Played: A Novel (Gridiron Series Book 4) Page 3

  “If you like the membership so little, why are we here?”

  “I didn't realize there was a better place to meet. Remember, it’s all about the optics.” He brushes a hand over his arm. “The one drawback of podunk college towns like this one is the shit food and the low-rent lodging. Jesus, what I'd give for a decent mattress. Kid, you will love it in these big markets. The clubs, the women, the food.” He shakes his head. “You don't know what you're missing.”

  I decide against reminding Dana that I come from a small town in Illinois. To him, everything but the coast is considered flyover country.

  I grab the menu. Getting water thrown in my face and dealing with Ara's ex has worked up my appetite.

  “I ordered for you,” Dana says.

  I pause, breathe through my nose, and gather my patience. “Thanks.”

  “Speaking of food, how's the diet going?” Dana's oblivious, either intentionally or not, to my irritation.

  “Good.”

  “Weight?”

  “I texted you that last night.”

  He quirks both eyebrows up. “You didn't weigh yourself this morning?”

  “No. My weight's the same last night as it’s been for the last twenty days. I doubt it's going to be different today.” It's hard to keep an even tone, but I remind myself that Dana wants the same thing I want—for me to get picked in one of the top five draft slots come April.

  “Well, don't miss tonight,” he cautions, like I'm five and am gorging myself every day.

  I run my tongue across the inside of my lip before answering. “I won't.”

  “And the knee?”

  “It's perfect.” And that's no lie. “I haven't had pain in weeks and no treatments. I probably just tore a ligament and needed a little time to heal.”

  The waiter arrives with our food. Unsurprisingly, my meal's chicken breast and broccoli. I've had so many chicken breasts, I may start laying eggs.

  Without argument, I dig in because I understand Dana's reasoning. There'll be plenty of days to veg out in front of the sofa drinking beer and eating pizza after my career is over.

  “The important thing here is that we seed the right rumors. I think you should do a pre-combine mini-camp event to stave off any rumors that your knee is bad.”

  “My knee's not bad.”

  “Sure, that's what you say.”

  “That's how it is.” I lay down my fork and glare at Dana.

  He smiles broadly. “People are watching us.”

  I glance around and see he's right. Dammit. I pick up my fork and resume eating. The bland chicken tastes like cardboard. I grab my glass of water and drain it while snippets of nearby conversations float my way.

  “…Masters looks tense today.”

  “Bet he's worried about his draft placement. His brother was number three.”

  “No way he beats that.”

  The sides of the fork bite into my palm.

  “I'm glad you're confident, but I'm not the one you have to convince. A pre-combine mini is the perfect way to show the scouts and execs that you're worth every penny of a multi-million-dollar contract. Plus, you'll have a leg up on all those guys at the combine. It won’t matter how you perform there. In the location we choose, with our own timers, with the optimum field conditions, we'll do all the combine tests. The four/forty run, three-cone drill, vertical jump, et cetera. All of it.”

  The idea has appeal. “I'd still go to the combine, right?”

  The combine is a weeklong event where the NFL teams invite about three hundred players. There, every orifice of your body and every crevice of your life is measured and weighed. The defensive linemen and linebackers are scheduled to start on the third day.

  “Of course, but there'd be no pressure on you.”

  “You scared I'm not going to blow my competition out of the water?” I have zero doubt that I'm going to be the best in my class, by a long shot. If I don't get drafted high it's because the team picking wants a quarterback or right guard or running back, not because there's a better defensive end in the pool this year.

  Last year might've been a different story. Last year I would've competed against my brother who plays the same position. And that sort of competition kills my mom, hurts my dad. So while he entered the draft, I waited another year. Everyone thinks I wanted the Championship and that I played my fifth year to achieve it. Everyone’s wrong.

  It was a risk. I could've played like shit. I could've injured myself. But it all worked out perfectly. Knox, my brother, got drafted third. I won a National Championship. My family was over the moon, which makes me happy.

  Dana pops the perfect balloon. “You're not competing against the blowhards in the draft, son. You're competing against your brother. Every stat has to be better or you're not going to get drafted as high.”

  “I know.” I take a deep cleansing breath to dislodge the rock that's settled in my gut. I love my brother. Love him to bits, but that love doesn't mean I don’t want to smash every record he set.

  “Now tell me everything else.”

  I want to rub a hand down my face, but given the eyes watching me, I know that gesture will be taken wrong.

  Masters looked nervous at lunch. Think something was wrong with him.

  “A girl I was dating broke up with me.”

  “Dammit,” Dana curses, but he does it while smiling. He's great at putting on a show. “Why the hell can't you keep one dumb bitch satisfied?”

  Ara's ex is now only the second person I'd like to punch today. I restrain myself and force one side of my mouth up in what I hope is a credible smile. “Because I'm not interested in her and she figured it out because she's not a dumb bitch.”

  “Find a dumb bitch, then, and fuck her into submission, okay?”

  I summon up all reasons why I chose Dana Mullen as an agent before answering. “I'm not into dumb women, and even dumb ones can figure out that my focus is on training and getting ready for the draft.”

