by Tracey Ward
Our conversations go back and forth this way well into the evening. They always end with us having dinner. She doesn’t expense it the agency anymore. One night she even lets me pay.
Some nights we go back to her place for a beer and the view. Other nights that feels too dangerous. Nights when we’ve been in a corner booth for two hours laughing and talking shit about people we shouldn’t be talking about. When we sit too close for too long. Those are the nights when I tell her goodbye on the sidewalk. I don’t hug her. I don’t touch her if I can help it, because once I start I’m not sure I can stop.
She’s busy during the day. She’s working hard, taking lunches and meetings all day as we get closer to the Draft. She’s scouting other teams, making more connections. Giving me a fall back in the second round. She’s more worried about the Kodiaks situation than she’s letting on, but I feel better knowing she’s on top of it. I’m calmer than I have been in ages.
I’m also conflicted as hell.
We’re spending all of this time together, I crave her like a drug, but we’re coming to a point where the talking and the laughing isn’t enough. I want to have sex with her again. And again. And again. But I know I can’t. I remind myself of that every time she smiles and it makes my stomach drop. I have to be careful because there’s too much at stake for both of us. We’re already toeing the line, pushing our luck, but I can’t stop because I can’t sleep without her. Her voice is my new music.
It sounds sweet, but when you get real about it, we’re basically a clusterfuck.
Normally if I have a problem, I take it to my mom. Maybe my dad. But not this one. I can’t talk to them about this because I can’t tell them what I’ve done. That’s an awkward conversation none of us want to have. The guys are worthless because they’ll only tell me to fuck her again. There’s really only one other person on the planet I respect enough to ask their opinion.
“Coach Reagan.”
He turns from the white board he was pouring over, smiling when he sees me.
“Trey, what are you doing here this late?”
“I came to talk to you, if that’s okay?”
“Of course it is. What about? Graduation?”
“No, I’m all set.”
“What time is your ceremony?”
“Two in the afternoon on the tenth.”
“I’ll be there.”
“Thanks, Coach.”
He caps his red marker, studying me. “If it’s not a question about commencement, what can I help you with?”
I search the large office just to be sure we’re alone. No one is sitting in the corners with a playbook. No one is hunched behind his computer. With the season over the place is a ghost town. One I’m haunting by being here.
I close the door behind me as I take a steadying breath. “I might have done something stupid.”
“How stupid?”
I meet his eyes head on. “I had sex with my agent.”
Coach Reagan pulls nervously on the bill of his hat until it all but covers his weathered green eyes. “I hope you mean you slept with your agent’s daughter.”
“Yeah. I do. I did.”
“You shouldn’t have done that.”
“I know.”
“Did you use protection?”
“Yeah, of course. I always do.”
“You knew it was wrong to sleep with her, you took the time to put on a condom, and you didn’t stop yourself? Trey, you’re smarter than that.”
I swallow thickly. “I was panicking.”
I can see his body sag slightly, weighed down by the secret he’s kept for four years. He’s lied for me. He’s pretended and covered for me, never letting on to a soul that the prize pony the world was salivating over was lame.
“You need to see a doctor, Trey,” he says tiredly. He folds his arms over his chest, shaking his head. “It’s not getting any better.”
“If I see a doctor for it, I’m done for. My career is over.”
“You can’t keep going like this. I shouldn’t have helped you hide it as long as I did.”
“I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”
“I don’t know that it was right. I’ll always wonder if I did right by you.”
“Coach, I’m fine. I—“
“The pressure in the NFL is only going to get worse,” he interrupts angrily. “Your attacks will only get worse, and I’m worried someday I’m going to see a news story about you saying that you went on a bender, got coked out of your mind trying to find an escape, and you wrapped your truck around a tree. And I’ll always wish I had done things differently.”
I square my shoulders, my jaw tensing painfully. “I won’t. I wouldn’t have things any other way. I wouldn’t be in the Draft if you hadn’t hidden this for me, and if I don’t draft I can’t take care of my family. Everything depends on this.”
He shakes his head again, his shadowed eyes sad. “It’s too much pressure for a kid. All of it, it’s too much to put on any of you.”
“Well, it’s too late now,” I tell him hotly.
Coach Reagan sighs in glum agreement. “You’re right. And that’s exactly what I’ll say to you about Sloane. It’s too late now.”
“That’s your advice?”
“You didn’t ask my advice. You unloaded your burden. If you want advice, you should ask for it.”
“I want your advice.”
“On what exactly?”
“What to do about Sloane,” I snap, feeling exasperated. “Do I keep letting her work her ass off as my agent or do I walk away because it’s getting complicated?”
“Have you even seen Brad Ashford since he signed you?”
I pause, stunned to realize that, no. I haven’t. It hasn’t bothered me much because the endorsement deals keep coming in. Gatorade and Subway are locked and contracted. Sloane has been handling all of my career work. I can’t believe I didn’t realize that Brad Ashford is officially my agent and I haven’t laid eyes on him or heard his voice in months.
“No,” I admit grudgingly. “But Sloane is always around.”
“You should have signed with her.”
