“If I see a doctor for it, I’m done for. My career is over.”
“You can’t keep going like this. I shouldn’t have helped you hide it as long as I did.”
“I appreciate everything you’ve done for me.”
“I don’t know that it was right. I’ll always wonder if I did right by you.”
“Coach, I’m fine. I—“
“The pressure in the NFL is only going to get worse,” he interrupts angrily. “Your attacks will only get worse, and I’m worried someday I’m going to see a news story about you saying that you went on a bender, got coked out of your mind trying to find an escape, and you wrapped your truck around a tree. And I’ll always wish I had done things differently.”
I square my shoulders, my jaw tensing painfully. “I won’t. I wouldn’t have things any other way. I wouldn’t be in the Draft if you hadn’t hidden this for me, and if I don’t draft I can’t take care of my family. Everything depends on this.”
He shakes his head again, his shadowed eyes sad. “It’s too much pressure for a kid. All of it, it’s too much to put on any of you.”
“Well, it’s too late now,” I tell him hotly.
Coach Reagan sighs in glum agreement. “You’re right. And that’s exactly what I’ll say to you about Sloane. It’s too late now.”
“That’s your advice?”
“You didn’t ask my advice. You unloaded your burden. If you want advice, you should ask for it.”
“I want your advice.”
“On what exactly?”
“What to do about Sloane,” I snap, feeling exasperated. “Do I keep letting her work her ass off as my agent or do I walk away because it’s getting complicated?”
“Have you even seen Brad Ashford since he signed you?”
I pause, stunned to realize that, no. I haven’t. It hasn’t bothered me much because the endorsement deals keep coming in. Gatorade and Subway are locked and contracted. Sloane has been handling all of my career work. I can’t believe I didn’t realize that Brad Ashford is officially my agent and I haven’t laid eyes on him or heard his voice in months.
“No,” I admit grudgingly. “But Sloane is always around.”
“You should have signed with her.”
“Yeah, I know that now.”
“I’ve never gotten a call from Brad about you, but I’ve been on Sloane’s speed dial for the last two years. She was one of the first people to call me when you got hurt in the National Championship game, and she was one of the only calls I returned that night.”
“You hate talking to agents.”
“Well, I like her. Stick with her. That’s my advice. Brad Ashford is a fat, happy cat sitting in the sun. That girl is a hungry pit bull.”
I snort, picturing her car. Her designer clothes. “She doesn’t look hungry.”
“Believe me, she is. She’s a woman in a man’s world, and to make it worse she’s beautiful. People don’t take her seriously. They have no idea she’s smarter than most of them. She’s hungry to prove that she is. She has to prove she knows the game both on and off the field, and she has to play it better than everybody or they’ll all dismiss her. Even her dad. She’s flat out starving to prove her worth to him, so do whatever you gotta do to stay with her. That’s the best advice I’ll ever give you.”
“But I’m not with her now.”
“Then you better find a way to be, and fast. Otherwise all of her hard work and yours will pay off for her dad and I don’t trust him for one second. He’s looking out for himself, no one else. He’ll burn you eventually.”
“He’s already tried.”
“Then get out while you can.”
“But what do I do about everything else? What do I do about Sloane?”
“Fall in love with her for all that it matters, but you keep your dick in your pants, Trey,” he tells me bluntly. “If not for your sake, do it for hers.”
“I’m not falling in love with her.”
“No,” he chuckles to himself. “Of course you’re not.”
April 24th
Ashford Agency
Los Angeles, CA
I make an emergency appointment with Brad Ashford. He’s a tough guy to pin down so ‘emergency’ ends up being three days after I talked to Coach Reagan. I’ve had a lot of time to think about the situation. To stew on it. To worry about it. Stress it.
I’m not in my finest form when I show up at his office the night I finally catch him in town. My mood is made worse by the fact that I have to hurry before he leaves to make a flight to New York. Apparently he has Knicks tickets. Courtside.
He reminds me of it the second I step into his office.
“What number was I in high school?” I ask him in reply.
Brad smiles. It’s full of white teeth. It’s empty. “What are you talking about, son?”
“My jersey number in high school. What was it?”
“I can find that out easily enough. Let me find your file.”
“No, I’m not asking you what your file says about me. I’m asking you what number I was. I’m asking if you know.”