Rookie Mistake (14 page)

I take up one of their bags before Sloane and I walk side by side, leading the way out of the terminal. My parents follow a few paces behind.

“How did you get them to take plane tickets from you?” I whisper.

She grins mischievously. “I told them the agency was paying for them, along with a suite at the Radisson.”

I look down at her, at the pleasure she’s taking in her surprise. At the pride in her eyes. “The agency didn’t pay for any of it, did they?”

“No,” she answers quietly. “I did. And it was worth it to see the look on your face when you saw them. I would have paid anything to see that.”

“I’ll pay you back.”

She touches my hand lightly where it dangles between us, her fingertips teasing the skin on the edge of the bandage. “You already did.”

I want to kiss her. I want to stop her, turn her, kiss her. Not because of the sexual tension always roiling between us, but because of a roaring rush of affection I feel for her at this moment. She’s a true friend, a part of my family as real to me as my parents following behind us, and I feel so much emotion when I look at her, I can barely stomach it.

“Thank you,” I tell her, fighting a new wave of tears that sting my eyes.

Sloane’s smile widens, her warm eyes dancing. I can’t stand it. I drape my arm around her, pulling her into my side in an embrace that feels more raw than any of the kisses we’ve shared or the sex we’ve had. When she hugs me back, her arm around my waist and her head on my shoulder, I feel so calm I’m floating. I’m flying, and I may not totally understand what’s happening between us or why I ball up the napkin in my pocket and toss it in the garbage as we pass, but I do know one thing:

This is getting right the
right
way.

April 28th

Auditorium Theater

Chicago, IL

This is it.

This is everything we’ve been waiting for.

Everything we’ve worked for.

This is Draft day.

I chose my clothing carefully, downplaying the fact that I’m a woman. I don a dark pantsuit with a brilliant blue cami underneath. No pinks. No purples. Minimal make up, minimal jewelry. Only a simple silver necklace Hollis gave me for Christmas last year and a small pair of diamond earrings. My heels are black and short. My hair is twisted into a loose chignon at the base of my skull. I do not carry a purse.

“You look nice,” Hollis tells me quietly. “Very lesbian chic.”

“Eat shit,” I whisper, heavily conscious of Trey’s parents standing only a few feet away.

“And the mouth to match.”

I look him over from head to toe. His black suit is perfection. Calvin Klein, I think. His tie matches his shirt. His shoes are perfectly shined. His hair perfectly mussed. “You look like a mortician.”

“Yeah, I know.” He thrusts out his right hand, adjusting his cuff with his left. “A hot mortician.”

“There’s no such thing.”

“Oh, what’s that, Mrs. Mansfield? Your husband left you a young, nubile, wealthy woman with a crippling sex addiction? I know a cure for that.”

“Another guy? ‘Cause you’re gay?”

“I’m giving that up. Can’t make it work, remember?”

“You’re giving it up?”

“Yep.”

“Giving up being gay?”

“That’s the plan.”

“You’re going after pussy now?”

He swallows. “Yup. Love me some trim. Mmm-hmm.”

“And boobs. You’re all into boobs now?”

“I love ‘em.”

I turn to face him, thrusting my shoulders back. “Touch mine.”

“What?” he laughs.

“Touch them. You have my permission to do whatever you want to them. Motorboat them right here in front of the entire NFL for all I care. Go ahead. Go wild.”

He glares at me for two long seconds before lifting his hand.

I slap it down, shaking my head in disgust. “No straight man would have hesitated. Not for one second. Go back to being gay. It’s what you’re good at.”

“Lame,” he grumbles.

“Tell it to God. He made you this way.”

“Hopefully he made somebody else this way that doesn’t wear tank tops to dinner.”

“Or cut his toenails in the living room.”

“Or cry after sex.”

“Or during.”

“Or before.” Hollis sighs as he puts his hands in his pockets, surveying the room. “Maybe I’m being too picky.”

