Rookie Mistake Page 3

  “Do you know how much I earn on the field? Fifty dollars barely covers the time it took me to take my pants off.”

  “And if you got me off with the same skill you sack a quarterback, I’d be offering you as much as the Colts. It’s all about commitment.”

  Kyle laughs, standing up bare naked and beautiful. “You’re cold, sweetheart.”

  “And I’m running late. I’ll see you later.”

  “Tonight?”

  I hesitate, my hand on the cold doorknob. I’m in Indianapolis for another four days for the NFL Combine. Three more nights. And February nights in Indianapolis are notoriously cold. I could probably use the company.

  “Maybe,” I reply, turning away from him. “I’ll call you.”

  “No, you won’t. You never do.”

  “No, but you always call me.”

  I shut the door, ending the conversation and our… encounter? God, that sounds weird but I don’t know what else to call it. I never have. Our tryst? Our appointment? Our fuck? Nothing sounds right and it doesn’t matter. Whatever it is, it’s in the past. Same way we left it in the past last February. And the February before that.

  I hurry to clean up, giving myself a whore’s bath in the sink and reapplying my makeup quickly. I run my hands through my hair, smoothing the long blond strands back into a thick ponytail. My phone beeps in the other room. It’s an alarm going off to remind me to pick up the Ashford Agency’s clients from the airport, but I don’t need reminding. I haven’t needed an alarm to wake me up since I was twelve. Not since I started carrying a Blackberry and scheduling my entire life to the minute.

  At exactly six twenty-five I’m standing in the large lobby waiting for Hollis. He’s going to be three minutes late. He always is. It’s okay because I always tell him to be everywhere five minutes before he needs to be. He knows it, I know it, but it still works somehow.

  Six twenty-eight and the doors to the elevator slide slowly open. Hollis is there, smiling at me behind the carefully cultivated five o’clock shadow darkly dusting his jaw.

  “Have you been waiting long?” he asks airily, knowing damn well he’s late.

  “Today or as a total? Do you want me to tally up how long I’ve waited for you over the last two years, because it might surprise you?”

  Hollis smiles, lacing my arm through his to lead me toward the door. “You’ve already added it up, haven’t you?”

  “Nine hundred and thirty-six minutes,” I answer immediately. “Over fifteen hours total.”

  “That can’t be right.”

  “I have a spread sheet. I’ll email it to you.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  We step into the brisk morning air where a large white van is waiting for us at the curb. My California skin screams against the chilly air as I rush to get inside, sighing when the warmth of the heated interior envelopes me.

  Hollis settles in next to me, pulling his black leather messenger bag into his lap.

  “So,” he drawls lasciviously, “how was Ponyboy?”

  “What?”

  “Ponyboy. Outsiders. ‘Stay gold’. It’s a book.”

  “I know the book, but I—“

  “And a movie. Emilio Esteves. Patrick Swayze. Rob Lowe.”

  “I’ve seen it, yeah. I know.”

  “Then why are you acting like you don’t know it?”

  The driver gets into the front seat, slamming his door against the cold.

  I look warily at Hollis because I know what’s happening. I know he’s going to embarrass me. “I know the story. I don’t get your reference, but you can explain your genius to me later when we’re alone and not—“

  “Okay,” he interrupts loudly. “You’re confused about why I called your latest one night stand ‘Ponyboy’. Is that right, Sloane?”

  “I’m going to kill you.”

  “It’s because he’s a Colt. A horse.”

  “I get it, asshole,” I snarl.

  “I bet you did. Get it, I mean. All of it. Repeatedly.”

  “You’re dead to me.”

  “How was he?”

  I give in, sighing, “He was good. He’s always good.”

  “Did he make it to the end zone?”

  “Let me guess. The end zone is a euphemism for my ass?”

  “No, that’s the Super Bowl,” he tells me as though it were obvious.

  “Right, of course. Okay, yes. He made it to the end zone.”

  “Touchdown?”

  “Yes.”

  “Two point conversion?”

