And it makes me want to sign him more than ever.
I sit back in my seat, staring at my screen. All of the links are up. All of them running on repeat, that final play happening over and over again across the screen. Across the nation, because this is what the fans are thinking about. Not his hand or what it means for his salary. They’re talking about the win. Trey Domata is a household name today. They love him. He’s a rock star, a poster boy for football inside every home in America. And he could be seen there holding the right beverage, wearing the right gear, eating the right food – all for the right price.
Domata might not be in it for the money, but I know at least one man who is.
I open an e-mail to my dad, copy all six links from all six websites, and send it to him with one word in the message. The one and only reason I can give him to sign on a gamble.
#3 – Endorsements
February 26th
Magnolia Apartments
Los Angeles, CA
4.72 seconds.
Over the last four days, ten quarterbacks have already tested and drilled in the first group to attend the Combine, and so far 4.72 seconds is the fastest time any of them could run the 40 yard dash. Earlier today my roommate and center on the field, Cummings, clocked me at 4.64. My group leaves for the Combine tomorrow, and if I can hold onto that time I’ll be one of the fastest QBs to test.
“What else is left?” Cummings grunts, flopping down on the couch next to me.
I glance over, doing a double take. I groan in disgust. “Jesus, man, where are your pants?”
Cummings looks down at his stark white thighs protruding thick as tree trunks from his orange boxers. “I’m wearing underwear,” he protests.
“Barely.”
“This isn’t church. This is my apartment. I can wear what I want.”
“If I see your dick I’m punching it.”
“I’ll kick your ass if you do.”
He’s talking shit, but I’d hate to see it come to that. Cummings is six feet, five inches of pure mass. I’ve seen him mess up guys almost a hundred pounds heavier than me, and I have no desire to know what that feels like.
He nods to the TV. “Here comes Larkin.”
I turn back just in time to see Andre Larkin, a running back from Ohio State, step up to the line. He’s about to run the 40 and I have no doubt in my mind his time will be better than mine. Normally it wouldn’t bother me because he’s not a quarterback, but he and I have been neck and neck, bouncing back and forth around each other in the Draft projections for the number three and four slots, and if he’s made a strong appearance at the Combine these last four days he’s bound to leap frog me solidly into that number three slot. It shouldn’t feel like a big deal. It’s one slot, and if I make a strong appearance at the Combine when my turn comes, I’ll get that distance between us down to nothing again. Besides, I’ve been labeled as the number four pick before. But it’s a step back, and with my injury holding me down, any backslide feels like quicksand under my feet.
“He’s been killing it so far,” I admit grudgingly.
“He looks good. Tight.”
I flex my hand inside my splint, feeling a pinch in the joint on my index finger. “If you get a hard on, I’m leaving.”
“I might,” Cummings fires back shamelessly. “Look at that dude. I think he had calf implants.”
“He’s been at a Combine training camp since January. The agency sent him.”
His brow furrows. “Brad Ashford is his agent too, right?”
“Yeah.”
“He signed you and Larkin at the same time. Why didn’t he send you to camp?”
I look at him wryly, holding up my splint.
“Right, yeah,” he mumbles. “I forgot.”
Larkin takes his position. He waits for the call, then he’s off like a shot. Like a bullet out of a gun.
When they post his time, it’s no surprise.
4.58
“Fuck.”
Cummings looks at me sideways. “You know what you need to do.”
“Don’t say get laid. Don’t say get laid,” I chant quietly, my eyes on the TV. On that time. Tie a steak to my ass and let a lion loose behind me, and I still couldn’t run that fast.
“You need to get laid.”
I drop my head in defeat. “Let it go, dude.”
“You haven’t had a piece of trim in months! It’s fucked up.”
“I’m trying to focus.”
“You’re focusing yourself right back into virginity.”
“I don’t think that’s how it works.”
“If you don’t use your dick, it will fall off. Scientific fact, bro.”
I laugh. “I’m not taking scientific facts from a guy who failed chemistry.”
“Man, fuck you,” he barks angrily. “You know that professor had it in for me.”
“I know you tried to ask her out and she shut you down.”
“Yeah, and she was a bitch to me for the rest of the term.”
“Don’t tousle with a cougar if you can’t handle the claws.”
“Shut up,” he grumbles.
My phone buzzes on the coffee table. Amber eyes and chocolate hair.