“You’re not.”

“Then why am I alone?”

I flinch at his somber tone. At the stark loneliness in his voice. “You’re not,” I promise him. “And he’s out there. You just haven’t met him yet, but you never will if you give up. Or move to New York. I know for a fact he’s not in New York, so don’t bother going there.”

“Then where is he?”

“He’s on his way, Hollis. I can feel it. And until he shows up, you’ve got me.”

He smiles at me sadly. “Thanks, Sloane.”

“Anytime.”

A murmur rises from the far side of the Green Room where all of the Draftees are huddled together listening to a rundown of the way the night is going to go. Their families and friends are scattered around a series of circular tables covered with deep blue cloths. Each table holds a grass centerpiece with a football perched in the middle of it, the name of a Draftee on every one. Trey’s parents stand next to his table while I hover between it and Brylan Reed’s. Brad stands by Andre Larkin’s table farther into the room. He’s chuckling with his agent buddies, studiously ignoring Andre’s parents sitting awkwardly at the table.

Tonight is the first round only. Invited to be here are the most highly sought after players in the Draft, the ones the NFL is all but positive will be chosen immediately, though not everyone accepts the invite. Some guys choose to stay home with their families for the announcement. Media crews go to them to film their reactions, one of the most famous and scandalized reactions being the openly gay kiss between a defensive end and his boyfriend when he went to the Rams in the seventh. That was a media shit storm the world endured for weeks, and at the end of it no one was particularly happy. Especially not the player. He’s in the Canadian league now. Demarcus played against him last October.

“Here they come,” Hollis mumbles.

The prospects are filing back into the Green Room. They give each other high fives, half hugs, and fist bumps as they split apart, each of them drifting slowly to their tables. They’re a sea of suits, brilliantly colored ties, and impossibly tall, broad bodies.

And in the middle of them all is Trey. His dark gray suit and deep red tie burst against his golden brown skin. His jet black hair. He walks with confidence, moving through the madness like he doesn’t see it. Like he can’t feel it. He’s on the field right now. He’s in the zone, pure swagger, and the fact that I haven’t seen a hint of his tension is a testament to the influence his parents’ presence has over him. He was spiraling at the airport until he saw them. Since then he’s been easy breezy.

He smiles at me when he spots me, expertly unbuttoning his suit jacket and sliding his hands into his pockets like a model on a runway. He comes to a stop in front of me, presenting himself for inspection.

“Well?” he asks deeply, a cocky grin on his lips. “What do you think of the suit? It’s hot, right?”

It is. I knew it would be when I picked it, but I haven’t seen him in it until this moment. I didn’t imagine the affect the finished product would have on me, but as I look him up and down I feel my blood rising. My heart thrumming.

“It’s, umm…” I assess my surroundings. Every agent under the sun. Every Draft prospect from across the nation. My dad. Hollis. Trey’s parents. I clear my throat. “It fits well. I’m glad we had it tailored.”

He eyes me knowingly before leaning forward to touch my arm. His lips brush my cheek briefly and I breathe him in. Soap and cologne, and the subtle smell of his skin, the memory of which keeps me up at night.

Trey hugs his mom, then his dad. He shakes hands with Hollis. We all wait until he takes his seat before sitting down ourselves.

“Good luck tonight,” Hollis tells the table.

We wish the same to his.

When I sit down Trey is sandwiched between me and his mom. Cameramen wander the room. Photographers. There’s a steady buzz to the room that will die down soon when the clock strikes seven and the Draft begins.

It’s five minutes till. We’re almost there.

“Have we had any calls?” Trey asks me quietly.

I keep my face composed as I light up my phone on the table between us. “Nothing yet.”

“It’s getting late.”

“This is how it goes. You don’t always get a call before it happens. Sometimes it just happens and everyone is surprised.”

“I don’t like surprises.”

Trey’s mom leans across the table to look at us. “Is everything okay?”

