first round pick and a quarterback that could use an update. Endless research, endless phone calls and e-mails and repeating myself over and over again. Laughing at jokes that aren’t funny. Complimenting careers that are in the toilet. Constant assurances that Trey’s hand is strong, totally healed. Hours of overtime, late nights and early days to accommodate east coast time zones. All of it to make good on the promise I made to him at the Combine and the promise I made to myself four years ago.
And all of it will go on my dad’s books.
Whether he’ll give me credit for it and start taking me seriously as an agent, I don’t know. I won’t know until it’s done, but whatever happens to me, I’m proud of Trey. I’m proud of what he’s accomplished, what we’ll accomplish together in two weeks, and even if he’s the only person in the world who acknowledges how hard I worked for him, it’ll all be worth it to me. He is worth it to me.
My main line rings on my desk, shrill like a siren. Brad has them programmed that way to keep us quick on answering the phones. All of them but his.
I recognize the number on the caller ID, smiling immediately.
“Demarcus Sawyer, how are you?” I answer affectionately.
“I’m fucking cold, Sly,” he answers harshly. “It’s snowing. Is it snowing in Los Angeles?”
“It never snows in Los Angeles.”
“It never stops in Ottawa.”
“That’s not true. I heard there’s a week in August that’s very nice.”
“You’re hilarious,” he replies dully. “You should quit as my agent and start doing stand up.”
“Who says I don’t already? Did you not catch my show at the Apollo?”
Demarcus laughs. “I would pay to see your skinny ass in the Apollo. Tell me when. I’ll buy my ticket today.”
“You’ll be the first to hear about it when it happens. In the meantime, what can I do for you, D? Do you need me to send you some gloves? A puffy coat?”
“I need you to get me the fuck out of here.”
“I’m working on it.”
“That’s what you say every time I call.”
“And every time it’s true. Shake ups are happening with the Draft coming up. If teams can’t get what they need from the rookies, they’ll start looking elsewhere and I’ll be there with your highlight reel in my hand and your name on my lips, I promise you that.”
He’s silent for a long time, but I don’t push. We have this same conversation every few weeks. I hate doing it because I know he’s unhappy and I want to do whatever I can to get him to a better place, but I can’t sell what no one is shopping for.
Demarcus is one of those unfortunate stories about a talented kid who went undrafted out of college. He was a ‘dud’ according to Brad, a sign that he thought would pay off but ended up pulling only fifty thousand a year in the Canadian Football League. Unwilling to cut him loose until he’d earned back as much of the marketing advance as he could, Brad handed him off to me. He was my first client and I managed to get him bumped up to sixty-five thousand last year, but I haven’t been able to bring him home. He wants to keep playing football but no one in the States wants him to play for them. It’s a sad story, but a common one in this business. There are only so many teams, only so many positions, and every year fresh players enter the mix looking for a slot. Like I told Trey, the Draft is drama. It’s not a guarantee of anything. Just because you’re in it doesn’t mean you’re going to be a millionaire.
“I know, I know,” Demarcus mutters quietly, his attitude downshifting. “You’re doing right by me, I know that.”
“Why don’t you come home? Fly back to Florida, spend some time in the sun with your family, and I’ll come out to meet with you after the Draft. We’ll talk strategy.”
“What’s up? You don’t want to fly up here to Canada?”
“No, I do not. I will buy your ticket to get you to Florida if it means I don’t have to go to Canada.”
I can hear him chuckling softly. “Yeah, I hear that. I can’t get my girl to come up here either.”
“So go see her. I’ll book you a flight on the agency and I’ll see you in three weeks. Deal?”
“Yeah. Yeah, it’s a deal.” He pauses, his wheels turning so hard I can almost hear them. “I don’t know if I wanna keep doing this, Sloane. I miss my family. I miss my girl. I miss America. Hell, I even miss the fucking Gators. I don’t know if this is worth it, ya know?”
I nod my head even though he can’t see it. “It’s not for everyone. You’ve gotta make that choice for yourself. I think a trip home is a good way to get some clarity on what you want out of life. Do you want a paycheck? Or do you want to be happy?”
“I want both.”
“And I’ll never stop trying to make that happen for you, D.”
He sighs heavily. “Yeah, I know. Hit me with that ticket. I’m coming home.”
“You got it. And I’ll see you in March, alright? I wanna do dinner with you and your family.”
“My mom’s gonna try to hook you up with my brother again,” he warns.
“I look forward to it.”
