by Tracey Ward
But every time you see a tackle coming his way, you drop to your knees and pray to every great god in the sky for his protection. That’s just common sense.
The radio in my helmet comes to life, Coach’s voice pounding in my ear. I stare at the turf in the middle of our huddle as I listen to his orders.
“Okay!” I shout, getting the attention of the ten men surrounding me. “Tiger seven, dive left! Go on one! Ready?”
They clap in unison, each acknowledging that he understands his part in the play. We run to the line of scrimmage, lining up quickly. The clock is already running. We have thirteen seconds left.
I line up with my shoulder in Lefao’s ass again. I wait as he checks the line, looking for signs of a blitz, and I hope Fiso is paying attention. Finally Lefao settles, taking hold of the ball with only four seconds left on the play clock.
“Red forty-two! Red forty-two!” I shout quickly. “Hut! Hike!”
Lefao hands me the ball as I fall back, taking three steps behind the line. I look downfield like I’m searching for an opening but what I’m really watching is my right side. I’m waiting for Avery to run behind me for the hand off. The rest of the field falls away in a swirl of colors and curses as I look for him, but he takes me by surprise. He’s there before I expected, faster than I thought he could be. I bring the ball down to drop in his hands just as I raise my right as though I’m about to throw. No one is fooled by my acting, but they don’t have to be. Avery is already on the move. He hits a wall, but instead of stopping he dives head on into the fray, tucking the ball in tightly as he rides the wave of defensive lineman to gain four yards.
He hits the ground. The play is dead. Olynyk helps him up, giving him a swat on the helmet as he springs to his feet.
It’s third and six. Three minutes to go.
“Where the fuck did you come from?” I laugh at Avery when we reach the huddle.
He gives me his cocky grin, opening his arms wide. “I’m everywhere, baby.”
“Jesus, man, have they clocked you against Anthony? You might be faster than him.”
“Don’t get stupid,” Anthony snaps. “He can’t roll with this.”
Avery points at him, still smiling. “I’m coming for you.”
“Yeah, I’ll be waitin’.”
The play comes through on my radio. The guys see it when I stare into nothing as I listen, all of them falling silent as they wait.
“Slants dirty open!” I shout to them. “Check with me if I call Blue thirty-three change to Tiger two drive. Go on two! Ready?”
Clap!
I get behind Lefao, watching him check the line for anything he doesn’t like. He spots it just as I do; two defensive linebackers are inching forward. They’re going for a blitz. They’re going to try to sack me again.
“Blue thirty-three!” I shout, adjusting the play. “Blue thirty-three! Hut! Hut! Hike!”
I fall back with the ball, hesitating. Counting.
One… My line picks up the blitz, keeping me protected in the pocket… Two… Avery takes the handoff from me…Three…He drives into an opening between Lefao and Olynyk… Four… He smashes through the line… Five… Avery is tackled. He drags the linebacker another two yards past the point of contact, because the wild son of a bitch just won’t stop. Finally they drop in a heap half a yard from the line.
It’s forth and one.
“Your call, Domata,” Coach calls over the radio. “Line’s at the thirty. We’re in field goal range for Castillo. He’s warmed up and ready to kick if you don’t want to run it.”
I take a breath, my hands on my hips. My head down. Coach, the huddle, the sideline, hell, the entire stadium waits for my decision. The nation watching the game on television waits for me to decide. It’s a lot of pressure. That’s why Coach Allen is giving me the choice. He wants to see what I’ll do. Do I have the balls to go for it on forth and inches? Do I think I’m ready to roll with this team into the fray like that, or do I want to play it safe? Do I want to keep my cool?
One look in the eyes of my guys and I know my answer.
“We’re running it,” I tell them, simultaneously telling Coach Allen. “Grizz RT over, go on two. Ready?”
Clap!
As we run for the line I know this is a rarity. In the NFL you don’t go for it on the fourth down, not when you’re thirty yards from a touchdown. You kick the field goal and get those points on the board. That’s the smart way. The safest way. It’s the way you go when you feel nervous about taking a risk, but that’s the thing about me; I don’t get nervous.
“Blue seven! Blue seven! Hut! Hut! Hike!”
I know the play is going to fall apart the second I get the ball in my hands. I can feel it in the way the line is scrambling to cover me. The way Anthony is darting around, desperately trying to get free of his coverage but they’ve doubled up on him. He’ll never get clear. Three seconds have elapsed and I have to look for other options or I’m going to get sacked. I run to the side, pulling the pack with me. I’m searching for Avery, hoping he put on the boosters again and will show up open downfield, but he’s lost in the struggle. He’s dead to me. Anthony too.
I’m just starting to consider running it myself and hoping to get the down when I spot Matthews miraculously appear in the end zone. His coverage is coming but they’re three steps behind him and if I lead him he’ll clear them, no problem.
I plant my feet. I make the throw. High and tight, an easy spiral for Matthews to get under. The line cracks, the world shifting away from me, following the ball as it arcs across the perfect blue sky.
Matthews gets under it. It nails him in the chest. He gets his arms around it, his feet planted in the end zone.