I smile brightly. “Everything is fine.”

“We don’t know for sure the Kodiaks are going to pick me up,” Trey explains plainly. “Sometimes they call to tell you they plan to draft you.”

“
Sometimes
,” I repeat emphatically. “Not always.”

Trey nods to the other side of the room. “Looks like Andre is getting a call.”

I look to find Brad on the phone. He’s smiling ear to ear, nodding his head. He hands the phone off to Andre who smiles as well.

“It could be anybody,” I remind Trey.

“And it could be the Kodiaks.”

“Yeah, it could, because it could be anybody. It could be the Patriots with the third pick just like everyone has been saying for months.”

Trey nods, his eyes going distant.

“Be it to the Kodiaks or the Patriots or the fucking Lions, I promised you a first round draft and I will deliver,” I whisper adamantly. “Stay calm, stay cool, and trust me.”

He looks at me for a long time, wordless. Breathing. Finally his hand lands on mine, large and hot, enveloping my skin. He squeezes hard just as the music flares out on the stage.

It’s starting.

“Booo!”

Lono frowns. “Are they booing?”

“They are,” I confirm with a smile. “The commissioner must have taken the podium. They always boo him.”

“Why?”

“Some people probably have a real reason, some beef about how he handled something, but it’s tradition at this point. The Commissioner of the NHL and the NBA get booed on Draft day too.”

“With the first pick of the NFL Draft, the Jacksonville Jaguars are now on the clock,” the Commissioner announces loudly.

I point to the screens surrounding us, broadcasting what’s happening on stage on the other side of the wall. They’ve gone to a graphic of the Jaguars logo. “They have an amazing quarterback who’s been on their roster for three years. They won’t choose Trey.”

“But you think the Kodiaks will.”

I give a small grin. “That’s the plan.”

Trey catches my eye as I sit back in my seat. I’m surprised when he smiles. He’s shockingly calm for a guy in his position. Look around the room right now and you’ll find stone faced young men with blank eyes trying desperately not to lose their shit as they wait for their name to be called, assuming it’s called at all, and somehow my anxiety riddled Trey is the coolest seat in the house.

Six minutes. That’s how long the Jaguars take to make their pick. It’s a long time for a team that’s been sitting around with the first pick of the Draft in their pocket.

“Booo!”

Trey’s mom shakes her head. “It’s just rude.”

I laugh nervously.

My hands are starting to sweat.

“With the first pick in the NFL Draft, the Jacksonville Jaguars select… BJ Leonard. Defensive end. Louisiana.”

The Green Room breaks into applause, the theater outside going insane. We watch BJ stand from his table to hug his family and his agent before he heads for the exit, all smiles and relief. Cameramen and photographers follow him out.

We turn to the screens to watch him make his way across the stage to thunderous applause from the hundreds of fans that pack the house. The Commissioner gives him a handshake and a hug. He hands him a Jaguars jersey with his name already on the back. They pose for pictures. BJ is led off stage where he’ll be cornered by the media.

Days, weeks, and months of waiting and it’s all over in under a minute.

The Commissioner approaches the podium.

“Booo!”

“With the second pick of the NFL Draft, the Tampa Bay Buccaneers are now on the clock.”

Trey’s parents both look to me expectantly.

I shake my head. “Tampa Bay has a solid offense and they just hired a new defensive coordinator. He’ll be shopping the big boys in the Draft. They won’t take Trey.”

We wait four minutes on Tampa Bay. Finally the Commissioner returns to the podium. The pick is in.

“The Tampa Bay Buccaneers have traded the second pick to the Cincinnati Bengals. The Bengals are now on the clock.”

The clock begins to tick but my world screeches to a heart shattering stop.

“Oh no,” I breathe. I swallow hard, my stomach rising in my throat.

“What’s happening?” Lono asks eagerly.

“The Bengals are in the market for a quarterback.”

