He watches me carefully as he leans slowly back in his chair. “Not off the top of my head, no.”
“I want out of my contract.”
He studies me patiently, intentionally drawing out the moment. He’s doing it to rattle me. To put himself back in control and shake my confidence.
He has no idea who he’s dealing with.
“Are you unsatisfied with your representation?” he finally asks coolly.
“From you? Yeah. I am.”
“Not good enough.”
“It’s good enough for me. Cut me loose,” I repeat, hating that I have to. I don’t like asking twice. It’s one step away from when I start telling. When I start yelling.
“It won’t be good enough for the lawyers.” Ashford sits forward in his chair. He rests his arms on the top of his massive black desk that sits like a wall between us. “You can only exit your contract if you have proof that the Ashford Agency as a whole has been negligent in your representation. Are you ready to make that claim?”
I breathe in sharply, my nostrils flaring. “No.”
“I wouldn’t think so. Not after I delivered Subway and Gatorade to your door, and got Oakley circling the block. And if I’m not mistaken, another agent has been in talks with the Kodiaks to get you taken in the first round.”
“Sloane,” I remind him, saying her name with force, willing her presence into the room with me where she belongs. “Sloane did that. And you tried to blow it the fuck up.”
“I made a suggestion in the name of representation for another client. It’s all part of the job. So many athletes, so few teams; eventually interests will run contrary. I do what I can to be fair when that happens.”
I shake my head tightly, my anger rising faster than I could have imagined. I knew I’d be angry talking to Ashford, but now that I’m here, now that he’s telling me no, telling me I’m trapped, I’m spiraling out. I’m losing control.
“You threw me under the bus to get a bigger pay day out of Larkin,” I growl.
“Yes,” Ashford agrees, unashamed. “Of course I did. Larkin doesn’t have half the charisma that you do, and after the DUI last year I wouldn’t be able to get Walmart to advertise with him. His only strength is his skill, so that’s what we’re playing to. You’ll do well in the draft, Trey. I have no doubt about it. And whatever amount of money you feel you’ll lose by not going in the first round, I’ll help you make up in endorsements.”
“You’re going to earn me nine million dollars in endorsements?”
His smile is patronizing. “No, but I’ll sure try.”
“I won’t sign a contract with a team if you’re my agent,” I tell him angrily, surprised by my own words.
His smile tightens as it fades. “That’s a bold threat, son.”
“It’s a promise, not a threat. I won’t go forward with my career with you as my agent.”
“That’s a breach of contract. I could, and would, sue you.” He shakes his head sadly. “Stand down, son. You’re locked in. Enjoy the ride.”
I’m breathing too quickly. It’s making my head spin. “An injury isn’t a breach.”
“You’re not injured.”
I hold up my right hand, curling it into a fist so tight my knuckles go white. I stalk to the opposite side of his office. To the stark white stucco wall. One hard snap of my arm and my fist crumbles the clay surface. Powder falls onto the dark floor, white as snow. Dusted with red.
Pain explodes from my knuckles where they cut against the rough surface. My hand is caked in white around the gashes, but some sick part of me is calmed by it. It’s happy because this is an exit. This is control, and I’m taking it back, no matter what the cost.
I turn to Ashford, my face perfectly calm.
His is not.
“What the fuck are you doing?!” he exclaims, exploding out of his chair.
“Exiting my contract.”
“You crazy son of a bitch, you’ll throw your career away. Your whole life!”
I pull my arm back, reloading.
“Stop!”
“I want you off my contract,” I remind him. I don’t look at him. My eyes are focused on the wall where my hand has left a crater in the surface. I’ll leave another if he doesn’t listen. And another. I’ll go until my hand is mangled and useless and he’ll be forced to let me go, because I’m not walking out of this office with him standing on Sloane’s shoulders the way he has been.
“I’ll meet you halfway,” Ashford offers.
I throw the punch. A second hole. A new round of cuts across my knuckles.
“Jesus Christ, stop and talk to me!” he demands angrily.
“You’re not listening, but you better start. Eventually I’ll hit a stud.”
The door bursts open on my left.
“Sir, are you alright? I heard shouting and the wall…” His assistant’s voice trails off as she takes in the scene. The wall. My hand. The blood. “I—do you want me to call security?”
“No, Missy. It’s alright. Mr. Domata and I are having a conversation,” Ashford assures her impatiently. He rounds his desk, shooing her out the door. “That’ll be all. Thank you.”
“Yes, sir. If you’re sure.”