by Tracey Ward
“It’s how it is.”
“He wouldn’t do it to you.”
“It’s not personal with me,” he reminds me steadily. “You’re his daughter. You’re not supposed to be better at this than he is. Not right away and not in his house.”
“It doesn’t help that I’m a woman either.”
“No, it definitely doesn’t.” He stands, looking down at me heavily. “Scout someone else. Someone that doesn’t matter to you, because you won’t get to keep them anyway. Let him burn you this year, get it out of his system, and start looking toward next year.”
I feel my face flush red with rage. I bite the inside of my lip until I taste blood, unable and unwilling to agree with Hollis.
He nods in silent understanding, turning to leave the room without another word.
I wait until he’s gone to snap my laptop shut. It cuts the feed, leaving me with a black TV screen that reflects my face like a mirror. I look ghostly and strange. Tight lipped. Rigid. I feel my frustration coiling in my veins as I stare at myself, asking my reflection what will I do? Signing Trey was supposed to be my shot at becoming a major player at the agency, but even though I did everything right and got him everything he asked for, I’m no better off having signed him than I was before. If anything, I’m in a worse position because here I sit pining away for him, celibate as a nun, while he’s out partying with his teammates and models and vodka soaked bartenders. His career is taking off and I’ll have to lay this next year of my life down as penance at my dad’s feet and hope to do better on the year after. But will I? Will Brad let me or will I forever be a mule bringing him star after star to sign under his own name until I’m nothing but an assistant?
Nothing but his bitch.
I stand abruptly, knocking my chair back so hard it rolls into the floor to ceiling window with a hollow thud. Trey’s game will have ended by now. The Buccaneers lost, poor bastards, but now that he’s been unleashed on the world we’re all destined to fall in Trey’s wake at some point. It’s a misery, but you know what they say; it loves company.
I dial a phone number I’ve never used before. One I’ve sat on since Pro Day when the Buccaneers’ offensive coordinator slipped it into my hand with a warm smile and a wink that said loud and clear I was to use it for more than recruiting questions. I never did because I didn’t need to. Not until now.
“Now?” Allen laughs when he answers the phone. “You wait months and you’re calling me now when your boy just rubbed our faces in the field all afternoon?”
I smile, putting my flirt on. “I thought you might be feeling down. Maybe need a little pick me up.”
“Are we talking about a drink? Because I could use one.”
“Among other things.”
He pauses, put off guard by my total lack of pretense. “Tell me where to pick you up.”
“I’ll meet you. There’s a dark little bar off Wilshire that’s perfect for licking your wounds in private. I’ll text you the address.”
“I have some things to take care of here.”
“How long do you need?”
“How long do I have?”
“All night, Allen,” I tell him quietly. “You can have me all night.”
August 15th
Club 171
Los Angeles, CA
I can feel the music in my bones. It vibrates through the floor underneath us up to the balcony where we sit behind the velvet rope; just Tyus Anthony, Colt Avery, and me. We tried to get some of the other guys to come out but the single guys on the defensive line wanted to hit a country bar to learn how to line dance just for the fuck of it, most of the guys on the O line are married, Matthews doesn’t hang out with anyone ever, and our kicker, Andres Castillo said, and I quote, ‘I can’t get into any shit. I’m divorcing a ball devouring bitch and my nose has to be cleaner than Christ until it’s done.’
Tyus ordered bottle service when we got to the club. I had no idea what that meant, but I went along with it, following them up the stairs to the balcony where a table was set up with his name on it, a private waitress has been taking care of us all night, and we drop three hundred bucks per bottle of fifty dollar booze. My eyes must have bulged when they told me the cost because both Tyus and Colt laughed at me.
“It’s the experience, baby,” Tyus chides. “It’s VIP.”
“She’ll mix you anything you want with the bottle,” Colt tells me, nodding to the brunette in a corset and black stiletto boots.
She smiles down at me, patient and inviting. “What will you have, sir?”
“What’s the bottle?”
