Player Season: The Pickup Artist Who Hacked Nike (24 page)

"You're good at this," Kyle announced from the dining room table in the dying moments of the first take.

"Shut the fuck up Kyle! I'm still taping!" I scolded.

The truth is ... I wasn't still taping. There were two guys in the room and one girl; I needed to eliminate him from the equation. Nature was at play, and man has to adapt to his environment. It was raw and primitive, but my actions seemed necessary at the time.

"Oh, I see what you're doing," a flustered but aware Kyle uttered while vacating the room.

I watched him go, with the same look a lion gives his competitors as they vacate the scene of a freshly claimed carcass.

Reva and I carried on; showcasing item after item while I underhandedly injected sexual connotations in each scene. I instructed her on how important it was to mention the 'ball marks' on the barrel of every bat, and made sure to capture an extended shot of her cleavage every time she leaned over to place items on the table.

The goal wasn't to be sexist; I was simply targeting my audience.

After we finished, Reva and I walked upstairs to my room and initially sat down on the edge of the bed. She stood up, stepped in my closet, took her jeans off and replaced them with plaid Burberry pajamas some other girl left behind. Without doubt, it was a bold and blatant move.

A few days later, Dave and I were busy on the prowl at a club called 'The W'.

We stood poolside, poised as we contemplated which of the many gaggle of girls were best suited for an encounter. Then I imposed a transition, our roles would reverse and the task of making first contact would now be up to Dave.

He spotted a group of four and made a swift move on his pick of the litter. Now it was up to me to swoop in and entertain the other three. Dave and I differed in a way; he was actually looking for a girl he liked, and I did this routine so many times it was hard to appear like I was actually interested.

So Dave championed them for the remainder of the night, it was like rooting for an underdog at the end of a marathon. His white tape at the finish line came in the form of his white Mazerati sitting out front in the valet...when every last one of them piled in.

When a runner wins a marathon, it usually comes with a gallant picture of them flailing their arms out wide as they burst through the finish line. Dave's was a mental picture; taken by me, with four girls in the background while he's cracking the biggest smile I had witnessed since the day I met him.

It made me reminisce to our days walking around the supermarket making cold solicitations, scouting out restaurants with the best looking waitresses and leaving the club alone. Now we were improved, grown and fully flourished.

Just a few seconds went by and I was suddenly blessed with another priceless and everlasting mental picture. One of the girls began taking short, choppy steps towards the car, seemingly overcome with excitement, but then it all changed...when she tripped and fell
flat
on her face. To think, we almost pulled away with a flawless exit.

I took the wheel and peeled off. Then another stark contrast between Dave and myself came to light. I wanted to take them to his place and he wanted to take them home.

This was a tough pill for me to swallow. What was the point of going out if they weren't coming back with us? To make matters worse, they lived 20 minutes away, but the tipping point ultimately came when one of the girls began incessantly screaming in the back seat. I couldn't take it.

"Will you please shut the hell up!?" I asked the girl.

"That's your last straw," Dave said to me, playing the hero and simultaneously enacting his power play.

He also probably wanted her to shut up but I knew what he was doing. First, he showed the girl he was standing up for her (playing the hero) and secondly he was letting them know that I lived under his wings by telling me I was on my last straw. What Dave didn't know, is that I opt out of power plays – even if you're giving me free rent.

"Go fuck yourself Dave! You don't own me! I'll find a place to live, I'm not one of your employees you can boss around!" I lashed out, much to his astonishment.

Our ride home was a silent one, but he didn't end up kicking me out. In fact, I'm pretty sure I had gained his respect. When you're rich, 99% of the people you know will kiss up to you. It was probably refreshing for someone to strike back and voice their unfiltered opinion.

We were back at it a few nights later. Of all the places you could meet four girls wearing classy dresses, and immediately invite over; its kind of hard to believe it was at a gas station.

Drinks were poured and the cards were shuffled. Having a 2:1 girl to guy ratio is a delicacy, their words and actions essentially serve as an interview for which one you should pick. Physical appearance aside, your best bet is to either go with the most outspoken girl of the group or the least. The ones who fall in the middle are usually caretakers or people-pleasers, and they don't make bad decisions for themselves.

I prefer the least outspoken, the one I can influence to rebel against her designated role and eventually entice to come out of her shell. This person doesn't take long to spot either because within minutes; I knew yellow dress was my target.

Dave, on the other hand, elected for the most outspoken and it was a battle, but pink dress came out on top.

"You seem like you're more interesting than you make yourself out to be," I told yellow dress.

This line and the other 20 similar themed provocations to follow were all a part of my plan. I was building a story line, and she was the character who was holding back, a diamond in the rough, who would find her true self by finally opening up. I was about to find out if her character would climax when we entered my bedroom together.

We kissed for a moment and then she jumped on top of me, straddling my hips. Then, the story unfolded.

"You know I'm not going to do anything with you," she said, smiling like her words were cute.

At this stage in our game and after so many successful nights, my tolerance for noncompliance was at an all-time low.