  I pause, trying to figure this one out. “You mean, did we…?” I use my hands to make a sixty-nine position, each of my middle fingers tickling the wrist of the opposite hand.

  “That’s the one.”

  “Yep.”

  Hollis lifts his hand for a high five. “Good game.”

  I slap it violently. “Thanks, Coach.”

  We ride in silence for a few minutes. A few miles. The driver, an older guy who reminds me uncomfortably of my grandpa, looks in the rearview at me a couple of times. I can’t tell if he’s judging or not, but it doesn’t matter. I won’t apologize for it. I like sex. I really like it with a hot guy who knows what he’s doing, and that is a combination that is surprisingly hard to find. Most guys with the body come into the situation thinking they can do no wrong. They think their mere presence is erotic enough for any woman. That they can step on the court and rock the house by virtue of being them. They’re the Kobe Bryants of sex. The divas. I like a rookie. A guy without a name or a contract who comes in willing to work, willing to learn the playbook and put in the hours at practice because he has to. He’s a seven at best but his game is on point. Kyle is a rare blend of the two; a body that won’t quit and the eager attitude to match.

  The guy isn’t a Colt. He’s a fucking unicorn.

  “Are you going to see him again while we’re here?” Hollis asks seriously.

  I shrug. “Probably.”

  “Don’t sound so excited about it,” he chuckles.

  “Do you want me to do cartwheels?”

  “Save them for the airport when you see your boy.”

  My heart stutters at the thought. Trey Domata is one of the guys flying in today. Him and Brylan Reed, a tight end from Arizona State. Hollis is Reed’s agent, meaning I get to escort Domata. After years of watching him, studying him, and months of fighting for him, I finally get to meet him. I’m nervous like a girl going on a first date. I try not to think about it, but just the mention of him has tied my stomach into knots.

  “He’s not my boy,” I remind Hollis.

  His lips tighten in a thin line. “Yeah, I know.”

  “It’s fine. Don’t get worked up about it again.”

  “It’s bullshit. You should have had it out with your dad for that.”

  “He signed Domata. That’s all I care about.”

  Hollis looks at me impatiently. “You wanted to sign him. You put in all of the work, and he swooped in and took him as his client. It’s bullshit.”

  I nod reluctantly. “It’s kind of bullshit.”

  “It’s a steaming pile of it.”

  “Do you want to know the best part?”

  “What?”

  “He’s not going to be here today. Or tomorrow. Or the entire time Domata is at the Combine.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me as much as it should. Where is he?”

  “North Carolina. It was Michael Jordan’s birthday last week. He and mom are going to celebrate with Michael and Yvette.”

  “Of course they are.”

  I smile at his sarcasm. “Hopefully Trey is a Jordan fan, otherwise he might be kind of pissed his agent isn’t here.”

  Hollis nudges my shoulder with his. “He’s better off this way.”

  “God, I really hope so.”

  “Don’t lose your balls now. They’re what I love most about you, Ashford.”

  I grimace. “I really need to marry you already so I can take your last name.
”

  “I’m ready when you are, Mrs. Kane.”

  “You just want me for my inheritance.”

  Hollis leans over to kiss me gently on the temple. “Yes.”

  I laugh, leaning into him. Laying my head on his shoulder and letting the steady jostle of the van rock me into a stupor. I feel safe like that, leaned up against Hollis. He’s the big brother I always wanted. The big gay brother who hides so deep in the closet he can barely see the light outside. It breaks my heart to think about. To know all of the things he’s missing out on while he’s hiding behind his fear.

  It wouldn’t ruin his career at the firm if everyone found out he was gay. Brad already knows and he doesn’t care, no one else in the office would either. But the clients might. He could lose people, because the NBA and the NFL are our biggest signs and they’re also a boy’s club. I struggle enough as a woman in this man’s world, but ask an NFL linebacker if he wants to work with a woman or a gay guy and he’s probably going to pick the woman and punch the gay. Or he’s going to pick another firm entirely. One with more men, all older and straighter and rich as shit, because that’s the lie people always believe; if you already have money, you know how to make more.

  And everyone always wants more.