“Sazerac Rye. It’s a whiskey.”
I scowl at Tyus. “You ordered whiskey?”
He glares back, the diamonds in his ears glinting under the strobe. “What’s wrong with whiskey?”
“I have no idea what to mix whiskey with.”
“That’s what she’s here for. She knows. Ask her instead of yelling at me.”
The waitress leans over the back of the plush black couch I’m sitting on, putting her mouth near my ear where I can hear her better. Her hair falls in soft curls over my arm, tickling my skin. “Can I suggest a Sazerac cocktail? It’s whiskey, bitters, lemon peel, sugar, and absinthe.”
“Am I going to trip balls on the absinthe?”
She chuckles, her warm breath drifting across my neck and settling inside my collar. “It’s not that kind of absinthe, but if that’s something you’re interested in I can ask about it.”
“No, the cocktail will be good. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. And if you need anything else, anything at all, I’ll never be far away. Call for Cossette.”
There’s no way in the world that’s her real name.
When she stands to walk around the couch to get drink orders from Tyus and Colt, I feel floored. Flooded with the noise and lights of the club. The world felt smaller when she was whispering husky in my ear. It almost feels abrasive now.
Tyus is quick with his order, not interested in having her get too close for too long, but Colt is another story. If I thought the ladies loved me, I was wrong. I hadn’t seen what love was, not until I saw Colt walk through a club. They turn to watch him go. They laugh when he smiles at them. They follow him through buildings, trying to get back in his eye line. Trying to earn another of his smiles. He’s six foot two with shaggy brown hair, blue eyes, and a fucking cleft in his chin like a caricature for handsome. He’s broader than most running backs, built to take a hit better than most, and it’s his size that makes the women fall apart around him.
This is Colt’s second year in the pros, Tyus’ third, and they’ve both been with the Kodiak’s program since the start of their careers. Tyus has always been a favorite with the fans with his incredible speed and cocky attitude. Colt is a different story. He was an unknown last year, and it wasn’t until this pre-season with Duncan Walker out of the picture that he really got a chance to show the league what he could do, both on and off the field.
Right now our waitress is leaning over the back of the couch laughing with her hand over her mouth, all sexy show and husky voice forgotten as Colt cracks her up, drawing her out. Making her feel comfortable. Vulnerable. That’s when he’ll strike. It’s not an ugly thing, the way the guy works. It’s pretty ingenious in its simplicity, actually. In its honesty. He’s fun, that’s the core of it. He makes people feel like having fun just being around him. And what could be more fun than spending a night with the prettiest face in the NFL?
“It’s messed up, right?” Tyus asks me. He sits back in his seat, gesturing to the girl still laughing with Colt. “He’s not even trying.”
“I’d hate to see him when he does.”
“It’s a bloodbath. You might as well go home because he’s shutting the place down when it happens.”
“And you still hang out with him?”
Tyus grins, a rare show of emotion for him. “Dude’s funny.”
“Who’s funny?” Colt asks, smiling as he wa
tches the waitress walk away.
“Adam Sandler.”
Colt snorts. “Yeah, maybe twenty years ago. Now he’s old and making movies about being old. It’s sad.”
“Someday you’ll be that sad.”
“I hope I’m dead first.” Colt sits forward, pulling his phone from his pocket. He frowns, swiping through a stream of pictures.
“Are you on Tinder?” I ask.
He laughs, shaking his head. “Nah, I’m on TMZ.”
“That gossip site?”
“Yeah. I’m into it.”
“He Googles himself too,” Tyus tells me. His eyes drift down onto the dance floor, honing in on a group of girls with long hair and short skirts. “He loves that shit.”
“I’m not looking for myself,” Colt tells him, not offended by the accusation. “It sent me an alert that an article mentioned the Bucs.”
“Why do you care what the Buccaneers are doing?”
“I keep up on what all of the other teams are doing. I like to see if any of them get into some loud shit.”
“Anything good?” I ask him, barely listening. Tyus is doing the same; tapping out.
