That night he was in the media outside a club sucking the face off a blond.
It hurt because of course it did, but the facts are the facts. Trey is my client, and if we’re going to work together we need to quit hanging on and hoping the universe is going to suddenly change the rules and make it okay. All of this extra time spent together, all of the brushes of hands and sideways smiles, they have to stop. They’re silly. They’re childish in their bittersweet torture. This is the kind of sexual frustration that makes people do drastic things, stupid things, and it’s not my style. He’s moving on, and as soon as I have a free second, I will too.
Meanwhile he’s as calm as I’ve ever seen him. The nervous energy that surrounded him since we met has been smothered under the pounds of paperwork he signed, solidifying his place in the NFL. Securing his family’s financial situation. He’s where he’s always wanted to be, his every dream finally coming true. That means leaving behind whatever it was that we were becoming. Friends or more, it doesn’t matter. I haven’t looked Trey Domata in the eye in months and that’s fine.
It’s absolutely fucking fine.
“He’s making a decent showing,” Hollis comments, his eyes on the TV beside Trey’s jersey. He leans back into the couch as he makes himself comfortable. “Not bad for a rookie.”
“That’s because he’s pro material. It’s what I’ve been saying.”
“Yeah, I remember. You were right. He plays with the calm of a vet.”
“Called it.”
“Gloating isn’t becoming of you.”
“But it feels so good.”
“So do most vulgar things.” He looks at me sideways. “You haven’t been gloating to your dad, have you?”
I snort. “I’m not an idiot.”
“You have days.”
“Not today. Not about this.”
Hollis shakes his head in amazement. “I still can’t believe Larkin didn’t go until number sixteen. And to the Dolphins! Poor bastard. Miami is the worst.”
“Why are you surprised? How many times do I have to say it? Running backs don’t draft high. I don’t care what kind of star he is. He has a short shelf life.”
“Do you know what he contracted for? I haven’t seen anything about it. Brad is keeping it quiet.”
I grimace. “Almost exactly half of what Trey contracted.”
He sucks air sharply through his teeth. “Yikes.”
“Yeah. Between me with Trey and you with Reed, Brad came out the loser for the agency. Don’t think that doesn’t piss him right off.”
“And he hasn’t said anything to you about it?”
“Not yet.”
“You think he will eventually?”
I sigh. “I think I’ll pay for it, but I don’t know how. He might fire me, he might cut my inheritance in half. He might make me take a cruise with my mom. He’s a diabolical son of a bitch, he’ll find a way to punish me somehow.”
“Six days in close quarters with Bri? I doubt he’s that cruel. You out-earned him, you didn’t murder someone.”
“Same difference to him.”
We sit in silence, watching the game on mute. Trey is out, the team’s original and now standby quarterback on the field getting some play time. The game is all but done with only seconds on the clock and the Kodiaks are in possession with the lead. Before Newhouse can take the snap, the feed cuts to a shot of Trey on the sidelines, his helmet off and his face flushed with exertion and energy. He’s watching the field intently, so focused you’d think the game hung in the balance, but that’s the way Trey is. Every play counts. Every second matters.
“You’re smiling,” Hollis teases me.
I don’t try to stop. I definitely don’t bother hiding it. “I know.”
“How’s that going?”
“It’s not. We work together. That’s it.”
“That’s it?”
“Yep. That’s it.”
“So the fact that he’s dating that bartender—“
“They’re not dating, and it doesn’t bother me. He can sleep with whoever he wants. So can I.”
“But you don’t.”
“I’m busy.”
“So is he, but that doesn’t stop him.”
“Don’t be mean to me about this,” I warn him seriously. “I’m trying to be smart here.”
His face softens. “I know. I’m sorry.”
“It’s fine.” I reach for the remote, changing the feed to stream from my laptop. I bring up a video I’ve been obsessing over and send it into motion. “This is my next project. Check him out.”
The game tape from an Oregon/Colorado match up pops onto the screen. Colorado is down 6-31, victims of a botched field goal and a merciless beating by the Ducks, but the score doesn’t matter to me. #39 does.
“Watch the right tackle.”
“For Colorado?” Hollis asks incredulously. “You’re scouting a player from one of the worst teams in the conference?”