“It’s more than one bump.”
He ignores me as he finished the email. Finally he kills the screen, turning his attention back to me. He’s disappointed. It’s written all over his face, but whether he’s disappointed in me or Trey, I don’t know. Probably both.
“His endorsements are dead in the water once this hits,” he tells me sternly. “My work with him is done, but what about you? He’s still a hell of an athlete.”
I purse my lips together, furrowing my brow in anger. “No. I don’t want to deal with him anymore. It’s only a matter of time before he implodes in the locker room or on the field. The coaches have to know something’s up by now and he’s either going to get benched, thrown off the team, or end up in therapy. No matter what, he’s off the field and I’m not looking for another deadbeat client to add to my roster.”
Brad nods, a small amount of appreciation in his eyes as he looks at me. “That’s a smart move. You’re not ready for this. You probably weren’t ready for any of this. I unleashed you too soon.”
I bristle at the accusation, along with the insinuation that he ever let me off leash. “You’re probably right,” I grind out.
“You’ll work with me more closely after this. We’ll scout clients together. I’ll show you the ropes, no more time with Hollis. He’s too soft. He doesn’t have the killer instinct, but you could if you cultivate it. I’ll show you how, but first let’s get a clean slate. Scrap this loser and start over.” He pushes his intercom, calling for Rhonda. “Come in here, Rhonda. Bring your notary stamp.”
I watch dispassionately as my dad rifles through his file drawer. He’s looking for the termination agreement, the document that he, myself, and Trey will sign to end our contract ‘amicably’.
“Can you get him to sign a termination?” he asks, pulling the form free and bringing it to his desk.
“I’m sure I can. He’s angry at the agency. He’s not thinking straight.”
“That’s exactly what we need. Emotional people make emotional decisions. And what are emotional decisions?”
“Stupid decisions,” I recite dully, remembering my lessons.
“That’s right,” he commends me, looking up from his desk as Rhonda breezes silently into the room. “You’d be smart to remember that.”
“I will.”
I walk to the desk to stand across from him. I try to keep my eyes off the agreement on his desk but it’s hard to look away. His pen dangles in his hand, moments away from giving me, from giving Trey, exactly we want. I’m terrified I’ll tip my hand. I’m terrified I’ve played it all wrong, that it won’t work, but worst of all I’m shaking in my shoes, shitting my pants scared that it will. That this is happening and I’m conning my own blood.
Hollis is wrong; I’m not my father’s daughter. I’m nothing like him. The idea that I’m lying to him, that I’m about to betray him, nearly brings tears to my eyes. I can’t help but remember being a little girl in this room watching him work his mysterious magic from behind that desk and wishing one day I could do the same. I remember bouncing on his knee, playing with his highlighters, drawing pictures for him that he taped across every surface he could find. He was so proud of me. His little girl.
But that’s the problem with us. That’s all I’ll ever be to him; a little girl playing in his office, and that’s simply not who I am anymore.
And I’m about to prove it.
“Sloane,” Dad says, calling for my attention.
“Yeah?”
“Are you ready?”
Am I?
“Yes.”
He offers me the pen, holding it out to me with a convivial smile.
“Ladies first.”
Sun Life Stadium
Miami, FL
Sloane is magic. She’s better than music, better than sex. Better than anything or anyone I’ve ever known in my life. With one conversation she set me straight for the game where I lead the boys to a decisive victory. It was all I focused on. Me and the game, the ball in my hand and the field under my feet. Matthews in the end zone. Anthony on the run. Avery breaking through the line like it was made of paper, like the tape at the end of a race he’d run and won. He’s a force of nature we all forgot about while he was hidden behind Duncan Walker, but now that he’s out, no one will ever forget his name again.
After the game, the reporters ask for him. They ask for Tyus and I to stand with him, snapping pictures of the three of us together, smiling, young, and hot. They go ape shit over the youth of the team. The promise of the season. We’ve only lost one game so far, and with me at the helm and this O-line at my disposal, we could go all the way. The Super Bowl is in the air and we’re all getting high off it.