“You’re twisted, Sly, but I like it. I’ll see you soon.”
“See you soon.”
I hang up the phone with a heavy heart.
Demarcus is one of two official clients I have in my roster. The other is Paul Gibson, a free safety riding the pine for the Panthers. He wasn’t especially exceptional in college and he got on with the Panthers only because I shoved him down their throat for months and his dad is an NFL legend from the eighties. He got on with the bare minimum rookie salary of four hundred thirty-five thousand dollars and no contract. They could kick him off the team tomorrow if they wanted to, and every day I’m surprise
d that they don’t. The guy is a total tool, dropping his dad’s name left and right. He’s everything I hope to never be in this world and when my dad took him on as a favor to Mike Gibson, he was quick to hand him off to me, wiping his hands clean of the entire deal. I think Brad saw some kind of poetry in that. Or maybe he saw it as a slight. An insult to have me representing Mike’s son.
Either way, neither Paul nor I should be happy about it.
Everyone has that one client, though. The one that you’re emotionally invested in. That you want to see succeed more than any of the others. You’d think for me it would be Trey, but even if he was officially ‘mine’, I’d always be pulling harder in my heart for Demarcus. He’s a good guy with a big personality and an incredible work ethic. As unhappy as he is, he still gives it everything he’s got every game. Every practice. The coaches in Canada love him. I know for a fact I can get an extra five to seven grand on his salary next year, but I’m not sure D wants it, and that breaks my heart. I hate to think of him giving up something he loves, but if you’re unhappy where you are you can’t ignore that. Eventually something’s got to give.
My phone vibrates on my desk with a new message. It’s from Trey.
I gave my truck away.
I scoff, amazed. There’s no way he parted with the useless piece of shit.
Whoever you gave it to, you owe them money.
Very funny.
I’m told I should do stand up.
Someone is lying to you.
I think it might be you. Did you really get rid of it?
Gave it to charity just now.
That’s very philanthropic of you.
It was stupid of me. I didn’t think it through.
I smile, shaking my head. Already pretty sure I know where this is going. You don’t have a ride home, do you?
You know me so well.
I know you like to get stranded. Call a cab.
That’s cold.
Uber?
Arctic.
Text me the address. I’ll send you the bus route to get home.
Quit playing. Come get me.
I’m working.
This is work. I need help buying a new truck.
I’m tempted. That’s why he’s doing this; because Trey Domata is a master of temptation.
I really can’t, I tell him, holding my ground. I’m swamped.
I saw my name on a headline on NFL.com
DON’T READ IT! You promised a full media blackout!
I’m feeling weak.
Stop.
I shouldn’t be alone.
You’re a grown man. You’ll be fine.
Come on, Sloane.
Don’t say it.
Play with me.
He fucking said it. My body flushes, my hands holding my phone a little too tightly, and suddenly I’m the one who’s weak.
Send me the address.
You sending a limo?
No.
I stand from my desk. I grab my purse.
I know it’s wrong.
I’m coming, I tell him.
Miles Chevrolet and Cadillac
Los Angeles, CA
Sloane helps me check out a brand new Chevy Colorado. It’s red. It has leather seats, satellite radio, and Wi-Fi. That shit blows my mind. My old truck didn’t even have air conditioning. This one is pulling music from satellites in outer space.
I feel weird getting behind the wheel for the first time. I almost back out, almost tell the sales guy to forget it, but Sloane hops in the passenger seat and sits there looking like money, like she belongs, and when she casts me that playful smile of hers, I wonder if I don’t belong too. It’s at least worth giving it a shot.
“Take it for a spin,” the old guy tells me, closing my door for me like a valet. He’s clearly not going with us, a fact that I don’t understand at all. “Take your time. Enjoy the afternoon. See how she feels.”
I run my thumb over the key fob in my palm. It’s beginning to sweat. “Just around the block or…”
“Take it on the freeway at least,” Sloane suggests. “You want to know how it accelerates.”
The guy taps my door twice as a send off. He’s already backing away. “Like I said, enjoy the afternoon. Call us if you’re going to keep it overnight.”
“What the fuck is happening?” I whisper to Sloane. “What’s to stop us from stealing this thing?”
“Morals?”
“Seriously though.”
She chuckles as she snaps her seatbelt over her chest. “He photocopied my driver’s license while you were checking out the colors. They know who has the car. Plus it has a GPS tracker chip so you can find it if it does get stolen. Don’t worry about it. Just drive it.”
“I already feel like I’m stealing it.”
