Rookie Mistake

by Tracey Ward

  “They are,” I confirm with a smile. “The commissioner must have taken the podium. They always boo him.”

  “Why?”

  “Some people probably have a real reason, some beef about how he handled something, but it’s tradition at this point. The Commissioner of the NHL and the NBA get booed on Draft day too.”

  “With the first pick of the NFL Draft, the Jacksonville Jaguars are now on the clock,” the Commissioner announces loudly.

  I point to the screens surrounding us, broadcasting what’s happening on stage on the other side of the wall. They’ve gone to a graphic of the Jaguars logo. “They have an amazing quarterback who’s been on their roster for three years. They won’t choose Trey.”

  “But you think the Kodiaks will.”

  I give a small grin. “That’s the plan.”

  Trey catches my eye as I sit back in my seat. I’m surprised when he smiles. He’s shockingly calm for a guy in his position. Look around the room right now and you’ll find stone faced young men with blank eyes trying desperately not to lose their shit as they wait for their name to be called, assuming it’s called at all, and somehow my anxiety riddled Trey is the coolest seat in the house.

  Six minutes. That’s how long the Jaguars take to make their pick. It’s a long time for a team that’s been sitting around with the first pick of the Draft in their pocket.

  “Booo!”

  Trey’s mom shakes her head. “It’s just rude.”

  I laugh nervously.

  My hands are starting to sweat.

  “With the first pick in the NFL Draft, the Jacksonville Jaguars select… BJ Leonard. Defensive end. Louisiana.”

  The Green Room breaks into applause, the theater outside going insane. We watch BJ stand from his table to hug his family and his agent before he heads for the exit, all smiles and relief. Cameramen and photographers follow him out.

  We turn to the screens to watch him make his way across the stage to thunderous applause from the hundreds of fans that pack the house. The Commissioner gives him a handshake and a hug. He hands him a Jaguars jersey with his name already on the back. They pose for pictures. BJ is led off stage where he’ll be cornered by the media.

  Days, weeks, and months of waiting and it’s all over in under a minute.

  The Commissioner approaches the podium.

  “Booo!”

  “With the second pick of the NFL Draft, the Tampa Bay Buccaneers are now on the clock.”

  Trey’s parents both look to me expectantly.

  I shake my head. “Tampa Bay has a solid offense and they just hired a new defensive coordinator. He’ll be shopping the big boys in the Draft. They won’t take Trey.”

  We wait four minutes on Tampa Bay. Finally the Commissioner returns to the podium. The pick is in.

  “The Tampa Bay Buccaneers have traded the second pick to the Cincinnati Bengals. The Bengals are now on the clock.”

  The clock begins to tick but my world screeches to a heart shattering stop.

  “Oh no,” I breathe. I swallow hard, my stomach rising in my throat.

  “What’s happening?” Lono asks eagerly.

  “The Bengals are in the market for a quarterback.”

  I look at Trey apologetically, my stomach flipping. His eyes are in the distance. I’m not even sure he’s listening, but he knows. He knows exactly what’s at stake.

  “I’ve been selling Trey to them for the last month,” I confess quietly.

  Donna frowns. “Why would you do that when he wanted California?”

  “It was a safety net. The Bengals weren’t supposed to pick until late in the night. I thought Trey would be gone by then.”

  “And you didn’t plan for something like this?”

  “You can’t plan for the Draft,” Trey tells her almost inaudibly, his eyes on the table. “There are always surprises. Everyone is a passenger.”

  My phone rings on the table. I recognize the number, snatching it up immediately.

  “Coach Allen, good to hear from you,” I answer clearly, letting Trey know it’s the Kodiaks.

  “How’s he doing, Sloane?”

  “He’s the calmest of all of us.”

  “That’s the way to be tonight, if you can manage it. Look, I’m gonna ask you something and I need you to be straight with me. Your agency, they’ve never lied to me before. Don’t start now, do you hear me?”

  “Yes, sir. I hear you.”

  “Did the surgery fix his hand? Can he throw?”

  I frown, confused out of my mind. I wonder for a second if he hasn’t called the wrong number. “Coach, I—um…”

  Trey pulls out his phone, checking a message.

