I should be thrilled. A big check is in my future. Even if I got injured on the first play, knock on wood, that guaranteed signing bonus would set me up for life.
But just below the surface of my skin, discontent lurks like an itch I can't scratch. I can't pinpoint the source.
Maybe it is just the agent, combine, draft thing. Maybe it's a low-grade worry over the social media storm. Maybe that's all it is. But the football things don't explain why watching Doorknob flirt with Ara made me tense and angry or why I don't like seeing her walk away anymore.
I try not to think about how much I want her because I've heard enough lectures from Mom about how you shouldn't be friends with a girl just on the off chance she gets lonely enough to want your penis.
And my friendship with Ara has never been about that. I've not been cooling my heels in any damn friendzone. I enjoy spending time with her, in part because most of the other aspects of my life are such a sausage fest.
At least, I was content with being friends. Something happened Bowl night. Maybe it was just a fevered dream—one that I'm having far too often. Because Ara's becoming the itch I can't scratch. The source of a mysterious sensation of dissatisfaction.
I've always loved Ara the person. She's the first one I think of when I wake up and the last one I contact before I go to sleep. She never falls lower than two on my text list. That won't change because we're graduating.
What's different now is that I feel like I had a taste of something beautiful, and now I can’t even get to the well again. But I'm trying damn hard to respect the boundaries of friendship because I can't really imagine my life without Ara in it.
At home I find Remy doing pushups in the living room.
“Is the weight room closed?” I joke, tossing my keys and backpack on the table.
He jerks his head to his laptop. “I just saw a video of Rose doing a set of squats at six hundred.”
Lamar Rose is one of the top five rated running backs in the draft, and behind the five are about three more that are only a hair slower or less powerful. The draft is gonna be thick with running backs, which isn't good for Remy.
I flick a finger over the trackpad and press play. It's not just a video of Rose doing squats. It's him running the 40 in full pads, him doing lateral cone exercises, him being fast off the snap.
I look over my shoulder at Remy, who's sweating like a horse after a two-mile race. “You got this, bro,” I encourage him. He grunts in response.
I scroll down Remy's Twitter feed. It's full of combine and draft speculation. I halt on one tweet and read it out loud.
Fred Dixon being snubbed by the combine. Didn't get an invite. Rumor is he refuses to submit to med exam.
I sit down in surprise. “Dixon didn't get an invite to the combine? Dude is a monster. He had eight sacks last year before his injury.”
“Injury being the key word,” Remy says, allowing himself a small rest. “Sounds like he's been slacking off rehab.”
“Damn.”
“Good for you, though. Less competition. Speaking of competition, DJ Colvin announced his engagement.”
“No fucking way.” I scroll farther down and then stop when I see it. It's a link to his girlfriend's Instagram account. The picture is of her hand and a big-ass diamond ring. “You think he paid cash for that or a loan?”
“Loan. Definitely loan.”
“Damn.” The comments are full of well-wishers, several of whom I recognize. “Fuck.” My vocabulary is reduced to one-syllable expletives.
“What is it?”
“Bernard Joseph congratulated him. Or I guess, technically, her, since it's her ’gram.” Joseph is an outspoken wideout playing for the team that has the number five pick in the draft.
Remy stops at this news. “So Colvin must be in talks with the Sharks. What about you?”
“Don't know.” The same team had expressed interest in me, but I don't have any social media accounts where I can interact with the players. It seemed safer that way. Too many guys get into trouble with shit they’re posting online, but I also guess it means that I lose out on some connections as well.
“Your agent hasn't said anything?”
“No.”
“It's because of your ex,” he concludes. “You gotta rein her in.”
“What are your suggestions? Because I doubt anything short of taking her back is going to change her position. At this point, I'd rather take a python into my bed than allow Rhyann there.”
“What's your agent say?”
“Smear campaign.”
“What else?”
“That's it.”
“You need a new agent.”
“Like yours?”
Remy finishes his pushups and sits back on his haunches. “Hey, guy got me Jay-Z tickets and a two-hundred-grand marketing guarantee. What's not to like?”
The scrum for high-ticket players like Remy and me is rough, kind of like the line of scrimmage in football. Even though there are rules, anything goes. On the night after the Championship game, agents were everywhere, offering things like cars, marketing campaigns, special access to models and actresses. I don’t know how much of those promises were fluff or real.
The marketing advance is the most substantial of the promises, since it's essentially a guarantee of commercial endorsement money that you hope to earn later. It's not really extra money because it only shifts when you're getting the cash—either before you sign the endorsement deal or after.
A good agent is supposed to be someone who looks out for you, long term. And the more money you make, the more money he makes. It's supposed to be a win-win. But the feel I get from a lot of these agents is that they're going to drain you dry until you're a worthless husk. Then they're moving on.
“He's hooking me up with a financial advisor, too, so I don't blow all that guaranteed money,” Remy adds.
The roster of people wanting their hooks in players like us are endless. It's enough to make you want to bury your head in the sand.
“You're getting a finance degree,” I point out. “Can't you manage your own money?”
“Nah, that's just so I can be sure I won't be ripped off. I don't have a dad like yours I can trust.”