“Nah. It’s not about the team. It’s one of their coaches. He went out the night of the game. Some little dive with some little piece.”
“Who gives a shit what he does?”
Colt chuckles, turning his phone toward me. “You should. That’s your girl, right?”
I squint at the screen. It’s hard to see it clearly with the flashing lights, but the bright blond hair and haunting curves of Sloane Ashford are hard to miss. I feel my heart stumble when I see her on the guy’s arm. Same guy who was chatting her up at my Pro Day.
“She’s not my girl,” I grumble, looking away with a frown. “She’s my agent.”
“Dude, that’s what I mean. What’d you think I meant?”
I ignore his question. “How’d they end up on TMZ? They’re not celebrities.”
Colt pulls his phone back around to scroll through the story. “He’s divorcing his wife. She’s an actress. She’s a big deal on the show The Hilltop, the one about the woman trying to save her family’s old Victorian house in a small town. She turns it into a B&B, meets all kinds of crazy people.”
“Never heard of it,” Tyus says absently.
“It sounds horrible,” I add.
Colt pockets his phone, sitting back in his seat. “It’s good.”
“You watch it?”
“My mom watches it, so yeah, I watch it.”
“He does everything his mommy tells him to,” Tyus chuckles.
Colt shrugs. “She’s smart. I listen to her. Besides, it gives me something to talk about with women. Can’t talk about football forever.”
“You don’t listen to your mom, Tyus?” I prod him.
“Nah. She’s dead.”
I look quickly to Colt. He grimaces sympathetically.
“Shit, man, I’m sorry,” I apologize, feeling like an asshole.
“I was a kid. It’s nothing to be sorry about. My sister raised me. She’s cool. And yeah, I listen to her.”
I have no fucking clue what to say after that. Cossette comes back with our drinks. She hands me mine, carefully overlapping her fingers with mine when she passes the sweaty, chilled glass to me. She smiles in the dim light, her teeth brilliantly white and straight. Tyus takes his drink with a polite nod. Colt gives her a warm grin and a hand on her arm as she hands him his glass filled with glowing amber liquid. I watch her unconsciously lean toward him as he does, as though she thinks about sitting down next to him. At the last second she remembers herself, straightening to cast each of us an accommodating smile.
Tyus lifts his glass to me. “Hundred bucks he fucks her in the bathroom.”
I look Colt over, contemplating. Finally I raise my glass. “Coat closet. He’s classier than the bathroom.”
“Am I, though?” Colt asks skeptically.
Tyus clinks his glass against mine. “You got a bet, baby.”
“You guys make me feel dirty.”
I laugh. “You know what’s dirty? Club bathrooms. Remember that.”
“Don’t coach him,” Tyus warns.
“I’m not coaching, I’m educating. As someone who has taken a lady to the bathroom before, I can honestly say he might regret it.”
“She went to the bathroom with you?”
“Yep.”
“She barely knew you?”
“She knew my name. She knew my jersey number. That was all she needed to know.”
“That was no lady.”
“No,” I agree with a grin. “No she was not.”
“Well,” Colt grunts, standing with effort. He has a trick knee that gives him trouble sometimes. You can see it in his walk when it stiffens up. “That shit was fun in college, but the stakes are higher now. Watch yourself, man. Use your own condoms, never trust that they’re on the pill, and don’t ever leave the condom behind.”
“Why can’t I leave the condom behind?”
“It’s full of your shit,” Tyus tells me as though it’s obvious, because I guess it is. “All they need is a turkey baster to get your boys in their body. After that it’s nine months until the bill comes.”
I chuckle, but neither of them smile. “Are you fucking with me?”
“Dead serious.”
Colt pulls out his phone. “I got a video if you want to see.”
“No, I’m good.”
“Do you want to see that picture of your girl with the OC again?”
“Fuck you.”
“Ooh, testy,” he teases, smiling. “You got a thing for your agent? Because if you don’t you’re gay. She’s hot.”
“I’d hit that,” Tyus agrees.
