I remembered over the course of our tutoring sessions, that I had tried and tried to get him to notice me, wearing increasingly sexier outfits, and doing my best to flirt with him. Drake had responded, of course, flirting back, but I had always gotten the impression that he was keeping himself from me.
Of course, he was also a world-class asshole. Everything had been handed to him, the school had bent over backward to accommodate him, and he knew it.
And he took advantage of it. That was the magic of touchdowns. If you could score on Saturdays, that’s all that mattered. You could do almost anything else the other six days a week.
The last time we had met, I had worked up the courage to ask him why that was, why he wasn’t making a pass at me, but in the moment, when it was the right time to ask, I chickened out, and the moment passed.
We had been at a party later that week and Drake had come up to me, a little tipsy, and made an awkward pass at me. I’d gone along with it, of course, and I remembered that kiss to this day. He seemed to forget it right away, though, and nothing ever came of it. Maybe he had had too much to drink that night, but even if he didn’t remember, I did, and I thought about it every day since.
It was quite a shock to see him here on draft day. Of course, I knew that given his record and his stats that he would be invited to the green room, but that’s still hadn’t prepared me for seeing him in person again. Drake Rollins had an effect on me that no man had ever had before.
Of course I had also read the news about him being uninvited from the draft day events at the last moment. I knew about his off the field issues and I had read each news item over the last few months with a resigned kind of dread, the kind you reserve for someone you care deeply about who can’t seem to get it together, no matter how hard they try.
In Drake Rollins’ case, though, it seemed as though he was actively trying to sabotage his future career, and I just couldn’t understand why.
The scuffle with security guards in front of the door came to a head, and I heard the shouting begin. Drake then took off down the hall, and Bill turned to me, a sneer on his face. “Looks like the kid doesn’t have it in ‘em after all. I should’ve known.”
Again, I was about to ask Bill what he meant by that, and why he was taking even a modest interest in Drake Rollins, but before I could get a word out, Bill started back toward the globes table, and I couldn’t get a word in. I was left watching Drakes retreating form.
No one else seemed to be doing anything about it; the security guards went back to guarding the door, and the rest of the media around kept on doing their thing, milling about and mentioning that Drake Rollins arrived, but no one made any other moves.
That made sense, because the draft was almost about to start. But it seemed to me like the most interesting story was leaving right at that moment.
Here was Drake Rollins, the number one receiver in the country, widely expected to be a top draft pick, taken off almost every team’s draft board because of off the field issues, uninvited from the draft itself, and he showed up, and now he was running away?
And no one was following him?
I turned to Steve, and he looked back at me, waiting for me to speak. “Follow me. And get that camera ready.”
Steve hoisted his camera and smiled. “Where are we going?”
“To follow the biggest story of the draft.” Steve nodded, and I took off after Drake.
Drake had a little bit of a head start on us; Radio City Music Hall was a giant place, and it was entirely possible that he had gotten lost by now in the caverns and tunnels behind and around the stage.
As Steve I left the hallway I could hear the music start up, and the TV announcers begin their voice over.
the draft was starting, and I was about to miss it. I felt a momentary pang of disappointment course through me, but I knew deep down that I was following the real interesting story of the draft. Everyone else would see who was picked by which team and when, and if I was honest with myself, my reporting of those picks would be much like any other junior reporter’s coverage.
This, though, this was different. This was exclusive.
As we move down the corridor, I glanced at Steve’s camera, and saw the red light on it. He was recording, moving left and right in slow motion, taking it all in, getting a sense of what was going on. We weren’t streaming live to the Globe’s website, but whatever we got today, the Globe’s video editors would clean up and put on there as soon as they could.
Something told me this would be a huge scoop.
Drake must’ve known that he wasn’t allowed at the draft today. So why did he show up? Did you think they would just let him in? Did he think that in the spur of the moment all of his off the field transgressions, which were numerous, would just be forgotten?
And say they did let them in, say they did let a teams draft him, which team would take a chance on a player with so many red flags?