Player Season: The Pickup Artist Who Hacked Nike (15 page)

It was a long–and awkward–drive home from Miami. Although one would reasonably assume for the matter to be discussed ... it wasn't. It was a sensitive subject for both of us, but even more so for her – so I chose to wait until she was ready to voice her opinion.

In a relationship, most of us know our words often come back to haunt us. Silence for me, at the time, was golden.

However, my inner thoughts were in full swing.

Piggybacking off a rich girl isn't exactly an admirable path to take to achieve your own success. I may have rich friends but I didn't have a job, my own place, nor did I even have my own car. How could I have a kid?

After self-analyzing and coming to that very conclusion, it was time to get the ball rolling on step one; a job.

Kazmir invited me over to look at his new 2 million dollar top-floor penthouse condo on Harbour Island, which overlooked downtown Tampa.

He walked me through each room, which I labeled the 'tour on marble floor' while he tried to avoid coming off as boastful or excited about his new domain.

"You don't have to hold back your smile, this place is fucking sick," I told him, which triggered a release of enthusiasm and put him at ease.

There were two bedrooms; the living room and kitchen in between each, occupying the vast majority of square footage.

Eight-oversized glass paneled windows stretched throughout the living room perimeter, leading to a colossal balcony with views reaching as far as Raymond James Stadium (which is not close by any means).

One wall was adorned with painted-red alligator skin, and another–beside the pool table and arcade–was custom made with $30,000 worth of bamboo.

Each closet in each bedroom was stuffed with Nike gear, mink covers on the bed, alpaca carpets, a sink with neon blue or red lights (depending on the temperature of the water) and showers sprinkling down from the ceiling.

I was delighted enough just to be there, but my day was about to get better. Scott asked me to join him on the balcony for a sit-down, a meeting of sorts, 21 floors above the city.

"Do you want to work for me?" Scott asked.

"Yeah, only because I think I can help you," I told him, which he seemed to appreciate.

"Ok, I'm going to pay you $2,500 in cash per month, but you have a lot of responsibilities," Scott advised.

"Which are?" I responded.

"You have to be my personal trainer, manager, assistant, driver and anything else I ask of you ... you also have to be on call 24-7," Scott asserted.

"That's fine with me," I replied.

"I have two more perks, I'm going to give you the keys to the Escalade and let you stay in my other apartment," Scott revealed, wrapping up our firstbut not lastbusiness meeting.

I guess the text message Liz relayed to him did the trick, no longer was I working 'scott-free'.

This would be my last night going back to BJ's house and although it was fun, my days as Dupree came to an end. The condo where I initially met Scott two years earlier ... was now mine. I also drove a brand new Escalade on 22-inch rims, but Scott wouldn't miss it; his all-black 2005 Ferrari 430 was there when he needed to drive.

From an outsider's perspective, I went from bum to businessman in about 5 minutes. I knew he was doing this for a reason, and it was because he wanted a return on his investment. Deep down, Scott cared about his performance and he really did need someone to hold him accountable ... so I went to work right away.

The first step was ordering workout gear. After he made the all-star team, Nike upped his contract and gave him an account on NikeElite.com, a website where he could order up to $25,000 in gear per year, free of charge. Oddly enough, out of everything Scott had, this was the aspect I envied the most.

He placed a MacBook air on his granite countertop, logged in his account and let me have at it. I ordered shoes, shirts, shorts, socks, medicine balls, weighted vests, water bottles, stretching cords, stopwatches, gym bags and headbands. I was locked in, this was the first time (but not the last) I had an adrenaline rush from being on the computer. I'm sure it would have been different if he were required to pay for it, but he didn't, it was free of charge!

"Anything else you want to add?" I asked, after showing him the online shopping cart.

"Add some soccer goalie gloves, I've always wanted a pair," Scott said, followed by my own evil rich-guy laughter.

A few short days later, everything we ordered arrived in boxes in front of the door it was too good to be true, much like the job I currently held.

Not only did we look sharp and professional with all this new gear, but it also gave Scott a reason to workout; which rarely happened. He grew somewhat lazy after receiving his contract and although I couldn't put myself in his figurative shoes, I could berate him into putting on his literal shoes ... to run.

I packed up the gym bag with all of our accessories and we took the elevator down to the weight room – it officially began.

The first hour consisted of lightweight shoulder exercises, stretching, leg presses and an abs routine. During the second hour, we hit the streets running, crossing over one bridge to mainland Tampa and returning on the other. Not only was this good for his conditioning, it was also great for his PR appeal. On the flip side, after lagging behind his consistent and personally unobtainable pace; my PR was taking a hit.

We continued doing this methodically, to the point where I no longer needed to chide him into doing it because he could feel the results, but not yet see if they transferred over to his performance on the field.

He remained on the DL for the time being, nonetheless, I still drove him to the field for each game. This is a time when I realized the college baseball mindset is much different from the MLB mindset; a fact highlighted when Lebron James came around to play the Orlando Magic.

"Come pick me up," Scott texted, during the fifth inning.

"For what? I thought you had to stay," I fired back.

"Never mind that, I got us first row tickets to the Cavs-Magic playoff game ... come pick me up," he explained.

He exited the stadium with his head held low, attempting to avoid being detected during his early escape (although I'm sure his teammates noticed he was no longer in the dugout). After an hour or so on the road, we arrived in Orlando just in time for the start of the game.

We took our seats directly behind the scorer's table. I immediately looked up in amazement at the daunting display of blue lights and the cluster of white towels being waved around by rambunctious fans.

BJ showed up with Stephanie just before halftime, shaking his head in disgust over Scott's dugout disappearance as they sat down. Once the second quarter finished, the four of us went to a VIP lounge where we rubbed elbows with the rapper Plies (who is smaller than T.I.) and were introduced to Tim Tebow (who most athletes despise, due to his unmatchable reputation).