I look at Trey apologetically, my stomach flipping. His eyes are in the distance. I’m not even sure he’s listening, but he knows. He knows exactly what’s at stake.

“I’ve been selling Trey to them for the last month,” I confess quietly.

Donna frowns. “Why would you do that when he wanted California?”

“It was a safety net. The Bengals weren’t supposed to pick until late in the night. I thought Trey would be gone by then.”

“And you didn’t plan for something like this?”

“You can’t plan for the Draft,” Trey tells her almost inaudibly, his eyes on the table. “There are always surprises. Everyone is a passenger.”

My phone rings on the table. I recognize the number, snatching it up immediately.

“Coach Allen, good to hear from you,” I answer clearly, letting Trey know it’s the Kodiaks.

“How’s he doing, Sloane?”

“He’s the calmest of all of us.”

“That’s the way to be tonight, if you can manage it. Look, I’m gonna ask you something and I need you to be straight with me. Your agency, they’ve never lied to me before. Don’t start now, do you hear me?”

“Yes, sir. I hear you.”

“Did the surgery fix his hand? Can he throw?”

I frown, confused out of my mind. I wonder for a second if he hasn’t called the wrong number. “Coach, I—um…”

Trey pulls out his phone, checking a message.

“Sloane, be real with me.”

Trey shoves his phone in my face. His message is from Coach Allen.

Play along.

“Uh…” I stall stupidly. I have no idea what the hell is going on here.

“Speak up, hon,” Coach Allen tells me. “I’m
listening.
”

I lick my lips as the pieces fall into place. At least I hope they’re the right pieces, otherwise I’m about to sink my own battleship with this next move. I have to be careful. I have to make sure we take on a little bit of water, just enough, without going under.

“To be honest,” I answer slowly, “we don’t know. It’s too soon to tell.”

“Can he throw?”

My heart is hammering in my ears when I say, “He can’t even palm an orange, let alone a football.”

Trey’s mom leans forward angrily. “What are—“

Trey silences her with a quick shake of his head, a finger on his lips.

“That’s a terrible shame,” Coach Allen laments.

“It is. He’s really struggling with it. We all are. Of course, I’d appreciate it if you didn’t share this information with anyone else. Trey would fall right out of the Draft if anyone knew we aren’t out of the woods on his injury yet.”

“No, no. The secret is safe with me.”

“Thank you.”

“No, thank you for being up front with me.”

“I assume you’ll be drafting Andre Larkin in a few minutes.”

“I can’t say for sure, you understand, but it’s looking that way.”

“He’s a solid choice. Another Ashford Agency powerhouse.”

“Trey will go to someone today,” he promises me sadly. So sadly I start to wonder if this conversation is what I think it is. “I’m sorry it won’t be me. Can’t take that chance, though.”

“Yes, sir. I understand that.”

“Good luck tonight, kiddo. Tell Trey I’m praying for a speedy recovery. I hope my boys face off with him on the field real soon.”

Abruptly, the coach hangs up.

I drop my phone on the table feeling like I’m going to vomit.

“What are you doing?” Donna insists angrily.

“Playing the game,” I reply coolly. I tap Trey’s right arm. “You need to get this hand visible. The cameras are going to be on you while the announcers speculate whether or not the Bengals are going to pick you. They need to see the bandage on your hand. Keep it near your face.”

“Is this going to work?” he asks, lifting his hand into view. He runs his fingers along his jaw slowly as he speaks to me, acting like he’s listening intently.

“Is what going to work?” Lono demands.

I search Trey’s eyes, wishing I had more to repay their faith with than, “I hope so.”

Nine minutes and thirty-seven seconds pass before the Bengals hand in their pick. The entire Green Room has started to sweat as we all wonder if we’ll see the pick move on to the next team, but finally the call is made. They hand it in.

It goes to the Commissioner.

“Booo!”

