Rookie Mistake (16 page)

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.

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 same 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.

“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?