“Yeah, I know that now.”
“I’ve never gotten a call from Brad about you, but I’ve been on Sloane’s speed dial for the last two years. She was one of the first people to call me when you got hurt in the National Championship game, and she was one of the only calls I returned that night.”
“You hate talking to agents.”
“Well, I like her. Stick with her. That’s my advice. Brad Ashford is a fat, happy cat sitting in the sun. That girl is a hungry pit bull.”
I snort, picturing her car. Her designer clothes. “She doesn’t look hungry.”
“Believe me, she is. She’s a woman in a man’s world, and to make it worse she’s beautiful. People don’t take her seriously. They have no idea she’s smarter than most of them. She’s hungry to prove that she is. She has to prove she knows the game both on and off the field, and she has to play it better than everybody or they’ll all dismiss her. Even her dad. She’s flat out starving to prove her worth to him, so do whatever you gotta do to stay with her. That’s the best advice I’ll ever give you.”
“But I’m not with her now.”
“Then you better find a way to be, and fast. Otherwise all of her hard work and yours will pay off for her dad and I don’t trust him for one second. He’s looking out for himself, no one else. He’ll burn you eventually.”
“He’s already tried.”
“Then get out while you can.”
“But what do I do about everything else? What do I do about Sloane?”
“Fall in love with her for all that it matters, but you keep your dick in your pants, Trey,” he tells me bluntly. “If not for your sake, do it for hers.”
“I’m not falling in love with her.”
“No,” he chuckles to himself. “Of course you’re not.”
April 24th
Ashford Agency
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br /> Los Angeles, CA
I make an emergency appointment with Brad Ashford. He’s a tough guy to pin down so ‘emergency’ ends up being three days after I talked to Coach Reagan. I’ve had a lot of time to think about the situation. To stew on it. To worry about it. Stress it.
I’m not in my finest form when I show up at his office the night I finally catch him in town. My mood is made worse by the fact that I have to hurry before he leaves to make a flight to New York. Apparently he has Knicks tickets. Courtside.
He reminds me of it the second I step into his office.
“What number was I in high school?” I ask him in reply.
Brad smiles. It’s full of white teeth. It’s empty. “What are you talking about, son?”
“My jersey number in high school. What was it?”
“I can find that out easily enough. Let me find your file.”
“No, I’m not asking you what your file says about me. I’m asking you what number I was. I’m asking if you know.”
He watches me carefully as he leans slowly back in his chair. “Not off the top of my head, no.”
“I want out of my contract.”
He studies me patiently, intentionally drawing out the moment. He’s doing it to rattle me. To put himself back in control and shake my confidence.
He has no idea who he’s dealing with.
“Are you unsatisfied with your representation?” he finally asks coolly.
“From you? Yeah. I am.”
“Not good enough.”
“It’s good enough for me. Cut me loose,” I repeat, hating that I have to. I don’t like asking twice. It’s one step away from when I start telling. When I start yelling.
“It won’t be good enough for the lawyers.” Ashford sits forward in his chair. He rests his arms on the top of his massive black desk that sits like a wall between us. “You can only exit your contract if you have proof that the Ashford Agency as a whole has been negligent in your representation. Are you ready to make that claim?”
I breathe in sharply, my nostrils flaring. “No.”
“I wouldn’t think so. Not after I delivered Subway and Gatorade to your door, and got Oakley circling the block. And if I’m not mistaken, another agent has been in talks with the Kodiaks to get you taken in the first round.”
“Sloane,” I remind him, saying her name with force, willing her presence into the room with me where she belongs. “Sloane did that. And you tried to blow it the fuck up.”
“I made a suggestion in the name of representation for another client. It’s all part of the job. So many athletes, so few teams; eventually interests will run contrary. I do what I can to be fair when that happens.”
I shake my head tightly, my anger rising faster than I could have imagined. I knew I’d be angry talking to Ashford, but now that I’m here, now that he’s telling me no, telling me I’m trapped, I’m spiraling out. I’m losing control.
“You threw me under the bus to get a bigger pay day out of Larkin,” I growl.
“Yes,” Ashford agrees, unashamed. “Of course I did. Larkin doesn’t have half the charisma that you do, and after the DUI last year I wouldn’t be able to get Walmart to advertise with him. His only strength is his skill, so that’s what we’re playing to. You’ll do well in the draft, Trey. I have no doubt about it. And whatever amount of money you feel you’ll lose by not going in the first round, I’ll help you make up in endorsements.”
“You’re going to earn me nine million dollars in endorsements?”
His smile is patronizing. “No, but I’ll sure try.”
“I won’t sign a contract with a team if you’re my agent,” I tell him angrily, surprised by my own words.
His smile tightens as it fades. “That’s a bold threat, son.”
“It’s a promise, not a threat. I won’t go forward with my career with you as my agent.”
“That’s a breach of contract. I could, and would, sue you.” He shakes his head sadly. “Stand down, son. You’re locked in. Enjoy the ride.”
I’m breathing too quickly. It’s making my head spin. “An injury isn’t a breach.”
“You’re not injured.”