"Ok, well you can get off my bed now, I'm going to sleep," I informed her, indecently.

"Are you serious? You're an asshole!" she cursed as she stormed away.

As bad as this may sound I have to agree with her.

For the first time ever, Justin and BJ were going to face off in the big leagues. Regardless of our differences, Justin invited me to come along; well, it was more like Justin and Chris
wanted
me to go. I imagine our night in Tucson with "Summer" and her friend influenced their decision.

We weren't flying separate. It was a grand occasion and they wanted to roll in style; so they chartered a private jet.

Four creme colored leather chairs faced opposite directions on each side of the plane, with one extended seat behind them. Justin clutched a bottle of Johnny Walker, Chris broke out a deck of cards and I stared at the built-in screen displaying our exact location on the map.

We drank and gambled while Chris plugged in the extra iPod speakers so he could blast whatever rap music was trending at the time. Then Justin reminded me why I came along for the trip.

"B-rad, I hope you have some girls lined up," said Justin, as Chris turned to me for an answer.

"I'm already one step ahead of you, they'll be at the hotel when we arrive," I confirmed.

It was true; Kendall and her friends would be there. I also texted Liz just to let her know we were on a private jet.

Then I pulled out my camera, and started taking pictures. Chris and Justin initially gave the same reaction most famous/important people give when there's a camera around. That was just their natural instinct so I ignored it, after all, if I spent that much money on a flight; I would want pictures.

In fact, I could tell Chris was thinking the same when he began to consciously and not-so-covertly pose for the remainder of my photo shoot. Then he passed out.

Nighttime turned to daytime and we eventually touched down in Tampa during the early morning hours. Once we stepped off the plane, a black SUV pulled up and a man in a tuxedo-styled suit loaded our bags.

Chris wiped his eyes and Justin yawned while we grabbed our suitcases out of the trunk in front of the downtown Tampa hotel. It was 9:30am, and Kendall was waiting in the lobby with her friends, just like I had planned.

In essence, I was running an escort service. However, the girls were never paid and the clients never paid me either, unless you count free trips and hotel rooms; which I did.

The girls, on the other hand, were able to tell their friends who they hooked up with. Which, after years of research, is apparently very valuable to them. Go figure.

Kendall and her friends sprung off the multi-colored striped couch and scurried to the entrance to greet us, but we were tired and in no mood for small talk. I took Kendall to my room and I can only imagine they did the same with the others.

A few hours later, "Sienna", the girl who was with Justin, joined Kendall and I in my room.

"Justin said he was going to sleep," uttered the confused Sienna.

"Ha, he kicked you out!" Kendall blurted out.

"You know, we could have a threesome," I intervened.

Kendall and Sienna looked at me.

Kendall looked at Sienna.

Sienna looked at Kendall.

Kendall territorially looked back at me.

"Ha, you're funny," said Kendall, killing my dream.

It wasn't funny to me. The elusive threesome escaped my grasp once again. I rationalized it, like a sociopath, by deciding Kendall wasn't in the mood to share. Then it made me wonder; if I was supposedly so good at talking to girls, then why couldn't I convince them to have a threesome? It left me feeling unaccomplished.

Since it was Thursday, and the first game wasn't until Friday; we decided to meet up with BJ for a night on the town.

Per BJ's request, I called a girl at the bar to get us a table. Which highlighted an often seen fact in their life; when you're rich, people constantly try to rip you off.

"Hey, do you have a table?" I asked her, from the parking lot.

"Who are you with?" she asked.

"BJ, Justin and his teammate Chris," I told her.

"Ok, well we're kind of packed. I can get you one, but it's going to be $1,000," she quoted.

"Yeah, let me think about it," I avoided, before hanging up.

"That's bullshit! She said she wants a grand, let me go inside real quick and sort this out," I told my disgruntled mates.

I stormed into the club intent on changing their offer, and not just to a lower price; I wanted it for free. Instead of seeking out the girl who wielded no real power, I found the manager and stated my case.

"You and I both know a table doesn't cost that much, you're trying to squeeze them. Even if it does, their presence alone will bring more people to your bar. You should be giving it to them for free," I candidly told him.

"That's fine. We'll set it up now," he said, confirming the fluctuated price.

The point is this; without someone frugal like me, the $1,000 would have been paid, because negotiating a price makes a multi-millionaire look like an asshole. Now they were happy, it was a rare occasion for someone to save them money – financial managers included.

Within minutes of sitting down in our rightfully free seats, a frenzy of people surrounded us. Baseball was a big deal in Tampa, and everyone knew Justin was in town to play his brother. I could hear the chatter, and for the first time some of them were talking about me.

"Who's that?" a female onlooker asked another.

"He's like Turtle from Entourage, but with baseball players," the other answered.

I accepted their assessment. After years of hearing chatter about everyone but me, they could have said I was like Rodney Dangerfield from the movie Back to School and I still would have been satisfied.

On this night, I met a girl named Brooke, who has a brother in the big leagues, and she was all over me. She was pretty, athletic, curvy and very friendly. At the end of the night, I ditched the other suitable alternatives and took her back to the hotel.

