Brad chuckles dryly. “He got an invite. He’d be an idiot not to, but the fact that he can’t throw is going to kill his draft stock.”
“We don’t know that for sure. He’s been on everyone’s radar all year. He has hours of highlight reel. Coaches will remember that.”
“Not while they’re staring at twenty other quarterbacks making a showing at the Combine. He’ll be over in the corner licking his wounds, being forgotten.”
“Not if we remind them who he is.”
He looks at me hard, his gaze appraising. “He’s been your pick from the start of the season, I know that, Sloane, but you have to be realistic. The kid got hurt at the worst possible time. He would have gone number three or four in the Draft, but he’s looking at having a splint on his hand at the Combine and a half-ass, rehab showing at UCLA’s Pro Day. Not to mention people had reservations about how well he’d fit in at the NFL level to start with.”
“You have reservations. You said he’s not aggressive enough.”
“He’s sunk,” Brad tells me plainly. “He’ll be lucky to draft in the second round.”
“Are you saying we aren’t going to sign him?” I ask calmly, my blood pressure rising.
He turns to gaze pensively out the window, but I know it for what it really is; a tactic. A stall. He’s making me sweat as he takes in the sprawling Los Angeles skyline banked in smog. A cloud of pollution hangs low over the streets twenty-eight stories below us like fog on a lake. When I was a teenager and I’d visit him here, dreaming of the day when I’d be just like him, I’d stare out those windows for hours watching people move like ants below. A lot has changed in my perspective since then, but one thing I know for sure; Dad still sees ants.
“You’ve been following him all year,” he muses. “Give me three good reasons why we should bank on him and I’ll consider it.”
“Heisman,” I reply immediately.
Brad raises one finger in the air, counting.
I stand, rising to the challenge, because if he thinks I can’t give him a million reasons to bet on Trey Domata, let alone three, he’s out of his mind.
I started tracking Trey during my sophomore year at Stanford. He was only a freshman at UCLA back then. A red shirt not allowed off the bench, but I knew what he had. I knew what he was capable of. I got ahold of his high school tapes, I memorized his every stat. I watched him make his debut the next year where he systematically blew everyone’s minds playing the high-pressure position of quarterback like a seasoned vet. I was there when he led UCLA to a decisive 38-17 victory over my Cardinals in our own stadium. The crowd went wild in anger against him, but I stood in the middle of it all and I smiled. I watched Trey walk through the crowd on the field, breaking the sea like Moses to seek out our coach, to shake his hand with a genuine grin. He was calm, composed, his mocha brown skin shimmering in the sunlight like gold. Like the ticket to everything I’d ever wanted.
I knew then that I wanted to sign him. Even before I graduated from college, before I was hired on at my dad’s firm, before he won half his awards or broke a fraction of his records, I knew Trey Domata was exactly the big name waiting to happen that I needed to make my mark at the Ashford Agency. And now here we are, the day after his final college game when it’s finally legal to court him, and Brad is pumping the brakes.
“One hundred and two passing touchdowns. Fourteen interceptions total for his college career.”
Brad adds another finger.
I scowl at him. “That was two.”
“I want the real reason you’re so hung up on him, because if it’s just stubbornness, I’m not signing him. You’ve had your heart set on landing Domata for months and if you can’t let that go for emotional reasons, then your judgement is clouded and you’re not half the agent I thought you could be. We sign all-stars here. Men who can make money for themselves, for us, and for franchises. I say Domata is dead in the water, not because he can’t recover from his injury but because he can’t make a splash in front of coaches at the Combine. You say he can. Tell me why.”
I can’t tell him why. I can’t explain the feeling I get in my gut when I look at Trey Domata. The rush of adrenaline when I see him play, the ghost of a grin when I hear his voice in interviews. The warmth of pride that spreads through my chest when I watch the play collapse around him and he stands there in the middle of madness, cool as ice. I’ve never met him, never spoken to him, but I know Trey will be great. I know it in my blood, but I can’t tell that to my dad. He’ll never understand that and he definitely won’t sign a lame horse based on my feelings.
Brad curls his fingers into his palm, shaking his head slowly. “He’ll get picked up by an agent today, Sloane,” he consoles me coolly, “but it won’t be us.”