Touchdown Kodiaks.
The stadium goes insane.
I rush through the crowd, smacking helmets and asses, congratulating the offensive line that spared me a sack. I hurry to the sidelines, meeting up with Matthews to slap his chest and tell him he killed it. He’s subdued even in victory, smiling mildly and slapping me back.
“Hell of a throw, man,” he tells me.
I laugh. “Hell of a catch! How’d you get open?”
“Skill.”
I laugh again, shuffling out of the way as the rest of the line jostles him, pouring praise over his humble head. He listens and smiles, removing his helmet to run his hand through his light hair, but his face is reserved. Everything about him carefully held inside.
He’s the hero of the play. The fans remember him from his rookie year when he blew the place up with one explosive play after another, and they’re losing their shit now that he’s back.
Still, it’s not his name on the lips of every fan leaning over the railings trying to talk to us. Trying to touch us. It never is, because since the day I was picked up by the Kodiaks there’s only one name being sung in the stands. Only one name on the back of jerseys selling out in every store in town.
Ashford Agency
Los Angeles, CA
Domata
27
His jersey stares at me in brilliant orange and yellow from across my office, signed and framed on my wall. It’s the one they gave him when he was drafted. The number was added later, but this is the jersey the Commissioner handed him on Draft day. The one photographed for all of the magazines and newspapers that went forward and spread the word that Trey Domata was the newest weapon in the Kodiak arsenal on the craziest, most emotional night of my life.
I couldn’t believe it when Trey brought it to me. I thought for sure he’d want to keep it for himself, but he said it meant a lot to him that I have it. He said he knew I’d keep it safe.
I told him I was going to sell it on eBay.
I negotiated his contract with him two weeks after the Draft, the day before he brought me the jersey. He signed for four years with the Kodiaks for twenty-two million and a bonus just shy of fifteen million.
Just like that, Trey Domata was a millionaire. And at ten percent, so was I.
&nbs
p; I drove us out to the coast after he signed and we walked down to the beach, both of us dressed in dark suits and shining shoes that we left in the car. We sat in the sand together for hours watching the waves come in and roll out over and over again. He talked to me about Hawaii. About growing up a poor kid with a rich heritage and loving parents. He taught me how to say a few words in Hawaiian. I picked them up easily but pretended to struggle only to hear him repeat them over and over again in his deep voice that drifted on the warm wind.
I talked about L.A. About growing up a rich kid with no past and pretty parents. I told him about my sister. About how she was always gone, always running, always trying to find herself anywhere but here. I shivered when I admitted how much I missed her.
“Are you cold?”
“No,” I lied.
“You have goosebumps.”
“I’m fine.”
I don’t want to go home yet, I protested childishly.
He shrugged out of his suit jacket. It fell heavy and slick with the satin lining on my skin. He adjusted it, his arm around me for a bare moment, his large hands cupping my shoulders. I leaned into him. He gripped me tighter. He lingered too long, but not long enough. There was a strain between us as we sat together. A pull like the tide, forward and back, in and out, never ending. We wanted what we couldn’t have. We danced around it, getting too close and pulling away. Missing it when it was gone.
He released me, burying his hands in the sand. “I don’t have a reason to call you tomorrow.”
“No.”
“That sucks.”
“Yes.”
“What do we do now, Sloane?”
I buried my hand in the sand next to his. “We move on, Trey.”
He kissed my cheek in the car when we said goodnight. The next day he showed up with the jersey. We went to dinner afterward. He picked the place. He drove. He paid. It was as close to a date as we’d ever come, or would ever be again.
Two days later he leased an apartment on his own and e-mailed the new address to me with three grainy pictures of the small interior. It’s sparsely furnished. He only has two bath towels. I told him to stop being afraid of spending money and he said he probably never would. He didn’t invite me over, and I didn’t ask to see it.
That night he was in the media outside a club sucking the face off a blond.
It hurt because of course it did, but the facts are the facts. Trey is my client, and if we’re going to work together we need to quit hanging on and hoping the universe is going to suddenly change the rules and make it okay. All of this extra time spent together, all of the brushes of hands and sideways smiles, they have to stop. They’re silly. They’re childish in their bittersweet torture. This is the kind of sexual frustration that makes people do drastic things, stupid things, and it’s not my style. He’s moving on, and as soon as I have a free second, I will too.
Meanwhile he’s as calm as I’ve ever seen him. The nervous energy that surrounded him since we met has been smothered under the pounds of paperwork he signed, solidifying his place in the NFL. Securing his family’s financial situation. He’s where he’s always wanted to be, his every dream finally coming true. That means leaving behind whatever it was that we were becoming. Friends or more, it doesn’t matter. I haven’t looked Trey Domata in the eye in months and that’s fine.
It’s absolutely fucking fine.
“He’s making a decent showing,” Hollis comments, his eyes on the TV beside Trey’s jersey. He leans back into the couch as he makes himself comfortable. “Not bad for a rookie.”
“That’s because he’s pro material. It’s what I’ve been saying.”