  “Sloane, be real with me.”

  Trey shoves his phone in my face. His message is from Coach Allen.

  Play along.

  “Uh…” I stall stupidly. I have no idea what the hell is going on here.

  “Speak up, hon,” Coach Allen tells me. “I’m listening.”

  I lick my lips as the pieces fall into place. At least I hope they’re the right pieces, otherwise I’m about to sink my own battleship with this next move. I have to be careful. I have to make sure we take on a little bit of water, just enough, without going under.

  “To be honest,” I answer slowly, “we don’t know. It’s too soon to tell.”

  “Can he throw?”

  My heart is hammering in my ears when I say, “He can’t even palm an orange, let alone a football.”

  Trey’s mom leans forward angrily. “What are—“

  Trey silences her with a quick shake of his head, a finger on his lips.

  “That’s a terrible shame,” Coach Allen laments.

  “It is. He’s really struggling with it. We all are. Of course, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t share this information with anyone else. Trey would fall right out of the Draft if anyone knew we aren’t out of the woods on his injury yet.”

  “No, no. The secret is safe with me.”

  “Thank you.”

  “No, thank you for being up front with me.”

  “I assume you’ll be drafting Andre Larkin in a few minutes.”

  “I can’t say for sure, you understand, but it’s looking that way.”

  “He’s a solid choice. Another Ashford Agency powerhouse.”

  “Trey will go to someone today,” he promises me sadly. So sadly I start to wonder if this conversation is what I think it is. “I’m sorry it won’t be me. Can’t take that chance, though.”

  “Yes, sir. I understand that.”

  “Good luck tonight, kiddo. Tell Trey I’m praying for a speedy recovery. I hope my boys face off with him on the field real soon.”

  Abruptly, the coach hangs up.

  I drop my phone on the table feeling like I’m going to vomit.

  “What are you doing?” Donna insists angrily.

  “Playing the game,” I reply coolly. I tap Trey’s right arm. “You need to get this hand visible. The cameras are going to be on you while the announcers speculate whether or not the Bengals are going to pick you. They need to see the bandage on your hand. Keep it near your face.”

  “Is this going to work?” he asks, lifting his hand into view. He runs his fingers along his jaw slowly as he speaks to me, acting like he’s listening intently.

  “Is what going to work?” Lono demands.

  I search Trey’s eyes, wishing I had more to repay their faith with than, “I hope so.”

  Nine minutes and thirty-seven seconds pass before the Bengals hand in their pick. The entire Green Room has started to sweat as we all wonder if we’ll see the pick move on to the next team, but finally the call is made. They hand it in.

  It goes to the Commissioner.

  “Booo!”

  “With the second pick in the NFL Draft, the Cincinnati Bengals select… Jerrell Novak. Quarterback. Texas.”

  I let out a rush of air as Trey’s head falls heavily forward. To the outside observer he looks crushed. Shocked that h
e was leapfrogged by a lesser quarterback. Only three people in the world know the truth. Trey, me, and the very old yet very cunning Coach Allen.

  Jerrell isn’t in the building. He wasn’t expected to draft until number fifteen so he stayed home with his family in New Jersey. The feed on the TVs cuts to his stunned reaction and the madness of his family celebrating around him. He grabs his phone, bringing it to his ear with wide eyes. He’s getting the call. His team is welcoming him home.

  “With the third pick of the NFL Draft, the Cleveland Browns are now on the clock.”

  Donna looks desperately between Trey and I. “What is happening?” she hisses.

  Trey lifts his head to smile at her. “Sloane just saved me from playing in Cincinnati.”

  “They were going to pick you?”

  “Probably.”

  She slaps his shoulder hard. “Don’t you want to be picked? Isn’t that the point of all of this?”

  “I want to be picked by the Kodiaks.”

  “Trey, you don’t get to pick and choose with this. It’s a draft. They choose you. You do not choose them.”

  “You do when you have the right agent.”

  “You’re taking a big risk,” Lono scolds me darkly, his once friendly eyes falling angrily on my face. “Telling people he’s injured could ruin him tonight.”

  “It’s a risk I’m willing to take,” Trey assures them confidently.

  “For what?”