“With the second pick in the NFL Draft, the Cincinnati Bengals select… Jerrell Novak. Quarterback. Texas.”

I let out a rush of air as Trey’s head falls heavily forward. To the outside observer he looks crushed. Shocked that he was leapfrogged by a lesser quarterback. Only three people in the world know the truth. Trey, me, and the very old yet very cunning Coach Allen.

Jerrell isn’t in the building. He wasn’t expected to draft until number fifteen so he stayed home with his family in New Jersey. The feed on the TVs cuts to his stunned reaction and the madness of his family celebrating around him. He grabs his phone, bringing it to his ear with wide eyes. He’s getting the call. His team is welcoming him home.

“With the third pick of the NFL Draft, the Cleveland Browns are now on the clock.”

Donna looks desperately between Trey and I. “What is happening?” she hisses.

Trey lifts his head to smile at her. “Sloane just saved me from playing in Cincinnati.”

“They were going to pick you?”

“Probably.”

She slaps his shoulder hard. “Don’t you want to be picked? Isn’t that the point of all of this?”

“I want to be picked by the Kodiaks.”

“Trey, you don’t get to pick and choose with this. It’s a draft.
They
choose
you
. You do not choose them.”

“You do when you have the right agent.”

“You’re taking a big risk,” Lono scolds me darkly, his once friendly eyes falling angrily on my face. “Telling people he’s injured could ruin him tonight.”

“It’s a risk I’m willing to take,” Trey assures them confidently.

“For what?”

“For the chance to stay in L.A.”

“Why does that matter to you so much? How is that worth risking everything you’ve worked for?”

“Because it’s what I need,” he answers simply.

His mom sighs, her face falling. She’s not disappointed in him. She looks more concerned. Maybe a little afraid. “So the Kodiaks don’t really think you’re injured?”

I shake my head. “Coach Allen had someone from Cincinnati on the phone with us. Maybe their coach or even the whole war room. Either way, he made sure they heard me swear up and down in a ‘private’ conversation that Trey is a big fat question mark and that he should pass on him when his turn comes. You better believe he played it off like he was doing them a favor giving them a heads up, and when California chooses Trey tonight he’ll piss and moan in public about it to the media to make sure the Bengals think his GM made the call, not him.”

“So the Kodiaks
will
pick him tonight?”

“That’s still up in the air, nothing is ever for certain until it happens, but it looks more likely now than ever before. The Browns don’t need a quarterback. They need a running back and a center. They won’t pick Trey.”

“Hopefully they pick Larkin,” Trey mutters.

“Right. I’d feel better if he was off the table when the Kodiaks go on the clock.”

“Why?” Lono asks curiously.

Trey frowns. “Because the Kodiaks need a running back too.”

The pick is in. The runner takes it to the table at the bottom of the stage. The pick is confirmed. They hand it to the Commissioner.

“Booo!”

“With the third pick of the NFL Draft, the Cleveland Browns select… Breckin David. Center. Michigan.”

“Fuck.”

Trey’s parents glare at me. I don’t care. I stand by it. In fact, I stand by it so much I say it again.

“Fuck.”

“Fuck,” Trey agrees quietly. “Larkin is still in play.”

I meet Brad’s eyes across the room. Bodies pass between us as Breckin David stands to hug his family and dance toward the exit, but neither of us moves. Neither of us looks away.

“With the fourth pick of the NFL Draft, the California Kodiaks are on the clock.”

It’s all down to this pick for both of us now, and we both know it. We both want it. The question is, who wanted it more? Who played the game better?

And if I win, will Brad let me have it?

I have a feeling I’ll get what I have coming to me, but will it be by my definition? Or will it be by his?

“Sloane.”

Three minutes have passed. My dad has looked away, but I don’t know how long ago. My mind is somewhere else. Somewhere in limbo where this moment lasts forever and I haven’t won and I haven’t lost. I haven’t failed Trey. Not yet.