  “Christ, kid, you can't multi-task?”

  I stare stonily back at him.

  “Listen up. These execs want to pretend that you're all perfect homebodies wanting nothing more to do than pork your high school girlfriend until she pops out three kids. The more reason you have to stay at home and keep your dick tucked away, the better. So either gull some dumb broad who's happy riding your big dick for two months or find yourself a smart bitch who'll play along. Either one is good for me.”

  My hand curls into a fist. I pull it onto my lap before the gossips notice.

  Masters punched out his agent at lunch.

  Dana leans forward, a hand on the table, his voice pitched low so only I can hear him. “I know you signed with me for one reason only and that was so that I could get you drafted number one. And I'm going to deliver on that, by any means necessary. Sometimes it's going to mean doing some non-conventional thing—”

  Bells ding in my head, but I shut them down quick.

  “—Sometimes it means doing things that might not seem right on the surface, but you gotta trust me. We're on the same team. Go Team Ty.”

  He holds out a fist. I stare at it sullenly.

  Masters left his agent hanging.

  I force my own fist up and bump his.

  Nah, they were fist bumping. Some deal was going down. A good one.

  I force another breath past the rock and smile. “Go Team Ty.”

  “Now let's talk about interviews,” Dana says.

  Inwardly I groan, but I keep the fake smile on my face the rest of our meeting.

  After the meeting with Dana, I meander over to the training facility. It's quiet now that the season is over. Most of the coaches are off on recruiting trips. The locker feels like a ghost town. I half expect tumbleweed to blow through. Ace, my former QB, walks out of the admin office.

  Close enough, I think.

  “What's up?” he asks. “Usually we don't see you around here until the afternoon.”

  “I thought I'd get a few re
ps in this morning. Anyone else around?” I don't like interviews, eating chicken breasts, and maintaining a fake relationship. All that seems stupid. What's going to sell me as a player is how I work on the field. I'd rather spend my time in the gym and on the practice field.

  “Remy was here at six but left about an hour ago.”

  That's no surprise. The draft is stacked with running backs this year and Remy's anxious about where he's going to fall. That makes two of us, but my chances are better than his so I don't feel like I've got the right to complain. Around Remy—hell, around everyone but Ara, I keep my mouth closed.

  “Travarius?” I ask.

  Ace falls in step beside me, a folder in his left paw.

  “Nope. Too early. At this time of day, Remy's the only one awake. The rest of you lazy sacks of shit don't roll in ’til around noon.”

  “Sounds about right.”

  “How's the knee?” Ace asks.

  I glance down at his folder and then up at his face. “Is this an official question from JR Anderson aspiring sports reporter or a casual one from Ace, my QB?”

  “Friend.”

  “It's fine.” Then I wonder. “Have you heard anything?”

  “Nope. No one from this department is going to talk and even if they did, so what? A few injections is normal. What player hasn't had them?”

  My brother, I think. But I don't bother bringing up that comparison.

  Ace taps the folder against his hand. “These are a bunch of interview queries, though. I'll send them to your agent.”

  I grab at the folder. “Nah, I got these.”

  “You handling all your PR yourself? That's what you pay the agent the big bucks for.”

  “I like to know who's calling.” Dana wants me to do every interview, while I'd like to have my test results speak for themselves. It's like he has no confidence in my abilities.

  “These days? It's everyone.” He starts to leave but then circles back. “Just a word of caution. I think these reporters smell something.”

  There's a mild uptick in my heart rate. “Why? Are there questions in there?”

  “No. It's just…some of these reporters aren't only from sports outlets.”

  “What kind of interview requests did Knox get?” Ace used to play with my brother before he transferred.

  “I have no clue,” he admits. “I didn't work in the PR department. Probably nothing to worry about, but no harm in being alert, right?”

  “Right,” I affirm with confidence I'm not really feeling, and my right knee starts to throb. Fuck. “These interviews are all the same. I could do them in my sleep. I'm excited about the combine. I'm looking forward to the draft. I don't care what team drafts me so long as I get the opportunity to play on Sundays. I'd love to play with my brother in New York.

  The last one is a lie, but it's the one I have to sell the hardest.

  “Yeah. You got this.” He slaps the folder against my chest. “Don't spend too much time looking through these. Like I said, that's what you're paying your agent to do.”

  “It can't be that many.” The folder's thin.

  “A couple hundred,” Ace says cheerfully.

  I blanch. “A couple hundred?” I peek inside and realize that it's a spreadsheet and not an individual printout. “Holy shit. I thought I'd have to do one.”

  “What's your agent going to say?”

  “Dana?” I grimace. “He's of the opinion, the more press, the better.”

  “Doesn't seem like you agree.”

  “The more you open your mouth, the greater the chance you say something dumb. Better to keep my mouth shut than talk and be crucified.” This is the sort of thing that Knox loves to do. He's friendly and outgoing. “My stats can speak for themselves.”

  “It's your career,” Ace says as the door closes. It's clear he thinks I'm making a mistake. I probably am, but I just want to play. I hate all the pretty boy media shit you’re forced to do these days.

