Enclave Estates
Pacific Palisades, CA
This isn’t a house. This is a compound. That’s what the invite should have said. ‘Please burn your only day off at our compound on the hilltop. Background check, piss test, and three forms of ID required.”
That last part is no joke. Coach Bailey’s place is in a gated community where I had to show my ID and be checked off a list before I was allowed to come inside. When I found the address there was a second gate that I had to be buzzed through before I could roar my way up the narrow private road leading to the house.
Sorry, not ‘house’. Castle. Inside a compound.
Coach Bailey is the offensive coordinator for the Kodiaks, but eleven years ago he was a hot shit quarterback out of Arizona. He spent five years with the Broncos and six with the Jets before a shoulder injury took him out of the game. Coach Allen, head coach for the Kodiaks, picked him up immediately and he’s been with the team making that big money ever since. Pacific Palisades mansion money.
His place is three stories of gray brick facade towering imperiously at the end of a perfectly paved drive. There’s a widening just to the right of the house where cars are parked side by side looking like the most expensive car lot in town. Trucks and SUVS in every color. BMWs, Bentley’s, Mercedes, Audis. One powder blue Tesla, a pearl white Vanquish. Two Challengers with racing stripes running matte black down their sleek backs; one yellow, the other orange. Kodiak colors.
I park my Nissan GTR at the end of the line, its candy apple red paint gleaming hot as sex in the sun. I’m the last one here. I can tell that from the car count alone, no help needed from the clock on my dash practically screaming the time at me or the text messages blowing up my phone as I slip it in my pocket. I grab the big yellow box that’s been riding shotgun with me and jump out of the car. I tuck it under my arm while I jog toward the front door.
Out of the corner of my eye I catch the glint of sunlight off a mirror. There are a couple of catering vans parked along the side of the house. A gray door with ornate red writing slams shut and a tall gangly dude in standard black and white waiter attire walks from behind it toward the house, a large white box in his arms and a bored expression on his face. He disappears inside a side entrance, probably one leading into the kitchens, because of course this place has a servant’s entrance.
“You’re late.”
Startled, I miss a step, my stride broken.
Andreas, our kicker, is leaning against the wall by the door, a cigarette dangling lazily from his right hand. He’s wearing black slacks, a gray button down shirt with a white tie, and a disapproving frown on his normally urbane, Latin face. He’s shrouded in a cloud of averse air and smoke that reeks of reluctance. It looks more like he’s attending a funeral than a baby shower.
“I got held up,” I tell him.
“I hope you mean that literally, for your sake. There better have been a gun involved or Lexi is going to flip.”
“What does Lexi care when I show up? She doesn’t even know who I am.”
He snorts, his latest intake of smoke bursting out his nostrils like a suave ass dragon. “She knows who you are.”
“Last summer she called me ‘Matt’ through the entire 4th of July party,” I argue. “She thought I was Kurtis Matthews, and she wasn’t even getting his name right.”
“Doesn’t matter. She wants everyone inside before they do the reveal.”
“Has everyone put in their bets?”
“Everyone but you. You’re late, as usual.”
I whip out my phone, bringing up the BumpBet app where the team is running a baby pool. The kid’s gender is only the first round, but it’s a big one; four hundred points. Next is the delivery date, then weight and length, but if you don’t get this first one right your odds of winning the pot all but drop off.
When the app loads I see the pie chart of entries. Thirty-two of the guys have placed their bets. Nineteen of them put their money on it being a boy.
“What’d you bet on?” I ask Andreas.
“A girl. What are you going to pick?”
I wrinkle my nose indecisively as I slide my phone back in my pocket. “I don’t know yet.”
“You better figure it out soon.”
“How are they announcing it? Box of balloons? Pi?ata?”
“Cake. White on the outside, blue or pink on the inside,” he answers slowly, watching me. “How do you know so much about this stuff?”
“My mom’s been to about a million of these. She told me.”
“Is she the one who told you to bring a present?”
“Yeah. She said better safe than sorry.”
He grins maliciously. “Sorry.”
“Seriously? No gifts?”
“Nope. Said so on the invite. Did you even read it?”
“Vaguely.”