  NFL Combine Day #1

  Indianapolis International Airport

  I forgot to pack my headphones. I realized it when we were in the air leaving L.A. When we made our connection in Denver I checked the shops, trying to buy a new pair, but all they had were Bose and Beats. A hundred and fifty bucks minimum. Even if I was willing to drop that much on emergency headphones, I don’t have the cash on me. And suddenly that uncashed check in my wallet feels huge, like it’s weighing me down. Like it’s laughing at me.

  It’s a stupid mistake, one I’ll pay for at the Combine. My music is how I get into the zone. It’s how I cool off and calm down, tuning out the world. I can’t function on the field feeling the way I do now; all emotion. Pure thought and worry and anxiety. I need the numb and I’ll never find it here. Not without my music. And now here I am two thousand miles away from Tish and every other girl on my roster, about to enter into an intensive program full of dudes. No girls.

  I can’t even get right the wrong way.

  By the time we land in Indianapolis I’ve heavily considered draining my bank account to go buy a new pair of Beats, no matter how wasteful it feels. I’m eyeing the shops, checking out my options, when I hear my name in the empty corridor.

  “Trey.”

  I turn to find the warmest, brownest eyes I’ve ever seen in my life. That’s the first thing I notice about her; her eyes. It speaks volumes to their appeal because the rest of her is insane. Tan skin, blond hair, full breasts, and a tiny waist above long legs. They’re hidden under the dark pants she’s wearing, her clothes all business. Her smile though, that’s something else. It’s playful and pink. A party waiting to happen.

  From top to bottom she’s nothing like I imagined. When the Ashford Agency said they’d have someone at the airport waiting to pick me up I pictured an old fat guy with a beer gut and a goatee. Not a ten.

  She closes the distance between us, offering me her manicured hand. “Hi,” she says warmly. “I’m Sloane. I’m with the Ashford Agency.”

  I take her hand in mine, watching it disappear inside my grasp. “Hey. Nice to meet you.”

  “You too. How was your flight?”

  “Early.”

  She laughs, taking her hand back slowly. She tucks it under the thick coat in her arms. I can smell her perfume as she shifts it. Something subtle and muted that mingles with the warm coffee smell permeating the airport. It’s not in the least bit sweet. It’s almost masculine.

  “You didn’t sleep much last night, did you?” she asks knowingly.

  Images flood my mind before I can shut them down. Memories of Tish. Of her apartment. Her shower. Her body pressed up against the white wall, glistening wet in the steam from the spray. Her hair plastered over her face. Her mouth open and desperate for air, begging for more, taking everything I gave her until I was out of condoms and out of energy. Out of time. I made it home just after midnight, just in time to throw some shit in my duffel and pass out for a few hours. It was worth it at the time. It got me to sleep, but I’m paying for it today. I’m exhausted and as anxious as ever.

  And now I’m standing here staring at Sloane with a chub in my pants like I’m in middle school.

  I clear my throat, shifting my duffel on my shoulder until it hangs in front of my crotch. “No, I couldn’t sleep.”

  “Don’t worry, you’re not the only one. No one gets much sleep the night before the Combine. Trust me, you’ll sleep well tonight.” She nods to my duffel. “Is that your only bag?”

  “Yeah, this is it. It’s all I’ve got.”

  Just my bag and my boner.

  “Great. We’re good to go then.” Sloane motions for me to follow her, leading me toward the front of the airport. The place is filling up, the gray morning light illuminating sleepy travelers that shuffle numbly forward in line. “The van is parked out front waiting to take us to the hotel. Hollis, another of our agents, is waiting in the van with Brylan Reed. Do you know him?”

  “Arizona State, right?”

  “That’s right.”

  “I’ve only met him once. PAC-12 South playoff game. He’s good.”

  “That’s what he said about you too.” She looks up at me, craning her neck to cover the eight inches I tower over her. “Not that he knows you, I didn’t ask him. But he said that you’re good. It’s what everyone says about you.”

  I smirk. “They can’t all be wrong, right?”

  “I guess not, but I hope they are.”

  “You’re not gunnin’ for me to fail, are you?”