Normally, some kissing and touching occurs immediately after you close the door. Not this time, she sat on the end of the bed wanting to talk, a nightmare scenario when the alternatives were willing to commit heinous acts. I needed a way out, and within moments it emerged.

Knock, knock, knock.

"What the hell you doing? Open the damn door!" Justin demanded.

The door swung open and there stood a delighted Justin; smiling widely with Kendall and Sienna on each arm.

"We're trying to kick it! Who you in here with?" said Justin, while he peeked over my shoulder to see Brooke with her legs crossed on the bed.

I turned around, looked at Brooke, squinted my eyes and leaned my head to the side while shrugging my shoulders. She took the hint, grabbed her purse and exited the room briskly without saying so much as a word to anyone.

The four of us slipped out of our clothes before jumping in the hotel hot tub, and the rest of the night persisted, as one should expect.

BOOM, BOOM, BOOM!

Someone savagely pounded on the door, many hours after I fell asleep. The only question was, how many hours? The curtains completely covered the windows and the room was pitch dark. I wasn't sure if it was morning time or if I slept until the following night.

Furthermore, I had no idea who was at the door. They knocked like they were police, so I replayed every step from the night before. After concluding I hadn't done anything illegal, I tiptoed my way to the door and looked through the peephole – it was BJ.

"B-bad, you got any condoms?" he asked, wired up like a crack fiend.

"What time is it?" I asked back, trying to get a scope on reality.

"It's eight man," BJ answered, like I was stupid for not knowing.

"In the morning? You can't be serious. Why are you asking me for condoms at eight in the morning?" I truly wondered.

"Man, never mind all that. Do you have any or not?" he said, as if my questions were out of line.

"Hah. No, I don't," I told him.

"I forgot your nasty ass never uses condoms. Aight, I'm out," BJ miffed, before disappearing down the hall.

I was perplexed. Their game didn't start for 11 hours I didn't even know why he was awake, let alone why he decided to violently wake me up, ask for condoms and then slander me when I couldn't produce. Classic BJ.

Once I woke up on my own accord, everyone was already at the field except for the Rays starting pitcher, David Price. Unlike any other level of baseball, he was allowed to show up a few hours before game time, and it wasn't hard to guess what he was doing; he was playing FIFA soccer on Xbox.

I walked in his condo and wasn't surprised at all to see his tall, lanky body stretched out on the floor in front of the TV. He wore white Nike sandals, gray Jordan sweatpants and a dark t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. His face was covered with trimmed stubble and his eyes were doing just as I expected; focusing on his current game of FIFA.

"Let me know when you're ready," I told him, submitting my challenge.

"I'm always ready, you're gonna get whipped!" he fired back.

For the next few hours, we didn't move an inch, unless it was to change direction on the joystick. Trash was talked after every goal scored and taunting noises were let out upon every deceptive juke move; then I chose to be a little more deceptive by giving him false advice on how to pitch to Justin.

"What do you think Justin will do against you?" I baited him.

"He's going to strike out, without question," Price confidently answered.

"Don't throw him anything on the inner half of the plate. I've been watching him all year, that's the only thing he looks for early in the count," I assured him.

"Well if he's looking inside then I'll just have to paint the outside corner all night!" Price excitedly decided, thinking he did so on his own.

He was unaware my loyalties were now with the Diamondbacks, so I texted Justin once I sat down at Tropicana Field, just an hour before the game began.

"I told Price you only look for inside pitches, take his shit deep oppo!" my text read.

'Oppo' meant opposite field, which is right field for a right-handed batter. 'Take his shit deep' meant to hit a home run, which Justin was more capable of accomplishing with an outside pitch than most other players. It was actually one of the stronger facets of his game.

Justin stepped up to the plate for his first at-bat, and ripped a single up the middle. Then the fourth inning rolled around, and Justin dug in for his second at-bat. With three balls and one strike, Price falsely assumed Justin was looking for an inside pitch, but he didn't know Justin was provided 'inside' information.

Price threw a fastball on the outside corner at the knees, just like he said he would do, and Justin crushed a line drive over the right field fence for a home run; exactly as planned. I smirked from the bleachers, Justin trotted around the bases and Price screamed at himself into his own glove.

For the next few innings, I focused less on the game and more on the third row behind home plate; I was trying to spot Liz. It was aberrant to see her after all we went through together, albeit from a distance. You don't expect, or even don't want to see them functioning normally without you; but they are.

Like a creep, I watched while she sipped diet coke, presumably with no ice, from my strategic perch behind the left field foul pole; I couldn't help but wonder if I was finally over her. My answer came the very next minute when I unlocked my iPhone and fell victim to my inner desire of making contact with her one last time.

"Hey, do you want to meet?" my email read.

Thirty minutes go by with no response. My phone died an hour later during the eighth inning.

I wrote it off as a lost cause and proceeded back to BJ's house to get ready for another night out. Once inside, I plugged my iPhone into the charger and hopelessly checked to see if she responded...and she had.