“Yeah, I remember. You were right. He plays with the calm of a vet.”
“Called it.”
“Gloating isn’t becoming of you.”
“But it feels so good.”
“So do most vulgar things.” He looks at me sideways. “You haven’t been gloating to your dad, have you?”
I snort. “I’m not an idiot.”
“You have days.”
“Not today. Not about this.”
Hollis shakes his head in amazement. “I still can’t believe Larkin didn’t go until number sixteen. And to the Dolphins! Poor bastard. Miami is the worst.”
“Why are you surprised? How many times do I have to say it? Running backs don’t draft high. I don’t care what kind of star he is. He has a short shelf life.”
“Do you know what he contracted for? I haven’t seen anything about it. Brad is keeping it quiet.”
I grimace. “Almost exactly half of what Trey contracted.”
He sucks air sharply through his teeth. “Yikes.”
“Yeah. Between me with Trey and you with Reed, Brad came out the loser for the agency. Don’t think that doesn’t piss him right off.”
“And he hasn’t said anything to you about it?”
“Not yet.”
“You think he will eventually?”
I sigh. “I think I’ll pay for it, but I don’t know how. He might fire me, he might cut my inheritance in half. He might make me take a cruise with my mom. He’s a diabolical son of a bitch, he’ll find a way to punish me somehow.”
“Six days in close quarters with Bri? I doubt he’s that cruel. You out-earned him, you didn’t murder someone.”
“Same difference to him.”
We sit in silence, watching the game on mute. Trey is out, the team’s original and now standby quarterback on the field getting some play time. The game is all but done with only seconds on the clock and the Kodiaks are in possession with the lead. Before Newhouse can take the snap, the feed cuts to a shot of Trey on the sidelines, his helmet off and his face flushed with exertion and energy. He’s watching the field intently, so focused you’d think the game hung in the balance, but that’s the way Trey is. Every play counts. Every second matters.
“You’re smiling,” Hollis teases me.
I don’t try to stop. I definitely don’t bother hiding it. “I know.”
“How’s that going?”
“It’s not. We work together. That’s it.”
“That’s it?”
“Yep. That’s it.”
“So the fact that he’s dating that bartender—“
“They’re not dating, and it doesn’t bother me. He can sleep with whoever he wants. So can I.”
“But you don’t.”
“I’m busy.”
“So is he, but that doesn’t stop him.”
“Don’t be mean to me about this,” I warn him seriously. “I’m trying to be smart here.”
His face softens. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.” I reach for the remote, changing the feed to stream from my laptop. I bring up a video I’ve been obsessing over and send it into motion. “This is my next project. Check him out.”
The game tape from an Oregon/Colorado match up pops onto the screen. Colorado is down 6-31, victims of a botched field goal and a merciless beating by the Ducks, but the score doesn’t matter to me. #39 does.
“Watch the right tackle.”
“For Colorado?” Hollis asks incredulously. “You’re scouting a player from one of the worst teams in the conference?”
I grin smugly. “Just watch.”
The play goes into motion. Oregon’s quarterback takes three steps back, the ball gripped in both hands as he searches for his man. Maybe he would have found him, maybe he wouldn’t, but he only gets three seconds to try. In that time #39 breaks through the offensive line, tosses the center like he’s made of paper, and rushes the quarterback. He only gets a chance to threaten him before the QB sends the ball away, flinging it to the safety of the sidelines, but it’s all he needed to kill the play.
“So he’s a wrecking ball,” Hollis yawns. “He’s not the first guy to break through Oregon’s O-line.”
“That’s not the first time he did it that day. It was the fifth.”
“Really?”
“He did the sam
e thing to Washington and USC. Cut through their line like a hot knife in butter. Sacked USC’s guy three times in the second half. Colorado lost all of those games, but the only reason Oregon or USC or anyone last season wasn’t able to run up the score on them was because of this guy. Chris Keyton.” I tap the TV remote against my lips, smiling faintly. “He’s my next sign. He’ll go first round for sure.”
“How? No one knows about him?”
“He needs to get a promo video out there. He needs some hype built around him.”
“And you can’t help with that. Not while he’s still a college player.”
“I can’t help him financially. I can always offer him advice, though. Give him some contacts to get him moving in the right direction. It’s nothing more than any other agent out there is doing.”
“It’s what agents at lesser agencies do. Brad won’t like it. He’ll think it makes us look desperate.”
I roll my eyes, spinning around in my chair to face the window. “Brad never likes anything I do. But who got their client on the team of their dreams in the top five at the Draft?”
“I wouldn’t lead with that argument when you present this guy to him.”
I lick my lips. “I’m not presenting him.”
My declaration is met with an expected silence. I turn in my chair slowly to face Hollis. He’s waiting for me.
“Sloane,” he says cautiously, “now is not a good time for you to go behind your dad’s back. He’s already annoyed about Trey. Full disclosure is your only option here.”
“No matter who I choose to sign next, he’ll take them from me out of spite.”
“Yes, he will. And that’s his right as the head of this agency.”
“Bullshit,” I bark angrily.
