“Was your dad already a sports agent when they met?”
“Yep. He was working for another agency back then. One he snaked clients away from to open his own firm six years later. Mom was working as a cheerleader for some low division basketball team. He was scouting a guy on the team, spotted her, and the rest is history.”
“Love at first sight, huh?”
“Sure.” She takes a long drag from her beer. “What other scraps do you want?”
“Where did I go to school?”
“Come on,” she laughs. “Everyone knows that. Give me something challenging.”
“Nah, I want to know where you went so I have to ask. Scrap for scrap.”
“You went to UCLA. I went to Stanford.”
“Fancy.”
“At times.”
“Pets?”
“You had a bird in Hawaii. He died two years ago. That was a rough week for you.”
I flex my hand around my glass, surprised by her insight. “Why was it rough?”
“It was the same week your parents were evicted from their house,” she answers quietly. She’s watching the bubbles roll up through her glass, giving me a break from her eyes. “They were on the streets for two weeks, bouncing between relatives. Your dad eventually got a job at an auto body shop and they were able to get into an apartment, but it was a bad time for you. You threw your first interception during the second week.”
I stare at her face, stunned by her knowledge but not offended. It’s surprising how nice it feels to have someone know. I never told anyone on the team. “I couldn’t do anything to help them. I was in this nice apartment in Los Angeles, paid for by the school and my scholarship, and my parents were homeless. I didn’t have any extra cash to give them, and they wouldn’t have taken it even if I did. They’ll never take money from me. Not even to come see me be Drafted.” I take a breath, pulling up short before my frustration runs away with me. “I was going crazy that month, you’re right. It was a bad time.”
“Because you were in the passenger seat.”
“Yeah. I spent every day waiting and wondering. I couldn’t take it.” I clear my throat, ripping a chunk of pretzel free and gesturing to her with it. “Now you.”
Sloane meets my eyes warily, her head cocked to the side. “Trey, we don’t have to do this.”
“Nah, it’s good. Come on. I want to know. Trust, right?”
She pinches her lips together briefly. “I don’t have any pets. I never have. My mom says she’s allergic to everything with fur and feathers. My parents live in a house in the hills. Same house Ellen and I grew up in.”
“Big?”
“Huge,” she answers honestly, refusing to elaborate.
“Your family has never had any money trouble?”
“I heard my dad complaining when I was in high school that he ‘made too much fucking money’ and the IRS was taxing his ‘fucking balls off for it’.”
“Those are the kind of problems you want to have.”
“You’re about to,” she tells me seriously. “When you sign up with a team you’re going to be a millionaire in a matter of seconds. Have you thought about what that means?”
I sit back, shaking my head. “No.”
“Have you sat down with a financial advisor?”
“I don’t even know what that is.”
“It’s an accountant. Someone who will help you manage your money.” Sloane’s face falls, shadowed by worry. “Brad didn’t send you a pamphlet on managing your finances?”
“No. I didn’t even know what to do with that check he wrote me. I was too nervous to ask.”
“The advance on your endorsements?”
“Yeah.”
“Did you cash it?”
“Finally, yeah. The money is sitting in my bank. I haven’t done anything with it.”
“It’s sitting in your checking account?”
“Yeah.” I frown, put off by her amazed tone. “Should it not be?”
“It’s fine there, but it could be working for you if it was somewhere else.” Sloane pulls out her phone, tapping wildly. “I’ll set up an appointment with my financial advisor. He can give you some ideas on what to do with the money to make it grow. He can help you handle the money you’re going to get after the Draft.”
“Will you go with me to meet him?”
She looks up in surprise. “If you want me to.”
“You’re my agent, right? Seems like you should be there.”
Sloane lowers her phone slowly. “Technically I’m not. Your agent, I mean. I’ll go with you, absolutely, but you’ve got to remember that I’m not your agent. Brad is.”
“Is it hard to do that?”
“What?”
“Remember when to call him Brad and when to call him Dad?”
She snorts. “I’ve called him Brad longer than anything else. The real trick is remembering to call him Dad. Mom insists on it whenever she’s around. Sometimes I slip up just to piss her off.”
A waitress appears, all cleavage and ruffles in the plunging neckline of her Bavarian costume. She smiles down at me happily. “Hey. Are you guys doing okay over here or can I get you something to eat?”