His mom sighs, her face falling. She’s not disappointed in him. She looks more concerned. Maybe a little afraid. “So the Kodiaks don’t really think you’re injured?”
I shake my head. “Coach Allen had someone from Cincinnati on the phone with us. Maybe their coach or even the whole war room. Either way, he made sure they heard me swear up and down in a ‘private’ conversation that Trey is a big fat question mark and that he should pass on him when his turn comes. You better believe he played it off like he was doing them a favor giving them a heads up, and when California chooses Trey tonight he’ll piss and moan in public about it to the media to make sure the Bengals think his GM made the call, not him.”
“So the Kodiaks will pick him tonight?”
“That’s still up in the air, nothing is ever for certain until it happens, but it looks more likely now than ever before. The Browns don’t need a quarterback. They need a running back and a center. They won’t pick Trey.”
“Hopefully they pick Larkin,” Trey mutters.
“Right. I’d feel better if he was off the table when the Kodiaks go on the clock.”
“Why?” Lono asks curiously.
Trey frowns. “Because the Kodiaks need a running back too.”
The pick is in. The runner takes it to the table at the bottom of the stage. The pick is confirmed. They hand it to the Commissioner.
“Booo!”
“With the third pick of the NFL Draft, the Cleveland Browns select… Breckin David. Center. Michigan.”
“Fuck.”
Trey’s parents glare at me. I don’t care. I stand by it. In fact, I stand by it so much I say it again.
“Fuck.”
“Fuck,” Trey agrees quietly. “Larkin is still in play.”
I meet Brad’s eyes across the room. Bodies pass between us as Breckin David stands to hug his family and dance toward the exit, but neither of us moves. Neither of us looks away.
“With the fourth pick of the NFL Draft, the California Kodiaks are on the clock.”
It’s all down to this pick for both of us now, and we both know it. We both want it. The question is, who wanted it more? Who played the game better?
And if I win, will Brad let me have it?
I have a feeling I’ll get what I have coming to me, but will it be by my definition? Or will it be by his?
“Sloane.”
Three minutes have passed. My dad has looked away, but I don’t know how long ago. My mind is somewhere else. Somewhere in limbo where this moment lasts forever and I haven’t won and I haven’t lost. I haven’t failed Trey. Not yet.
He’s not leaving L.A. Not yet.
Trey touches my hand. “Sloane.”
Impulsively, I weave my fingers through his, our palms falling flat and warm against each other, grounding us. Tethering us together as we await the coming storm.
“Booo!”
He brings the back of my hand slowly to his lips.
“With the fourth pick in the NFL Draft…”
He kisses it softly, his eyes closed.
“…the California Kodiaks select…”
On the table between us, his phone begins to ring.
August 13th
Charlie Windt Stadium
Los Angeles, CA
“Take your time, Rook!”
22, 71, 6, 54, 51, 48
“Come on, pretty boy, show me what you got!”
Hibbert, Lowry, Lefao, Olynyk, Fiso, Matthews.
“How’s that hand feelin’, baby?! You feelin’ strong?!”
I am. There are eleven reasons in red that I shouldn’t be, over a thousand pounds of angry Tampa Bay Buccaneer defense shouting at me over the line of scrimmage, but I’m not sweating. I’m not scared, and I have only six reasons why I shouldn’t be.
22, 71, 6, 54, 51, 48
Hibbert, Lowry, Lefao, Olynyk, Fiso, Matthews.
This is my offensive line. This is my family. My first, last, and only line of defense.
It’s all I need.
Three minutes left on the clock.
Kodiaks 7 – Buccaneers 10
This is a pressure situation, or it should be. They’re using it to test me. To see how sturdy my nerves are, but they’re testing the wrong guy. Even though this is only an exhibition game, a glorified practice that has no bearing on our season, I don’t feel pressure. Not on the field. If there’s anything about this game that feels exceptional to me it’s the fact that I’m making a point. I’m proving that they were right to bench their starting quarterback and put me on the field. They were right to draft me. Right to trade the farm to get me. The guys on the field with me are psyched, running excitedly to huddles, playing with me like I’m a shiny new toy they got for Christmas. One that can actually hit a receiver, unlike the last guy. The guy sitting on the bench staring daggers at me.
I’d feel guilty about that if I didn’t think it was the smart choice, but I know I’m better than he is. Coach Allen does too.
Sorry, Newhouse. Better luck next year. I think dryly. I hear Canada’s hiring.