Trey is a surprise in a lot of ways. Some of them good. Some of them bad. Some of them nothing but trouble.
The good news is he’s comfortable in interviews. With the coaches, the GMs, the scouts, the media. Everybody. They love him with his cocky smile and his relentless swagger. It doesn’t look good on everyone. On some it’s a hideous color, but on Trey Domata, swagger is a little black dress. He can wear it anywhere, anytime, and every guy in the room gets hard just looking at him working it.
The bad news is that he’s nervous and it shows. Not in interviews, not when it counts, but in the quiet moments when he’s alone with his thoughts, he starts to twitch. I always thought he was Mr. Freeze, a bronzed statue as still and composed as the Heisman, but nobody can live like that all the time. It’s a problem, one I’m pretty sure is made worse by his injury and the uncertainty of his situation. Luckily he only has to make it through the Combine. The splint comes off soon. He should be in fighting form by Pro Day, and I really hope that’s true because the form he’s in now is stressing me out.
And the trouble? Oh my God, the trouble… It’s in his eyes. It’s his thick brown hair. His caramel skin. His deep, rumbling voice, his large, elegant hands, his flat stomach, the rounded rolling muscle on his arms. It’s his smile, his big laugh, his little flirtations. The brush of his hand on my back leading me through a door. Into an elevator where I’m trapped with him. Where I can smell him. I can feel him.
It’s the fact that I haven’t returned Kyle’s calls since Trey showed up.
“Boyfriend?” Trey asks casually.
I silence my phone, dropping it back into my pocket. My eyes stay focused forward on the elevator doors, but the damn things are mirrored. I’m looking right at him no matter what I do.
“No,” I reply coolly. “He’s not my boyfriend.”
“But it is a guy,” his reflection challenges with a grin.
“I know a lot of guys.”
“How many? Ballpark.”
“I’m a sports agent. How many do you think?”
“How many are in your phone?”
I narrow my eyes at him. “How many girls are in your phone? Ballpark.”
He laughs, shaking his head. “Never mind. I shouldn’t have asked.”
“Obviously.”
We ride in silence for three floors. They tick off slowly, dinging over the gentle hum of the elevator. Over the rhythmic sound of his breath.
“I bet I have more than you.”
I scowl at him in the mirror. “Are you for real?”
His mouth is curved in a half-smile, his face so arrogant it hurts. “I’m competitive. What can I say?”
“Save it for the Combine.”
“I’d rather give it to you.”
I shake my head, refusing to rise to the bait.
“Come on, Sloane,” he taunts quietly. “Play with me.”
I swallow thickly, taming my heart. It beats erratically, threatening to run away from me. To leave me hollow and stupid in this box with him.
He’s not the first guy to flirt with me here. I get it all the time. Agents, coaches, scouts, reporters, players. It’s one of the reasons why my dad doesn’t think I can do this job effectively. He’s convinced I’ll get pulled in by some guy’s line, get knocked up, and fall out of the game.
I’m not about to let that son of a bitch be right.
“How’d your interviews go yesterday?” I ask cordially, ignoring Trey’s line.
His smile widens, but he straightens. He shrugs. “Good. It’s hard to tell, you know? They don’t give you much to go on.”
“Who’s your favorite pick?”
“It doesn’t matter who I like. It matters who likes me.”
“That’s not true. You have more control than you know, but you’ve got to give me something to go on. Who should I be talking you up to?”
“Shouldn’t your boss be asking me that?”
I roll my tongue inside my mouth, willing it to stay put. To keep quiet.
I nod my head slowly. “It would be better if he was here, yes. I agree. But he’s not, and I am. I’m here and I’m asking. Where do you want to go?”
This isn’t the first time I’ve asked him this question. I asked him twice the first day. Once last night. He never answers, and this time doesn’t look like it’s shaping up to be any different.
We hit the ground floor in silence, the doors opening slowly. Outside the lobby is bustling with other prospects, other agents. GMs and scouts and media. His future is there waiting for him, but he has to tell me where to guide it. I want to open up doors for him if he would only tell me which one, but he won’t.
I turn in the elevator, putting my back to the lobby. Focusing my attention on him. “What are you afraid of?” I ask quietly.
He pinches his lips between his teeth, turning them ghostly white. When he releases them they burst with color, fluttering faintly on an exhale.