  It's not enough to have game. You’ve got to be a brand. Everyone's measuring you by how many endorsements you have. How many followers on the ’gram. How many jerseys you're selling. All of it goes into where you fall in the draft.

  But if the current state of the league has taught players anything, it's that you can commit nearly any sin short of murder and as long as you excel on the field, all's forgiven.

  Not that I intend to sin. I've got everything planned and if I can just stay focused, then the outside distractions aren't going to be a problem.

  Not the annoying agent.

  Not the angry ex.

  The only thing the matters is how I play, and I play football damn good.

  4

  Ty

  A good workout helps me sweat away the tension, and by the time I arrive home, my morning moodiness is gone. Halfway in the door, my phone buzzes.

  Did you see the news?

  The text's from my brother.

  Me: No

  Knox: Joshua London got picked up last night for a DUI.

  Oh shit. Josh London is a beast. Three hundred pounds but lightning fast. Teams are salivating over him.

  I type with one hand.

  Me: Is it out

  Knox: No, but soon. Some “anon” agent is spilling tea on SM that he's a problem in the locker room and this won't be the last of the bad news about him

  I hate those anonymous sources. They can say all the crap they want about a player and the player has no way of punching back. Any denial makes it look like you're hiding something.

  Me: Sux tb him

  Knox: No kidding. How'd the workout go? Weight?

  Sigh. Even from Knox. Tiredly, I type out my response.

  253

  Knox sends me the thumbs up.

  I get five more texts. All of them about London. Poor dude. Granted, asshole shouldn't drink and drive, but this is going to cost him several million dollars. Hope he enjoyed his night at the bar.

  Remy voices my exact thoughts when I walk into our kitchen. “You hear about London? Fool boy just had his most expensive night out ever. If I don't hear that it involved bathing in Ace champagne while Victoria’s Secret models took turns sucking him off, I'm gonna be real disappointed.”

  “Knox texted me. Is it out yet?”

  “I haven't seen it on the news. I guess his coach must've called in a favor.” Remy leans against the counter and reads the incoming tweets on his phone.

  “It's going to get out there.”

  “I keep searching his name. Nothing's trending yet.”

  I walk over to the fridge and pull out a bunch of ingredients for a smoothie. “Used to be that you'd be excited if you trended. These days it means you're dead or you did something wrong.”

  “Truth, brother. Truth. How's the knee?”

  I stifle my annoyance and pack the blender to the top. “Fine.”

  “Hurts, huh?”

  “I think it's phantom pain,” I tell him. “My knee's been fine since the Bowl game.”

  “Funny how a championship is the best upper.”

  “Good for our draft stock, too.”

  We exchange a muted high-five.

  “You're not putting enough sweetener in there. It's gonna taste like grass,” Remy observes.

  “I'm not even supposed to have sweetener,” I grumble, but I squirt an extra serving of agave syrup into the blender.

  Wyatt Majors, another lineman, ambles through. From the state of his hair, he just woke up.

  I motion to the blender. “Want one?”

  He grimaces. “How many vegetables have you stuck in there?”

  “A few.”

  “He shoved in a whole bag of baby spinach,” Remy volunteers.

  “Pass. Since I'm not training for shit anymore, I'm going to eat like a normal person.”

  After graduation, Wyatt's going to work at a construction company now that football is over. He strolls over to the cabinet and breaks open a bag of chips. My mouth waters.

  “Asshole,” Rem
y mutters under his breath.

  We sniff the air like goddamned junkies and then force our attention back on the blender.

  “This stuff tastes better than it looks,” Remy says.

  The green sludge swirls in the plastic container.

  “Looks like cow puke,” Wyatt yells over his shoulder.

  Man, our friend is an asshole. I turn the blender on high to drown out the sound of the crunch of the chips.

  “How about the plastic wrap over Wyatt's toilet?” Remy hollers into my ear.

  “Alwyn shares a room with him. We going to drag him down, too?” I yell back.

  Remy strokes his chin.

  “I hear you plotting something against me,” Wyatt shouts over the blender.

  I shut it off. “No need to scream, bro. We're standing right here.”

  Wyatt gives me the finger and shoves another handful of chips into his mouth.

  I lick my lips. “That junk food is going to kill you.”

  “Dude, you couldn't be more jealous if I was standing here with Miss America,” my friend taunts.

  “Who is Miss America these days? Anyone hot? They all look pretty plastic-y to me,” I muse.

  “She's a Latina and she's smoking,” Remy informs us. “You guys oughta watch those pageants. Hot chicks parading around in skin-tight dresses and bikinis. Only thing better is if they doused the girls with oil and had a little wrestling event.”

  “You need to take that remote away from Nichole,” Wyatt says.

  I pour the blended concoction into two glasses and hand Remy one. “He can't. She's already pissed at him because he bought that egg speaker.” The egg-shaped Bluetooth speaker set Remy back a cool three grand.

  “Is that what was shaking the house last night?” Wyatt rolls his eyes.

  “Boy, you have no idea how fine this girl is. She puts out four thousand watts of power and is coated with rose gold. She's so beautiful it brings a tear to my eye.” Remy sniffles and wipes away a non-existent tear.