“Anytime.”
A murmur rises from the far side of the Green Room where all of the Draftees are huddled together listening to a rundown of the way the night is going to go. Their families and friends are scattered around a series of circular tables covered with deep blue cloths. Each table holds a grass centerpiece with a football perched in the middle of it, the name of a Draftee on every one. Trey’s parents stand next to his table while I hover between it and Brylan Reed’s. Brad stands by Andre Larkin’s table farther into the room. He’s chuckling with his agent buddies, studiously ignoring Andre’s parents sitting awkwardly at the table.
Tonight is the first round only. Invited to be here are the most highly sought after players in the Draft, the ones the NFL is all but positive will be chosen immediately, though not everyone accepts the invite. Some guys choose to stay home with their families for the announcement. Media crews go to them to film their reactions, one of the most famous and scandalized reactions being the openly gay kiss between a defensive end and his boyfriend when he went to the Rams in the seventh. That was a media shit storm the world endured for weeks, and at the end of it no one was particularly happy. Especially not the player. He’s in the Canadian league now. Demarcus played against him last October.
“Here they come,” Hollis mumbles.
The prospects are filing back into the Green Room. They give each other high fives, half hugs, and fist bumps as they split apart, each of them drifting slowly to their tables. They’re a sea of suits, brilliantly colored ties, and impossibly tall, broad bodies.
And in the middle of them all is Trey. His dark gray suit and deep red tie burst against his golden brown skin. His jet black hair. He walks with confidence, moving through the madness like he doesn’t see it. Like he can’t feel it. He’s on the field right now. He’s in the zone, pure swagger, and the fact that I haven’t seen a hint of his tension is a testament to the influence his parents’ presence has over him. He was spiraling at the airport until he saw them. Since then he’s been easy breezy.
He smiles at me when he spots me, expertly unbuttoning his suit jacket and sliding his hands into his pockets like a model on a runway. He comes to a stop in front of me, presenting himself for inspection.
“Well?” he asks deeply, a cocky grin on his lips. “What do you think of the suit? It’s hot, right?”
It is. I knew it would be when I picked it, but I haven’t seen him in it until this moment. I didn’t imagine the affect the finished product would have on me, but as I look him up and down I feel my blood rising. My heart thrumming.
“It’s, umm…” I assess my surroundings. Every agent under the sun. Every Draft prospect from across the nation. My dad. Hollis. Trey’s parents. I clear my throat. “It fits well. I’m glad we had it tailored.”
He eyes me knowingly before leaning forward to touch my arm. His lips brush my cheek briefly and I breathe him in. Soap and cologne, and the subtle smell of his skin, the memory of which keeps me up at night.
Trey hugs his mom, then his dad. He shakes hands with Hollis. We all wait until he takes his seat before sitting down ourselves.
“Good luck tonight,” Hollis tells the table.
We wish the same to his.
When I sit down Trey is sandwiched between me and his mom. Cameramen wander the room. Photographers. There’s a steady buzz to the room that will die down soon when the clock strikes seven and the Draft begins.
It’s five minutes till. We’re almost there.
“Have we had any calls?” Trey asks me quietly.
I keep my face composed as I light up my phone on the table between us. “Nothing yet.”
“It’s getting late.”
“This is how it goes. You don’t always get a call before it happens. Sometimes it just happens and everyone is surprised.”
“I don’t like surprises.”
Trey’s mom leans across the table to look at us. “Is everything okay?”
I smile brightly. “Everything is fine.”
“We don’t know for sure the Kodiaks are going to pick me up,” Trey explains plainly. “Sometimes they call to tell you they plan to draft you.”
“Sometimes,” I repeat emphatically. “Not always.”
Trey nods to the other side of the room. “Looks like Andre is getting a call.”
I look to find Brad on the phone. He’s smiling ear to ear, nodding his head. He hands the phone off to Andre who smiles as well.
“It could be anybody,” I remind Trey.
“And it could be the Kodiaks.”
“Yeah, it could, because it could be anybody. It could be the Patriots with the third pick just like everyone has been saying for months.”
Trey nods, his eyes going distant.