“Be it to the Kodiaks or the Patriots or the fucking Lions, I promised you a first round draft and I will deliver,” I whisper adamantly. “Stay calm, stay cool, and trust me.”
He looks at me for a long time, wordless. Breathing. Finally his hand lands on mine, large and hot, enveloping my skin. He squeezes hard just as the music flares out on the stage.
It’s starting.
“Booo!”
Lono frowns. “Are they booing?”
“They are,” I confirm with a smile. “The commissioner must have taken the podium. They always boo him.”
“Why?”
“Some people probably have a real reason, some beef about how he handled something, but it’s tradition at this point. The Commissioner of the NHL and the NBA get booed on Draft day too.”
“With the first pick of the NFL Draft, the Jacksonville Jaguars are now on the clock,” the Commissioner announces loudly.
I point to the screens surrounding us, broadcasting what’s happening on stage on the other side of the wall. They’ve gone to a graphic of the Jaguars logo. “They have an amazing quarterback who’s been on their roster for three years. They won’t choose Trey.”
“But you think the Kodiaks will.”
I give a small grin. “That’s the plan.”
Trey catches my eye as I sit back in my seat. I’m surprised when he smiles. He’s shockingly calm for a guy in his position. Look around the room right now and you’ll find stone faced young men with blank eyes trying desperately not to lose their shit as they wait for their name to be called, assuming it’s called at all, and somehow my anxiety riddled Trey is the coolest seat in the house.
Six minutes. That’s how long the Jaguars take to make their pick. It’s a long time for a team that’s been sitting around with the first pick of the Draft in their pocket.
“Booo!”
Trey’s mom shakes her head. “It’s just rude.”
I laugh nervously.
My hands are starting to sweat.
“With the first pick in the NFL Draft, the Jacksonville Jaguars select… BJ Leonard. Defensive end. Louisiana.”
The Green Room breaks into applause, the theater outside going insane. We watch BJ stand from his table to hug his family and his agent before he heads for the exit, all smiles and relief. Cameramen and photographers follow him out.
We turn to the screens to watch him make his way across the stage to thunderous applause from the hundreds of fans that pack the house. The Commissioner gives him a handshake and a hug. He hands him a Jaguars jersey with his name already on the back. They pose for pictures. BJ is led off stage where he’ll be cornered by the media.
Days, weeks, and months of waiting and it’s all over in under a minute.
The Commissioner approaches the podium.
“Booo!”
“With the second pick of the NFL Draft, the Tampa Bay Buccaneers are now on the clock.”
Trey’s parents both look to me expectantly.
I shake my head. “Tampa Bay has a solid offense and they just hired a new defensive coordinator. He’ll be shopping the big boys in the Draft. They won’t take Trey.”
We wait four minutes on Tampa Bay. Finally the Commissioner returns to the podium. The pick is in.
“The Tampa Bay Buccaneers have traded the second pick to the Cincinnati Bengals. The Bengals are now on the clock.”
The clock begins to tick but my world screeches to a heart shattering stop.
“Oh no,” I breathe. I swallow hard, my stomach rising in my throat.
“What’s happening?” Lono asks eagerly.
“The Bengals are in the market for a quarterback.”
I look at Trey apologetically, my stomach flipping. His eyes are in the distance. I’m not even sure he’s listening, but he knows. He knows exactly what’s at stake.
“I’ve been selling Trey to them for the last month,” I confess quietly.
Donna frowns. “Why would you do that when he wanted California?”
“It was a safety net. The Bengals weren’t supposed to pick until late in the night. I thought Trey would be gone by then.”
“And you didn’t plan for something like this?”
“You can’t plan for the Draft,” Trey tells her almost inaudibly, his eyes on the table. “There are always surprises. Everyone is a passenger.”
My phone rings on the table. I recognize the number, snatching it up immediately.
“Coach Allen, good to hear from you,” I answer clearly, letting Trey know it’s the Kodiaks.
“How’s he doing, Sloane?”
“He’s the calmest of all of us.”
“That’s the way to be tonight, if you can manage it. Look, I’m gonna ask you something and I need you to be straight with me. Your agency, they’ve never lied to me before. Don’t start now, do you hear me?”
“Yes, sir. I hear you.”
“Did the surgery fix his hand? Can he throw?”
I frown, confused out of my mind. I wonder for a second if he hasn’t called the wrong number. “Coach, I—um…”
Trey pulls out his phone, checking a message.
“Sloane, be real with me.”
Trey shoves his phone in my face. His message is from Coach Allen.
Play along.
“Uh…” I stall stupidly. I have no idea what the hell is going on here.