“They want you to feel like it’s yours. That’s why they don’t go with you. They want you to get comfortable in it, so get comfortable. Adjust the seat, change the radio presets. Take us for a long drive, Trey. Relax. Enjoy yourself.”
I gently put the key in the ignition. When I turn it over the truck rumbles to life, throaty and easy like it’s singing. “How far should I go?”
She leans back, lowering her big black sunglasses over her eyes. “Until you’re happy.”
I take us to the ocean. I drive as far and as hard up against the California coastline as I can get, as close to Hawaii as the land will allow. Sloane rolls down her window to let the ocean in. She changes the music on the radio from contemporary pop to a classic rock station and leaves it there as we weave our way north up the Pacific Coast highway. It takes almost an hour to find Malibu.
“Should we turn back?” I ask her.
“Are you happy yet?” she replies.
I keep going.
I drive until we lose the ocean, diverted inland at Oxnard, led up to Ventura where we cut west and find it again. Blue and green and glistening in the fading afternoon sun. It’ll be on fire soon. I don’t want to miss that.
Thirty minutes later I pull off at a viewpoint on the outskirts of a tiny town called Isla Azul. Several cars are parked by the access path to the beach. None of them are very new. None of them are very shiny. All of them have a roof rack on top, perfect for surf boards. I park the very new, very shiny truck far away from them on the other side of the lot where there’s a food truck serving tacos and warm Fanta. Sloane and I take our orders to a gray picnic table at the base of a wind-bent tree. She sits next to me, shoulder to shoulder, her hair blowing long and free behind her. We watch the surfers out in the water as we eat.
“Are you any good at it?” she asks.
“At surfing?”
She wipes a bit of guac off her lip with a thin brown napkin. “Yeah.”
“Wow. Just because I’m from Hawaii, I know how to surf, huh?”
“Do you not?”
“That’s not the point.”
“What is the point?”
“Your assumptions. That’s a stereotype. Next thing you know you’ll be asking me if I know how to hula and roast a pig in the sand.”
Sloane pauses, silently chewing on her picadillo and my indignation. “You know how to do all of that, don’t you?”
I grin into my drink. “I know how to do everything.”
“You’re an asshole.”
“I am, yeah. But I’m a happy asshole.”
Out of the corner of my eye I catch a small smile on her lips.
“I’m glad.”
When we’re done eating and the blazing sun has been extinguished in the cool waters of the Pacific, Sloane calls the dealership to tell them we’ll be bringing the car back first thing in the morning.
“Are you going to buy it?” she asks as we climb back inside.
I look out the windshield at the water turning dark. Some of the surfers are still out, the serious ones. The crazy ones. Others are coming back in and latching their boards to the roof of their cars.
I ask Sloane, “Do you know how to surf?”
&nbs
p; “Badly, but yes.”
“Do you want to get better?”
“Are you offering to teach me?”
“I’m asking you to go with me.”
She considers the sky before agreeing, “Yes.”
“Do you think a couple boards would fit in the bed of this truck?”
“I think most of the inventory for a small surf shop would fit in the bed of this truck.”
I turn the key, making the engine growl. “Then I’d be an idiot not to buy it.”
I take her home. It takes hours. It feels like minutes. She invites me up to her apartment and we drink beers on the balcony of her condo in the dark, looking out silently over the glittering Los Angeles skyline. It’s different from the ocean, but it’s still beautiful in its own way. In ways that are growing on me.
I hug her goodbye when I go. She smells like sea salt. Like home.
In the morning I take her with me to buy the truck. It takes longer than I expected, but she stays with me the entire time. It reminds me of the day in the Ashford Agency when I signed my life away and wished I hadn’t been alone, because this time I’m not. She doesn’t say or do anything other than sit there beside me, but it’s enough. It’s what I need. It’s what I’ve been missing.
I’ve talked to her every day since then. Every afternoon I get a text from her, checking in to make sure I’m not sitting around watching Sports Center. I make sure that I’m not because I promised her I’d try.
Can I check ESPN? I plead.
No.
NFL.com?
No!
FOX Sports?
Do you even know what a media blackout is?
It seems self-explanatory.
It does, doesn’t it? she replies. Her sarcasm is heavy even through text.
CBS Sports?
Get a hobby!
This is my hobby!
Bugging me?!
Following sports! Playing sports!
Obsessing over sports.
It’s how you get good at it.
Well, I need to get good at my job, so…
Sloane.
Silence.
Sloane.
Silence.
Sloane.
OH MY GOD!
