Wasted Words (7 page)

Gretchen came to my parents’ house a week after I was released, looking awkward and ashamed. She couldn’t do it, she’d said. She hadn’t signed up for this, for the stress of it all. At the time, I was crushed, the salt in the gaping wound, an underscore of all I’d lost. Looking back, I wasn’t surprised. Deep down I’d known that Gretchen wasn’t in it for me. She was in it for her, and when I didn’t suit her anymore, she left. If she’d loved me, she would have stayed. It was that simple. Didn’t make it hurt any less, though.

Jack Jones spent a lot of time in Nebraska too, staying for a week at my parents’ house. He and my dad had been friends for near thirty years at that point — he’d been my dad’s agent too, Jack’s first client. Jack would have been my agent, too.
 

Before he left town, we sat down together, he and I, and talked about my future. It was the topic he’d always made paramount,
my future,
like a billboard for a life I couldn’t have anymore. But just because I wouldn’t be playing ball didn’t mean he couldn’t help me secure a new future. So he offered me a job.

At first, I’d only accepted because I had no other prospects, settling on a sure thing. But over the course of the year following my injury, I poured my heart into it. I could stay connected to the game in a way that I could be a mentor, help players secure
their
futures. Coaching was too much pressure — as much as I loved the game, I didn’t know if I wanted to be a leader on that level. Plus, being around the game so much, the players, the energy … I just didn’t know if I could handle it. I needed separation. I needed space. And I found it the minute I had my degree in hand and moved to New York.
 

It was a fresh start in all ways.

I was still lost in thought as I walked into the building where I worked in Midtown and took the elevator up into the towering skyscraper where every window held a sweeping view of Manhattan — either the harbor on one side and the stretch of city extending toward Central Park on the other. Any way you looked, it was a beautiful sight.

I headed toward my small office just off Jack’s, greeting my coworkers on the way. There weren’t all many of us, as careers went — only eight hundred agent positions even existed for eighteen hundred NFL players, though we had a few agents who handled other sports, a few baseball agents, a few basketball, and a couple of guys who dealt in contracts with hockey and soccer. But football was our specialty and the foundation of our company.
 

Jack sat at his desk, broad shoulders hunched as he hammered away at his keyboard, looking gruff. His tie was already loose, the top button undone, shirtsleeves rolled up. He was a cowboy in the literal and figurative sense — Jack Jones played for the Cowboys in the eighties and grew up in East Texas. He was a gang-buster, the type of guy to take no shit but who was always honest, even if it lost him a client. He was a rebel, always doing things the way he said would help him sleep best at night.
 

I popped my head in. “Morning, Jack.”

He glanced up and smiled from under his salt-and-pepper mustache. “Heya, kid. Busy morning already — Pharaoh Carson got a DUI last night and swung at a cop when they charged him, so I’ve got a tornado of bullshit to deal with, which means
we
have a tornado of bullshit to deal with.” He sighed and ran a hand through his slate-colored hair. “I knew that kid was gonna be trouble, but I signed him anyway. Lemme teach you a lesson — always go with your gut. If you even catch a whiff that a player’s a punk, if you think he’s going to give you hell, you remember that you sign that contract in the same ink he does.”

I nodded. “Where do we start?”

“I’ve gotten a few things done, just some of the big stuff. I need you to start going through his sponsors and touch base. Let them know we’re on it and see if you can’t buy us some time. When’s your meeting with Darryl?”

“After lunch.”

“All right. Let’s hit the pavement on this before it gets any worse. Cathy’s been fielding calls from TMZ all morning, and as soon as Pharaoh gets his ass out of jail, I’ll be on the phone with him. Might even need to fly to Atlanta to deal with it in person, be there when he’s released.” He sighed, looking tired. “I tell you one thing — it’s days like today that I wish I hadn’t quit smoking.”

I chuckled. “I’ll handle the sponsors. Just let me know what you need.”

“What I need is a shot of whiskey and for that dick to have kept his cool, but what can we do but clean up the mess. All part of the job, just my least favorite part of the job.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure I can make that shot happen at some point.”

He smirked. “At least we have that.”

With that, I headed into my office and took off my bag. When I sat down at my desk and turned on my computer, my inbox filled with forwards from Jack about Pharaoh. Shit had blown up, all right. I opened our database of contacts and dug in, starting with Nike.

Working as an agent was so much more pressure than playing football. I know it seems strange to say, but football was simple, easy. The rules were clearly defined, but as an agent, everything depended on your network, your relationships. Nothing was easy or simple, it was a web that required constant mending. And my next step, the next advancement in my career, depended on landing my first contract.
 

But first was Pharaoh.

It was hours before I finally came up for air. Dozens of calls, dozens of talk-downs. I’d had three cups of coffee and felt jittery, but thanks to the caffeine and the standing of Jack’s good name, they were appeased, if only for the moment. Cathy had ordered us lunch, hot Philly cheesesteaks, and had delivered them with a shot. Jack’s orders, she said.

I stood at the window for a long minute after I’d finished, just breathing, trying to push the stress of the day out of my mind. And then I took my seat and called Darryl.

He answered on the second ring. “Hey, Tyler.”

“What’s up, Darryl?”

“The usual, you know how it is. School, football, sleep, repeat.”

“Yeah, I know that routine.” I smiled fondly at the memory. “You ready for the game on Saturday?”

“Man, we’ve been studying plays, and Coach is pushing us hard. Owens passed out on the field yesterday, and I’ve never seen that tank hit the ground like he did.”

“Sounds about right. Wait until the Iowa game. If there’s one thing in the world Dad wants, it’s to murder the Hawkeyes on the field.”