“See? Tyus would fuck her. I’d fuck her. The OC probably tried to fuck her, but I want to know, Trey, did you fuck her?”
I stare at the strobing lights until my eyes hurt. Until the entire place is too dark to see, along with the expectant eyes I can feel on me.
I kick back my drink, downing it in one swallow. It burns like fire on the way down, making me wince. I cough into the back of my hand as I stand, pulling my wallet out of my back pocket. I toss a couple of hundreds on the table.
“Here’s for the drink and the bet,” I tell them evenly. “Colt, take the hundred and get a hotel room. Don’t be a piece of shit.”
“Is that a yes?”
“I’ll see you later.”
I can hear them laughing as I leave but I don’t look back. Instead I duck my head, hurrying through the crowd across the dance floor, out into the night, and up to the curb where I wait for a cab. The night is warm, the air sitting thick and humid under my shirt where my heart races in my chest, and that unsettled feeling I felt for so long before the Draft creeps inside me until I’m nearly shaking. Until I’m vibrating with anxiety that makes me sick in my burning gut full of whiskey and uncertainty.
But when I finally slide inside a cab and the driver asks me where I’m going, I know the answer without a shadow of a doubt.
Wilshire Regent Condominiums
Los Angeles, CA
It was supposed to make it better. Sleeping with Allen was supposed to make me feel in control, make me happy. It was at least supposed to get me off, and it did, but I’m more wound up now than I was before. Whatever he did to me, it didn’t take.
I could fly to Indiana. Is that crazy? Are the Colts even at home this week? I have no idea. I don’t even know that Kyle would be happy to see me after the brushoff I gave him during the Combine. I disappeared in my obsession with Trey and I haven’t been able to climb back out. It’s no good, this thing between us. We can’t be in a room together without getting stupid and we can’t avoid each other forever. And I don’t want to. That’s the bitch of it. We were getting along too well before the Draft. So well that he became a fixture in my life and now that he’s gone I’m bereft without him. I miss him. I miss my friend and I miss the man. I miss the pieces of him that come
together to make the mass of emotions and muscle that are my undoing.
I’m a goddamn chick flick without him.
My phone buzzes next to me on the couch. I check the clock, frowning. It’s after midnight.
“Hello?”
“Miss Ashford, you have a visitor. Mr. Domata.”
I stare at nothing, stunned. But then again, am I? Or did I know this would happen? Is that why I went out with Allen in the first place? Is that why I took him to a bar I know is constantly surrounded by media?
“Let him up,” I answer hoarsely.
I’m already in my pajamas. I think about changing quickly before he comes up, but I decide against it. I won’t change anything about what I’m doing. I won’t be thrown into a fit just because he’s here.
I feel nervous as I undo the chain on my door. My fingers are shaky, pulsing with the beat of my heart that echoes too loudly in my ears. Memories of the last time Trey was here flash through my mind. Memories of what I did when he left, what he asked me to do, flood my body. It’s a familiar sensation born of repetition. Habit. Need.
He knocks on the door once. Just once. Hard and certain. He knows I’m there. He knows I’m waiting.
I open the door slowly, stepping aside to let him in without a word.
He looks me over before he comes in, taking in my shorts and thin tank top. My complete lack of a bra or two shits to give about it. I watch him swallow thickly before brushing past me into the living room.
“Are you alone?” he asks.
I shut the door, throwing the lock. “I let you up, didn’t I?”
“The old guy isn’t here?”
“Who is ‘the old guy’?” I ask bitingly.
He looks around the room. Never at me. “The OC from the Buccaneers. He didn’t stick around?”
“For two days?”
“So he was here?”
“What does it matter to you?”
“You can do better than him, Sloane.”
“And I have.”
He looks at me now. He holds me steady in his gaze, his eyes intense. His calm is cracking. I haven’t seen it in months, but there it is. Nervous Trey. Anxious Trey. Wild Trey with so much emotion, so much passion that he can hardly stand to be inside his own body. So he hides inside mine.