  “Not in a million years. I just mean I hope they’re wrong about you being ‘good’.” She smiles at me sideways, her eyes brilliant and beaming. “I’ve bet the farm on you being great.”

  I smile slowly. “I’ll try not to let you down.”

  “I’ll hold you to that.”

  When we hit the doors she shrugs into her coat, her slender frame disappearing in its bulk. I want to pull it off of her. I want to watch her as she walks, her hips swaying like the pendulum on a clock, rhythmic and hypnotizing. I’m imaging what she looks like when her clothes match her smile. When she’s all party and no business. All pink lips and ruffled blond hair.

  An old man is waiting to open the door to the van when we get there. The passenger door opens as well, a guy in his late twenties, dark designer jeans, and a gray sweater jumping out to greet us.

  He offers his hand to me along with a slight smile. “Hey, Domata, good to finally meet you. I’m Hollis Kane.”

  “Hey, man. What’s up?”

  “Have you met Brylan Reed?” he asks, pointing to the back seat of the van.

  “Yeah, we’ve met,” Brylan says quietly. He offers me a small nod, his dark eyes looking as tired as I feel. “What’s up, Domata?”

  I nod in return. “Reed.”

  I feel weird when the old man takes my duffel to stow it in the back. I offer to do it myself but he only smiles as he takes it from me. Hollis hops back into the passenger seat while Sloane slides into the first row bench in the back. I take the spot next to her, leaving space between us so I’m not crowding her.

  Hollis pulls out a notebook. “So, we’ll get you guys to the hotel where there’ll be an NFL scout at the front desk to check you in, show you where to stow your stuff and get you going on registration. There’ll be a Meet-n-Greet breakfast kind of thing for you guys to mingle with the other prospects. Later you’ll go to the hospital for the pre-exam and x-rays. Then lunch. Then it’s orientation at Lucas Oil Stadium. After that it’s interviews with coaches, scouts, and general managers. Dinner. Then you’re done for the day.”

  “I’d go to bed early,” Sloane cautions. “You have more interviews with teams tomorrow but you also have to sit down with the med
ia. You’ll want to be sharp for that. Bombing an interview with a team burns you with that team. A bad interview with the media will go public. You could lose fans as well as prospects, and you should never underestimate how much a Draft pick is influenced by public opinion.”

  “When do we take the psych test?” Reed calls from behind me.

  “Third day,” Hollis answers. “You’ll take both the psychological evaluation and the Wonderlic IQ test. You’ll have more interviews. Then it’s the bench press.”

  “Quarterbacks are exempt from the bench press so you’re lucky there. Your injury won’t be an issue,” Sloane whispers to me discreetly. I lower my head, leaning closer to hear her better. “But you need to stay visible and on their minds so go watch the test. Mingle with other players, congratulate them on their scores. Always wear the gear the NFL gives you with your position, name, and number printed on it. If you leave your room, you’re in that gear. You want to be seen everywhere. Make them forget you didn’t participate in some tests by always being there. Always in their eye line.”

  I nod my head in silent understanding. Inside my stomach turns as my hand clenches reflexively against the splint, my index finger pinching angrily.

  “It won’t hurt you in the Draft.”

  I look at her, surprised by her tone. It’s quiet, but stern. Almost scolding.

  She looks to my hand, then back into my expectant eyes. “Your hand. It won’t matter. I promise.”

  “That’s not what I keep hearing.”

  “You’re listening to the wrong people.”

  “How can you be sure it won’t hurt me?” I ask low and deep, my nerves winding tight around the topic.

  Sloane leans in closer, so close it feels invasive. Intimate.

  “Because I’ll make sure of it,” she promises. “If you let me do my job, I’ll make sure it doesn’t hurt you.”

  I have no reason to trust her. I just met her. I don’t know her at all, but the way she says it, the confidence in her voice that goes beyond self-assurance and delves deep into a well of certainty, it puts me at ease. It settles the roll in my stomach, eases the tension in my hand, and even if it’s bullshit, I’m grateful to her for it. For this fleeting moment of peace.