  “For the chance to stay in L.A.”

  “Why does that matter to you so much? How is that worth risking everything you’ve worked for?”

  “Because it’s what I need,” he answers simply.

  His mom sighs, her face falling. She’s not disappointed in him. She looks more concerned. Maybe a little afraid. “So the Kodiaks don’t really think you’re injured?”

  I shake my head. “Coach Allen had someone from Cincinnati on the phone with us. Maybe their coach or even the whole war room. Either way, he made sure they heard me swear up and down in a ‘private’ conversation that Trey is a big fat question mark and that he should pass on him when his turn comes. You better believe he played it off like he was doing them a favor giving them a heads up, and when California chooses Trey tonight he’ll piss and moan in public about it to the media to make sure the Bengals think his GM made the call, not him.”

  “So the Kodiaks will pick him tonight?”

  “That’s still up in the air, nothing is ever for certain until it happens, but it looks more likely now than ever before. The Browns don’t need a quarterback. They need a running back and a center. They won’t pick Trey.”

  “Hopefully they pick Larkin,” Trey mutters.

  “Right. I’d feel better if he was off the table when the Kodiaks go on the clock.”

  “Why?” Lono asks curiously.

  Trey frowns. “Because the Kodiaks need a running back too.”

  The pick is in. The runner takes it to the table at the bottom of the stage. The pick is confirmed. They hand it to the Commissioner.

  “Booo!”

  “With the third pick of the NFL Draft, the Cleveland Browns select… Breckin David. Center. Michigan.”

  “Fuck.”

  Trey’s parents glare at me. I don’t care. I stand by it. In fact, I stand by it so much I say it again.

  “Fuck.”

  “Fuck,” Trey agrees quietly. “Larkin is still in play.”

  I meet Brad’s eyes across the room. Bodies pass between us as Breckin David stands to hug his family and dance toward the exit, but neither of us moves. Neither of us looks away.

  “With the fourth pick of the NFL Draft, the California Kodiaks are on the clock.”

  It’s all down to this pick for both of us now, and we both know it. We both want it. The question is, who wanted it more? Who played the game better?

  And if I win, will Brad let me have it?

  I have a feeling I’ll get what I have coming to me, but will it be by my definition? Or will it be by his?

  “Sloane.”

  Three minutes have passed. My dad has looked away, but I don’t know how long ago. My mind is somewhere else. Somewhere in limbo where this moment lasts forever and I haven’t won and I haven’t lost. I haven’t failed Trey. Not yet.

  He’s not leaving L.A. Not yet.

  Trey touches my hand. “Sloane.”

  Impulsively, I weave my fingers through his, our palms falling flat and warm against each other, grounding us. Tethering us together as we await the coming storm.

  “Booo!”

  He brings the back of my hand slowly to his lips.

  “With the fourth pick in the NFL Draft…”

  He kisses it softly, his eyes closed.

  “…the California Kodiaks select…”

  On the table between us, his phone begins to ring.

  August 13th

  Charlie Windt Stadium

  Los Angeles, CA

  “Take your time, Rook!”

  22, 71, 6, 54, 51, 48

  “Come on, pretty boy, show me what you got!”

  Hibbert, Lowry, Lefao, Olynyk, Fiso, Matthews.

  “How’s that hand feelin’, baby?! You feelin’ strong?!”

  I am. There are eleven reasons in red that I shouldn’t be, over a thousand pounds of angry Tampa Bay Buccaneer defense shouting at me over the line of scrimmage, but I’m not sweating. I’m not scared, and I have only six reasons why I shouldn’t be.

  22, 71, 6, 54, 51, 48

  Hibbert, Lowry, Lefao, Olynyk, Fiso, Matthews.

  This is my offensive line. This is my family. My first, last, and only line of defense.

  It’s all I need.

  Three minutes left on the clock.

  Kodiaks 7 – Buccaneers 10

  This is a pressure situation, or it should be. They’re using it to test me. To see how sturdy my nerves are, but they’re testing the wrong guy. Even though this is only an exhibition game, a glorified practice that has no bearing on our season, I don’t feel pressure. Not on the field. If there’s anything about this game that feels exceptional to me it’s the fact that I’m making a point. I’m proving that they were right to bench their starting quarterback and put me on the field. They were right to draft me. Right to trade the farm to get me. The guys on the field with me are psyched, running excitedly to huddles, playing with me like I’m a shiny new toy they got for Christmas. One that can actually hit a receiver, unlike the last guy. The guy sitting on the bench staring daggers at me.