Then, in the third quarter, Lebron began to flop. My anger grew each time he went down the court and passed the ball to his subpar teammates. I couldn't fathom why he wasn't taking control of the game and I got a chance to let him know when he leaned against the scorer's table.

"Shoot the damn ball Lebron!" I yelled, after standing up and leaning in.

He instantly began laughing with his teammate and then quickly turned around, looking me right in the eyes. I guess he wanted to put a face on his heckler – I really just wanted him to shoot the damn ball.

"Hey, I see you on TV!" Liz texted.

"Really?" I asked, previously unaware of this possibility.

"Yeah, why didn't you invite me?" she asked.

"I didn't know we were going, sorry," I told her.

The truth is my job with Kazmir gave me very little time to be around her. It's not like we were growing apart, because we never stopped texting (and I mean
never
), but we still hadn't discussed the situation that arose in Miami; which I found to be extremely odd, almost troublesome.

I mean who gets pregnant and then doesn't talk it over with their partner?† My silence strategy was still in effect but it was beginning to feel like a game of risk; with neither side making a move. To be honest, she waited so long I started to question the validity of the tests, but I couldn't or wouldn't dare say it.

Before the game was over, I told Liz I would call her when I got back, but then my phone was stolen at the blackjack table after we stopped at the casino. I told her the next day but I'm not sure if she even believed me. There was mutual distrust and our bubble was about to burst, I just never imagined it would have happened ... the way it happened.

The Rays were traveling to New York for a series against the Yankees the following weekend and interestingly enough, Liz informed me that she and her cousin were taking the trip as well.

The ominous red flag, which should have presented itself when she first announced her itinerary, didn't appear until Kazmir was gone and I was sitting in the penthouse all by myself.

"Just saw Liz in the lobby," BJ texted me, which was cryptic, although I didn't pick up on it at the time.

"Yeah, she's up there with her cousin," I replied, to which he didn't respond, another indicator I failed to notice.

She returned three days later and invited me to sit third row behind home plate at the next home game, her parents coveted seats. Call it a sixth sense or–if you picked up on the clues unlike me–call it blatantly fucking obvious ... but I knew something was up.

I grew up playing video games with my brothers religiously, and it was always a competition of who could outwit the other; often by cheating. Whenever one of them was bending the rules, I could always sense it on their face, it was an indicator they were attempting to pull the wool over my eyes. As I sat beside Liz, I saw the very same look on her cheeky dolled up face.

Now it was all a question of how to handle it. I chose to ask her subtle questions before revealing my suspicions, this way I could reference her answers once my cover was blown. It would also require some acting of my own.

"So did you have fun in New York?" I asked, with a genuine glaze.

"Yeah!† We went shopping everyday," Liz answered.

"That's cool. Did you stop by the team hotel?" I questioned, even though I knew the answer.

"Yeah, I think we only stopped by once for a few minutes," Liz countered, as I pounced on her usage of the words 'I think'.

"You think?† Do you 'think' you stopped by anyone's room while you were there?" I interrogated, bluffing with the appearance that I already knew something.

"No. Why?" she responded abruptly, adjusting her posture to an upright position.

"Come on Liz, you think I don't know?" I continued, now in full-on bluff mode.

"Know what?" she retorted, abnormally short-spoken.

"Liz ... I know," I bluntly told her, steadfast in my act.

"What?† That we went to Evan's room for a few minutes?" she caved.

"Oh, only a few minutes?" I pressed, still coming to grips with this previously unknown discovery.

"Yeah, my cousin and I were in there for ... like ... five minutes. You can ask her!" Liz maintained, and I
still
didn't believe her.

Without allowing Liz the opportunity to relay this–what I assumed to be–frivolous backstory, I instantly dialed her cousin's number from my phone. After it rang once, I bolted out of my seat and marched into the corridors, each step transforming me into a tyrant – I was Muammar Gaddafi.

Although I wasn't proud of what I did next, anyone who has been through a similar scenario can relate to this; all is fair in love and war.

"Hello?" the cousin answers.

"Hey, it's Brad. So you and Liz went into Longoria's room in New York?" I queried.

"Uh, yeah," the cousin hesitatingly replied.

"Are you sure? You don't sound so sure," I pried.

"What is this about? I don't want to be involved," the cousin told me, further hinting that something was awry.

"You're already involved. I'll put it to you this way if you don't tell me exactly what happened, I am going to tell your husband about every text you sent to Liz about wanting to sleep with Kazmir," I said, blackmailing for the truth.

"Don't you dare tell him! I was joking!" the cousin demanded, fumbling with which way she wanted to respond.

"Then tell me the fucking truth!" I pressed.

"I walked Liz to his room and she went in there alone," she softly reported.

"And for how long?" I asked.

"Thirty minutes."

I hung up; I didn't need or want to know anymore. All of the anger built up inside of me rapidly faded – I was devastated.

Instead of returning to my seat with Liz, I sat down at a wooden desk outside of the locker room and watched the rest of the game on a small portable TV with one of the security guards.

I was fooled and I didn't know what aspect was worse: being paraded to the game after the fact or how she cheated on me while she was
supposedly
pregnant. One thing was certain; I was done with Liz.

Sure, I could have continued arguing and dragged it out, but it wouldn't have changed what happened and it couldn't take away the everlasting feeling of animosity I would have towards her. She needed to sit in her seat alone, waiting for me to come back and hopefully realize I broke up with her once I failed to return. In my mind, she didn't even deserve a proper dismissal.

I channeled every painful emotion arising from this experience to my new goal; staying completely focused on my job and getting Scott Kazmir in the best shape possible.