Dad is handling Knox's money and is willing to handle mine as well. As of now, I haven't made a decision regarding that. It makes sense, though, to leave everything with him.
There’s a short lull in the conversation, and then I admit, “I asked Ara to pretend to be my girlfriend until after the draft.”
He perks up. “What'd she say?”
“Hell, no.”
“Not surprised. She doesn’t like playing games.”
“No shit.”
“Guess you shouldn't have broken up with Rhyann, then,” Remy says with a sigh.
“I didn't break up with Rhyann. She dumped me,” I remind him.
He gives me an incredulous look. “Bro. You wanted her to dump you. After she mixed up you and Knox, you became the worst boyfriend on the island of bad boyfriends. Everyone knew it was coming.”
“I didn't break up with her because she mixed me and my brother up. You know I don't believe in that mystical shit.”
Remy gets up.
“I don't,” I yell at his back.
He keeps walking.
I dig Kathleen Leighton’s card out of my pocket and pick up my phone. Desperate times and all that shit.
13
Ara
“Hey, isn't that Ty Masters?” Calvin cranes his head to see around me. “You two are real close, aren't you?”
I don't even have to turn to know it is Ty. I can read the crowd. Already people are murmuring to themselves. Some are picking up their phones and trying to surreptitiously photograph him. By the end of the night, a brave few will have asked him directly for a selfie. I take another bite of my steak. I love red meat. I don't know how Ty is living without it right now.
“We've known each other for a while,” I admit.
“
When did you meet?”
“My freshman year.”
He peeks around me again. “Guess he's dating again. That was quick.”
My head whips around so fast I almost break my neck just in time to see Ty take a seat across from Kathleen. The buttery, rich flavor of the filet I just shoved in my mouth turns into a brick of paste.
Resolutely, I force another bite in my mouth so I can pretend that the sight of Ty with yet another beautiful woman doesn't twist my insides into knots.
“So how'd the two of you meet? You a big fan? A friend introduce you?” Calvin asks.
“We ran into each other my freshman year.” Literally. I change the subject. “How'd you think the test went?”
My dinner companion wrinkles his nose. “Not great, but then, does it really matter? It's our last semester. I'll be in my job before the grades even come out.”
“Oh, where are you working?”
“I've got a few things lined up. Nothing solid yet, but I'm working on it.” He winks at me. “Good thing about being in a fraternity is all the connections you make. One of my older brothers, who graduated last year, is helping me out with some gigs after I'm done here.”
“That's great.” I swirl some mashed potatoes around on my plate.
“How about you?”
“I'm waiting to hear from a gallery in Dallas.”
“Dallas, huh? That's pretty far away. Your dad hook you up?”
Inwardly I groan. He knows my dad? No wonder this dude asked me out in the last weeks before graduation.
I play innocent. “My dad? What do you mean?”
Calvin’s confidence falters. “Ah, isn't your dad Arthur von de Menthe?”
I chew on my meat for a moment, wondering how exactly to respond. Very few people know that Arthur von de Menthe is my father, mostly because my last name is Martin, which is also Dad's legal last name. The fancy Dutch-sounding one is his pseudonym.
“How do you know that?”
“Oh, isn't it common knowledge?” Calvin draws back in slight surprise. “I mean, he's come to campus before and people have seen you together. I didn't realize it was a secret. Is it a problem?”
“No. Not really. I was just surprised. Not many people know that Artie is my dad.”
“Artie? Is that what you call him?”
I nod.
“Is that how you know Ty? Some connection between your dad and the Masters family?”
“No.” This line of questioning is really strange, particularly for Calvin. “What line of job did you say you were getting into?”
He smiles and says, “Just some odd gigs set up by a friend.”
“What was your major?”
“English with a Communications minor. The Comparative Art class is my Fine Arts credit.”
“Huh.” Briefly, I wonder what ‘odd gigs’ go with an English and Communications major, but since my interest in Calvin is waning, I don't ask.
“It looks like the post by Ty's ex is a case of the green monster,” Calvin comments.
“No question. Ty's a good guy. She made all that stuff up to hurt him.”
“Do you think it will?”
“No. Because none of it's true.” Ty is convinced it will blow over, so I am, too. I still want to do something to get Rhyann back, like putting shellfish in her muffler to make it stink for days.
“What is the story there?” Calvin asks curiously. “I heard that his ex threw a pie in his face.”
“There was no pie.”
“You were there?” His eyebrows shoot up and his face becomes bright with interest.
This is weird. Calvin has shown more interest in Ty than he does in me. English plus Communications? Is he a…reporter? I toss my napkin on the table and grab my purse. “I'm going to the bathroom. I'll be back.”
Unlike the other day at the Row House, there's no helpful woman in the bathroom who I can share my dating woes with. On the plus side, there's no woman handing me her phone number on a paper towel to give to Ty.
Ordinarily, I'd text Ty for help, but he's with that woman. Fleur is over at her boyfriend's. Remy and Nichole are having dinner. I hate bothering either of them.
“Sorry, Fleur, but you're my roommate. This falls under the roomie contract, clause one.”