  I’d feel guilty about that if I didn’t think it was the smart choice, but I know I’m better than he is. Coach Allen does too.

  Sorry, Newhouse. Better luck next year. I think dryly. I hear Canada’s hiring.

  I line up behind Lefao, my center. He’s a six foot, two inch, three hundred and ten pound hammer from American Samoa. He calls me ‘brotha’ and protects me like a baby. He also doesn’t flinch when I put my arms through his legs, my face in his massive, orange Spandexed ass.

  “Red forty-two!” I shout down the line. I turn my head the other direction to repeat it. “Red forty-two! Hut! Hike!”

  The boys knew we were going on the one count. They’re locked and loaded, springing into the fray just as the ball rises up in Lefao’s hands to drop into mine. I immediately fall back five steps as he launches forward to smash into the defensive line that’s coming for me. They explode in a mass of pads and helmets that crack loudly as they shout at one another, fighting each other like animals. The stadium has erupted into chaos with them, but I tune it out. I hone in on the beat of my heart. I listen for the ticking of my own internal clock as I breathe slow and even.

  One…Their coverage is tight…Two… Their right tackle is loose…Three…My wide receiver can’t get clear…Four…I’m going to get hit.

  I curl around the ball, ducking my head and falling to my right. I take the hit as gracefully as I can while still holding onto the ball. I feel my heartrate spike as he makes contact, a pain in my hand eruptin
g out of nowhere and disappearing just as quickly as it came. It’s a reflex at this point, one my body learned from the National Championship game. Every time I take a hit I think I’ve broken that hand again. My mind immediately assumes the worst.

  I’d give fucking anything to make it stop.

  The whistle blows as my ass hits the ground, mowed over by a sweat soaked giant that’s crushing my chest.

  “Better stay down, bitch,” the tackle growls at me. “You’re going to be on your back all day.”

  “You’re confusing me with your mom,” I grunt out.

  He leans his elbow on my chest. “What the fuck did you say?!”

  Before I can answer him, he’s off me. He’s pulled away by his own guys to avoid a penalty, but I don’t for one second think he’s gone for good. He and I will circle back to this conversation later.

  The laughing blue eyes of Colt Avery appear above me as he offers me his hand. I take it, letting the stout running back pull me up off the ground. “You alright, man?”

  “Yeah, I’m good. He barely touched me.”

  Avery laughs as we jog to the huddle. “Dude, he was so up in your shit he probably got you pregnant.”

  “I hope not. I’m not ready to be a mother.”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Domata?” Coach Fallon, the offensive coordinator, barks in my ear through the headpiece.

  I’m still getting used to the fact that I’m mic’d. That the entire coaching staff can hear everything I say.

  “Nothing, Coach,” I assure him. “What’s the call?”

  “Two seconds.”

  “Sorry about the hit,” Fiso apologizes, his round face solemn. “He got the drop on me.”

  “Don’t sweat it. Just save me from another one, alright? I might have pissed him off while he had me down.”

  “While he knocked you up,” Avery corrects.

  Anthony scowls at him. “What the fuck?”

  “I might have talked shit,” I admit.

  “Making our jobs harder, brotha!” Lefao laughs, smacking my shoulder hard.

  Really hard. So hard he knocks me back a step, out of the huddle. I sigh, regaining my footing.

  I’m not a small guy. I’m taller than most of my offensive line, something that comes in handy when I’ve gotta see over their massive heads downfield to my receivers, but I’m leaner by half. They forget that sometimes, getting a little overzealous with their celebrations, and I’m not the only one in danger. In the first quarter Hibbert picked up Tyus Anthony, our five foot nine, hundred and eighty pound wide receiver, and I had a real moment of fear where I thought he’d crush the guy with his hug. Anthony is small by any standards, but when a guy is that fast, that slippery, you’re willing to forgive his size in favor of his speed.