“What’s a booster club?”
“A club run by parents that helps sponsor the team. I dunno, they had them on Friday Night Lights.”
“You watched Friday Night Lights?” Gavin scoffed. “I bet it was just for the sweaty dudes.”
“You’d be winning that bet. And I only watched three episodes before I realized how problematic it was.” I waved off the topic before I could go into an in-depth analysis of the inclusion of Southern Christian values and blatant racism on prime-time television for teens. “In any case, if the school doesn’t get grants or donations for their sports programs, you could do something really amazing like donating to the school. Getting with, I dunno, Under Armour or Nike, and giving them all new pads, helmets, decals, and uniforms. Maybe even shirts for coaching staff?”
Gavin maintained his non-expression, and I wilted.
“It’s not the same as donating cash, but I bet it would mean a lot to the kid who wrote to you. Also, it’d be you giving back directly to where you came from. Assuming you had a good relationship with the coaching staff at your school or that they’re even there anymore . . .”
“They are. And I did.” Gavin got to his feet and crossed the room to grab a football from the sofa. He tossed it in the air and said casually, “That’s actually not a shitty idea, Noah.”
I wasn’t sure if it was the first time he’d said my name, or maybe just the first time he’d said it without scorn or sarcasm, but warmth spread over me at the two syllables rolling off his tongue. I’d done something right. Not only for him, but something that would make a bunch of kids smile. And he was happy about it too. Somehow, I knew that was why he was hiding his expression. Gavin wanted me to fight for his smiles, even if I was the one causing them to grace his perfect face.
“Do you want me to look into it?” I pressed. “I could get with Mel to discuss it so you’re not directly involved with the nitty-gritty.” I took a breath, thinking hard. “Although, if you want my opinion, you should handwrite a letter back to the kid. Maybe even record a message for him or his school or something.”
“That’s not my style,” he said, still tossing the ball. “I don’t do feel-good messages.”
“Maybe not, but it would really be that extra special touch this whole thing needs to seal the deal that it’s from you. Not someone forcing you into this project or just a PR stunt. That it matters.”
“Give it up, Noah.”
I held up my hands. “Just hear me out: When I was a kid, I was poor as fuck and spent a lot of time trying to figure out paths out of my parent’s tiny apartment. After watching Anderson Cooper on CNN, I got passionate about becoming a reporter. It seems stupid now, but he was basically my hero. A gay journalist who had this rep for holding people accountable.” I sounded like an idiot, but now I was desperate to make a point. “This was before I knew about social media, so I wrote these stupid letters hoping they’d make it to him and they never did. Or they did and he never responded. This probably seems like a totally pointless story, but trust me. Those responses matter to kids who need someone to look up to or something to look forward to.”
Gavin had crossed his arms over his chest as he watched me talk a mile a minute. “Are you done?”
“Yes.” I heaved a sigh. “Sorry, I’m going overboard.”
“You are,” he said. “But I won’t stop you. It’s a decent idea and you’re pretty fucking adorable when riled up about working socially.”
I could feel myself beaming and tried to tone it down. In an attempt to be cool, and failing, I flashed a double thumbs-up. “I told you this is my thing. As soon as you give me the okay to get started, I’ll contact Mel.”
“Hold up.”
Was this the moment when he would crush my excitement? Probably. I braced myself, but Gavin just gave me another of those hard-won half smiles. It was bigger than I’d seen before, even out on the beach, and those golden eyes had a warm glow to them. Beautiful enough to take both my breath and my words. It was a good thing, since I’d been using too many of them in my zest to convince him to write a fucking letter.
“Wait until after your contract is signed. She won’t like some random overexcitable geek contacting her about social justice shit if you’re not an actual employee.”
“Okay, that makes sense.” I nodded, then stopped. “Wait, after I sign my contract?”
“Yeah. After.” Gavin threw the football at me. He nodded in approval when I caught it without fumbling. “Let’s just skip over the probationary crap and say you’re hired. Your corny do-gooder shit charmed me.”
“Seriously? I didn’t think Gavin Brawley could be charmed.”
“Heh.” Gavin gave me another of those scrutinizing stares. “Me neither.”
Chapter Seven
Noah
I googled Mel Hawkins, super sports agent, before dialing her number. I told myself it was for research purposes. This was a professional I wanted to impress, and I wouldn’t blow it by walking in unprepared and ignorant like I’d done during my first interview with Joe Carmichael. What I was really doing was stalling. The idea of calling her terrified me. This was someone who negotiated contracts with the NFL, for Chrissakes. She could eat me for breakfast.
Google searches showed me images of a beautiful black woman who couldn’t be more than in her early forties. She wore suits so sharp they likely cut anyone who tried to brush past her, and had a smile that managed to be pleasant and sarcastic at the same time. Like she was being polite but knew you were an idiot. I liked that. I also liked that she had a list of clients that likely made the usual middle-aged white male agents cry.
Not only did she represent Gavin, she represented his fellow Baron Simeon Boudreaux, along with athletes from other teams. I also noticed that her clients were all starting players and played different positions. Smart as hell. No one was competing for the same sweet spots.
After twenty minutes of poring over her website and doing quick-and-dirty research about the types of charities her other clients had set up, I made the call. Gavin had given me her personal cell phone number, and he’d forced me to call from his landline.
Which, what? I couldn’t believe he had a fucking landline.
“Gavin,” she said without a greeting.
“Actually, this isn’t Gavin. I’m Noah Monroe.” When the declaration was met with complete silence, I added, “His personal assistant.”
“I wasn’t aware that he’d hired a personal assistant.”
“I only started a couple of weeks ago. It was technically a probationary period, but I’ll be signing the paperwork this afternoon. He and Joe Carmichael interviewed me after realizing he’d need someone to help him during the time he is homebound.”