I hold up my right hand, curling it into a fist so tight my knuckles go white. I stalk to the opposite side of his office. To the stark white stucco wall. One hard snap of my arm and my fist crumbles the clay surface. Powder falls onto the dark floor, white as snow. Dusted with red.
Pain explodes from my knuckles where they cut against the rough surface. My hand is caked in white around the gashes, but some sick part of me is calmed by it. It’s happy because this is an exit. This is control, and I’m taking it back, no matter what the cost.
I turn to Ashford, my face perfectly calm.
His is not.
“What the fuck are you doing?!” he exclaims, exploding out of his chair.
“Exiting my contract.”
“You crazy son of a bitch, you’ll throw your career away. Your whole life!”
I pull my arm back, reloading.
“Stop!”
“I want you off my contract,” I remind him. I don’t look at him. My eyes are focused on the wall where my hand has left a crater in the surface. I’ll leave another if he doesn’t listen. And another. I’ll go until my hand is mangled and useless and he’ll be forced to let me go, because I’m not walking out of this office with him standing on Sloane’s shoulders the way he has been.
“I’ll meet you halfway,” Ashford offers.
I throw the punch. A second hole. A new round of cuts across my knuckles.
“Jesus Christ, stop and talk to me!” he demands angrily.
“You’re not listening, but you better start. Eventually I’ll hit a stud.”
The door bursts open on my left.
“Sir, are you alright? I heard shouting and the wall…” His assistant’s voice trails off as she takes in the scene. The wall. My hand. The blood. “I—do you want me to call security?”
“No, Missy. It’s alright. Mr. Domata and I are having a conversation,” Ashford assures her impatiently. He rounds his desk, shooing her out the door. “That’ll be all. Thank you.”
“Yes, sir. If you’re sure.”
“I’m sure. Out.”
He slams the door shut behind her, dropping his head as he leans his palms against its white surface. “Are you on something?” he asks tiredly.
“No.”
“You should be.”
“You’re not the first person to say that.”
He sighs, dropping his hands as he stands up straight. “Listen to me, Trey. Put your damn hand down and listen to me. I have a solution. One you’re going to like.”
“Does it keep you on my contract?”
“Yes, but it gives you what you want.”
I hesitate, not sure how that’s possible. “What I want is you off my contract.”
“And who do you want in my place?”
“Sloane. I want Sloane.”
“No. What you want is money. We all do.”
“That’s not what this about.”
He chuckles softly as he crosses to the couch by the window, falling gracefully into the plush leather. “Money is always what it’s about, even when we think it’s not. You’re here because you don’t feel that I’ve earned my keep representing you. I disagree. Again, I cite the endorsement deals I’ve brought to you and the ones I’ll be able to bring you in the future if you stop beating hundreds of thousands of dollars out of your hand and into my walls. Now sit your ass down, and listen to my proposal.”
I turn to face him dead on, crossing my arms over my chest, but I do not sit down.
Ashford gives me a ‘have it your way’ face before relaxing back into the couch. He laces his fingers over his chest comfortably.
“What you want is for the money the agency makes from your contracts, your professional career contracts,” he clarifies, “to go to Sloane. Correct?”
“Yeah.”
�
��Done.”
I frown, unconvinced. “What’s the catch?”
“It’s not so much a catch as a caveat. A caveat is a stipulation to an agreement.”
“I went to college. I know what a caveat is.”
Ashford shrugs. “The education system being what it is, you never know.”
“What’s the caveat?”
“You stay with me on endorsements.”
“No.”
“Take a second to think about it. Has Sloane done any leg work for you on endorsement deals?”
I shake my head reluctantly. “No. Not that I know of.”
“Because she doesn’t have the contacts for it. Coaches and GMs, they love her. She speaks their language. But ad execs don’t give a shit how many touchdowns you threw in college. They want to know if they can photograph you naked wearing a pair of Oakleys and plaster it on billboards across the country.”
“I’m not doing that,” I growl.
“And that’s why you need me. I know how to negotiate them down to swim trunks on Huntington Beach and still get you over half a million dollars. I can help you pick up endorsements like STDs at a whorehouse. Sloane will never be able to do that for you.”
My hand pulses angrily, the skin around my knuckles screaming in hot fury, but I take my time. I control the pain and the situation. I wait him out until he unlaces his hands, leaning forward on his knees impatiently.
“This is the best deal I’m going to give you, Trey, and it’s a good one. It gives you everything you want. Fame. Wealth.”
Sloane, I think ardently.
I step forward, offering him my hand covered in plaster, pain, and blood.
“Deal.”
Wilshire Regent Condominiums
Los Angeles, CA
“It was a nightmare,” Hollis groans at the ceiling.
I take a slow sip of my wine, looking down at him on the floor from where I’m curled up on the couch. “It must have been, because you’ve gone full diva on the ground.”
“Don’t be a bitch.”
“Don’t be a drama queen.”
“He wore a tank top to dinner. I’ve earned this.”
“Where’d you meet him?”
“The gym, where he was also wearing a tank top. I had no idea it was the only type of shirt he owned.”