Me: Date is going downhill. Need a rescue.
There's no response. Not even the three little dots to signal she's thinking of replying and just hasn't managed to type it all out. I stare at the screen and will Fleur to answer. She doesn't.
I text Remy.
Me: Help. Bad date. Can u pretend u love me?
This time, I get an immediate reply.
Remy: Where's Ty
It's just not the one I want.
Me: He's out with the card girl. Kathleen.
Remy: Oh right forgot. did you text him, maybe he’s in same boat
He's not. He was smiling at her when I popped into the bathroom.
Me: Remy, you're my only hope.
Remy: Quoting Star Wars lines won't cut it. i'm busy here. nic and me are enjoying some alone time. get it?
Me: You're a terrible friend.
You: Ill still wear black on Wed w u
I burst out laughing at the Mean Girls reference. He sends me the shrugging emoji to signal the end of our conversation. I slap new lip gloss on and give myself a short pep talk.
“He's awkward and nervous and trying to ask you questions about your life. That's a helluva lot better than trying to talk about himself the entire dinner. Get it together, girl. You are not now or ever going to date Ty Masters. He's your friend. You made your peace with that years ago.”
The girl in the mirror smirks at me, so I leave.
And run right into Ty. I know it's him because my nose hits his breastbone and his shoulders blot out all the light.
I back away, rubbing my nose.
“Where did you come from?”
“There.” He jerks his head toward the door that says Gents.
“Oh.”
He doesn't respond, and a sense of discomfort slithers down my spine. I look to the right and then the left and then down at our feet. He's wearing the black boots with the orange lining—not that the lining can be seen, but I know that it exists because I was there when he bought them.
“Are you dating that guy now?”
I jump a little at the harsh tone in his voice. “Who? Calvin? No.” He caught me in a moment of weakness, but I don’t say that out loud. “Fleur was going over to her boyfriend's and the apartment seemed empty. When Calvin called—”
“He called? How'd he get your number?” Ty looks down his nose at me.
My back stiffens. “Our class has a study group list. Mine is on it.”
“That's safe,” Ty drawls in a sarcastic tone that means the exact opposite. “He looks like a pansy-ass.”
“A pansy-ass?”
“You know. A flower. Weak.”
I chafe at Ty's criticism of my date. “He could be a hardy weed.”
He throws a dismissive hand in front of his face. “Either way, I don't like him. Is this because I wouldn't eat steak with you?”
“No.” I scowl. “I'm not doing things just because it would spite you.”
“You sure? Because after you broke up with Matt, we ate and drank at all his favorite places for an entire month.”
So I'm petty. Sue me. “I am not here because you are on a rubber chicken diet. Not everything in my life revolves around you.”
He barrels on as though I hadn't said a word. “Are you that lonely that you'll go out with just anyone? That's not pathetic or anything.”
My jaw falls open. Seriously? “Well, what about you?” I retort. “You're like her next acquisition. She's got her Birkin bag, and next to that there's you.”
Ty folds his arms across his chest, a move designed to intimidate. “Kathleen's a power player. She knows what she wants and goes and gets it. Besides, you're the one who gave me the fucking card. If you didn't think I should
go out with her, why bring it up in the first place? Why give her my phone number?”
“You can't think for yourself now? You didn’t have to pick up the phone if she called. You know what? Enjoy your stupid date and leave me alone.” I stomp off, fuming.
“He's a flower,” Ty yells after me. “I have boots that have more heft than him.”
I give him the finger and keep walking.
“Everything okay?” Calvin asks when I return to the table.
“Yes, everything's perfect. I can't wait until we graduate. I'm so done with all of this.”
“But then we have to get jobs.”
“Don't remind me,” I say sourly.
We finish the rest of the meal in silence.
14
Ara
Ty and I treat each other with strained politeness after our dates. It’s a relief when Spring Break arrives. Fleur, Leon, and a bunch of others head to the Bahamas. I fly to see my dad in New York. Ty stays at campus.
The distance, I think, will be good for all of us. It’s not. I’m miserable the whole time. Stephen and Tracy are knee deep in wedding plans and Dad spends most of his time meeting with a new client over a commission.
I take long walks along the Hudson and try to convince myself that it doesn’t matter that Ty is going to end up with a woman other than me. That’s how it’s always been.
When I return to campus, I’m feeling particularly low, which is why I said yes to Matt's invitation to his fraternity's house party. He was all tearful about his broken engagement. The fight with Maribeth had something to do with her not approving of a trip Matt wanted to take with his dickhead friends. I pretended to care and did such a good job of it, Matt begged me to stop by tonight and help him drink his sorrows away. Stupid things are done by stupid people. I’m the stupid one here, if anyone’s wondering.
“Is Ty going to glare at us all night?” Fleur hisses in my ear. I slump further down in the sofa cushion, trying to avoid Ty’s narrowed eyes. He’s not wearing his glasses tonight, so his disapproval is extra clear.
“I don't know, but I think I need to move out of the line of sight. Even if I were a cat I'd be dead, because at this point there'd be no lives left to be reincarnated.”
Played: A Novel (Gridiron Series Book 4) Page 10
