“Holy shit, man,” Colt laughs as we leave the press room. He’s literally bouncing with each step, too jazzed up to exist in one space. “Did you see that?! They fucking love us.”
Tyus snorts, unimpressed as always. “Of course they do. We just won a game. See how much they love us when we lose.”
“Nah, I mean the cameras. The photographers. They love us, the three of us. We’ve gotta do something with that.”
“What the hell are you talking about?” I ask.
Colt stops in front of our lockers to smack both Tyus and I on the chest with the backs of his hands. “This! Us! The three of us. We’re in the spotlight right now. We have to make the most of it while we can.”
“You sound like my agent,” Tyus warns him.
“Because I’m smart, dude,” he replies, tapping his temple. “We need to do an ad campaign together. Something before the season is over, in case we start losing.”
“Wow. Thanks for the faith,” I mutter.
“Don’t get bitchy. I’m serious. This tide could change tomorrow and we’d be idiots not to strike while we’re hot. We need a company that’s young. Something that will get us a lot of exposure with people our age. People who want to see us naked.”
“American Apparel?” I suggest.
“Sick! No! Come on, help me out here.”
“Call your agent. I’m sure he’ll have ideas.”
“He won’t,” Colt grumbles, his eager face falling. “The guy’s fuckin’ worthless.”
“Well, if you come up with something, call my agent,” Tyus tells him seriously. He grabs his duffel from in front of his locker, slinging the heavy bag over his shoulder. “If you can find a good hook, I’m in.”
“For real?” Colt asks excitedly.
“Yeah, man. I’m all for getting this gorgeous face out there. And if I’m standing next to you ugly assholes, I’ll look even better.” He flashes us a grin, throws up two fingers, and saunters out of the locker room.
Colt turns to me, flashing his favorite smile. His closing smile. “What about you, Trey? Are you in?”
I laugh, shaking my head. “I don’t even know what I’d be ‘in’ for, and neither do you. If you come up something solid, let me know. I’ll think about it.”
“I’ll have my agent give the Hotness a call when we figure it out.”
“Sloane doesn’t handle my endorsements.”
“Who does?”
I pause, not sure what the answer is to that. If Sloane was able to manage it, Brad Ashford isn’t my endorsements agent anymore. But if he’s not, then who is?
“Call me,” I tell him evasively. “Not your agent. You. I’ve talked to that guy before. He’s skeevy.”
He clicks his tongue in the back of his throat, his brow pinching with annoyance. “Yeah, I know. I gotta get a new agent.”
“Join the club,” I mumble under my breath.
Colt grabs his bag while I finish packing mine. He slaps my ass as he walks past, promising to call me in the morning. I feel weird about the whole exchange.
“Hey, Trey!” he calls from the door, standing half in and half out. “You got visitors out here.”
“Who?!”
“The Hotness and some old dude.”
Oh shit, I think anxiously. Sloane and Brad Ashford. This cannot be good.
I look around the locker room, making sure it’s empty. Everyone else who wasn’t delayed by the press should already be on the bus and the coaches are in their interviews now. The place is a ghost town.
“Let ‘em in.”
Colt steps out of view, holding the door open. Sloane walks in, and even though I’m expecting to see her, she’s an instant surprise. I can count on one hand the number of times I’ve seen her out of work clothes, and half of those times were when she was naked. She rarely does casual, but tonight she’s in white sneakers, dark jeans, an unzipped yellow hoodie, and a very familiar orange tank top with my name stretched across her breasts. Her hair is down, her make up heavier than usual. She smiles that playful smile of hers, the one I remember from the airport the morning we met. The one that’s ready to give you the ride of your life if you’re man enough to follow her. To let her lead.
I nearly cross the room to her, intent on taking her in my arms and kissing those lips, telling her to take me where she wants me to go, when I remember she’s not alone.
An older man steps into the room behind her. He’s an even bigger surprise than she is.
It’s not Brad Ashford, but his face is still somehow familiar. I can’t place him but I know I’ve seen him before.
He’s Brad’s age, in his mid-fifties. He’s dressed in business casual; crisp, dark slacks and a white polo shirt neatly tucked under a black belt, Nikes on his feet. He smiles when he sees me, and the thing that strikes me immediately is how real it is. How different from Brad’s smiles that always felt hollow and pointless. Almost creepy. When this guy smiles it reaches his eyes, green and eager. Sharp.
“Trey, this is Berny Dawe,” Sloane introduces us as the door slams shut behind them. “He’s a sports agent based out of L.A.”