He laughed. “I haven’t forgotten. What’s up with you? I heard about Pharaoh. What a dipshit.”

“Yeah, been a busy day over here. It’s a good lesson for you though — every single sponsorship he has is in jeopardy, and for what? A night out? He could have afforded a driver, but he took his Ferrari out and got tanked, and right now, he’s sitting in jail. One mistake. That’s all it takes to potentially lose everything.”

Darryl sighed. “I can’t imagine why he’d be so fucking stupid. I mean, I’d never put my career on the line like that.”

“I know it feels that way right now, but it’s different in the NFL. College ball is more pure in that way — it’s about the game, that’s it. But when you go pro, it’s about more than the game. It’s money, women, status. Fame. It’s a lifestyle, but you can decide how you let it affect you. Are you going to be a pro baller who blows all his money on a yacht and a penthouse? Or are you going to set yourself up for a future after your career?”

“Kinda like you did?”

“Yeah, kinda. My dad always told me there’s no such thing as a sure thing, so I never slacked off in school. I wanted a solid Plan B, even if I didn’t think I’d ever need it, and if I hadn’t, getting hurt would have been an even bigger deal. I wouldn’t have had a single prospect. That’s part of the reason I wanted to go into this field. To help players with their careers. To protect them and guide them. It’s not for the money.”

“Not that the money hurts.” I could hear him smiling on the other end of the line.
 

I chuckled. “No, it doesn’t hurt one bit. But I’m not trying to make money off you, not in the ways some of those other guys try to.”

“It’s crazy, man. Most everybody is smart enough not to talk about it, but I know for a fact these agents are courting some of them, hard.”

“How about you? Any other offers?” My stomach tightened, though my voice gave nothing away.

“Nothing official, you know. One even offered my mom a plane ticket home to see her family, but I told him no. I told Mom no. I’ll fly her there myself when I get a contract.”

I smiled. “Hell yeah, you will. I’ll be out there for homecoming and we can hang. I’ve gotten permission to be on the field for the game with you and Dad, and maybe we can work out on Sunday.”

“For sure, man. Good luck with Pharaoh and all that mess.”

“Thanks. Tell my pop I said he’s looking old today.”

Darryl laughed. “Right, so he’ll torture me with burpees in full pads? Psh. You’re on your own.”

“I’ll talk to you soon, man.”

“Take it easy, Tyler.”

I hung up the phone and it immediately rang. Cathy’s voice was on the other end.
 

“Nike’s on the phone for you, Tyler.”

I sighed. “All right. Send them through.” The phone beeped, and when I heard the connection open, I said, “This is Tyler Knight.”

“Mr. Knight, this is Adrienne Christie, senior rep at Nike. I was just returning your call regarding Pharaoh Carson. I assume you have a good excuse for your player?”

“Depends. Is ‘stupid’ a valid excuse?”

She laughed. “Not really, Mr. Knight. Nike’s not generally in the habit of sponsoring criminals who assault police officers. Unless there’s some mistaking what’s happened, the likelihood of Mr. Carson retaining his contract with us is very slim.”

Worry shot through me at the edge to her words, but I kept my cool and answered confidently, “We’ll know more soon. I’d just ask that you wait until some progress has been made to make a decision on what to do with him.”

She paused for a breath. “All right. I’d like to set up a meeting on Monday with Mr. Jones to discuss the issue. Is that enough time?”

“That’s fair. I appreciate your understanding.” Jack walked in, and I held up a finger. “Thanks, Ms. Christie.”

“You’re welcome. I’ll have my assistant get in touch to set up a time. Have a good day.” The line clicked, ending the call.

I let out a breath and hung the phone back on the cradle.

Jack leaned on the doorframe. “Ms. Christie? As in Adrienne Christie? From Nike?”

“Yeah. She’s giving us through the weekend to figure out what to do with Pharaoh.”

He smirked. “You haven’t met her, have you?”

I shook my head. “She’s not the rep I usually deal with.”

“No, she’s a senior rep, only handles the big stuff. She’s not much older than you, but she’s something else, let me tell you. Talk about a saleswoman. The woman’s a shark.” He shook his head and sighed. “Well, I’ve got to fly to Atlanta. I’m leaving in an hour so I can be there when he gets sprung. Need you to hold down the fort while I’m gone, but I should be back by Monday in time to meet Adrienne. Think you can handle it?”

“Without a doubt, Jack.”

“Thanks, kid. Wish me luck. I’m gonna need it.”

“Good luck. Pretty sure Cathy has a bottle of Makers to send you off with.”

He turned to leave. “God bless that wonderful woman. Remind me to give her a raise.”

I packed up and left a little while later, heading toward the gym in the dusk. The days were getting shorter, the nights longer, but the weather was so great after the blazing summer that I found myself refreshed as I made my way toward the subway station.

My phone buzzed in my pocket, and I pulled it out to see a photo of my sister in a pair of bunny ears, nibbling on a carrot.

“Hey, Meg,” I answered, smiling.

“Hey. You busy?”

“Nah, just got off work. What’s up?” I stepped off the curb and crossed the street, deciding then to walk the mile and a half home.

“Just wanted to chat.”

“I’ll be home in a little more than a week, you know.”

“I know, but still. Plus, you’ll be busy and so will I. It’s homecoming, remember?”

I chuffed. “So you’ll be busy drinking?”

“I’m in a sorority. Of course I’ll be busy drinking. How was work?”

I sighed. “Busy. Pharaoh Carson got himself arrested, and Jack and I were busy putting out fires all day. But all’s well — I’m on my way to the gym before heading home to get ready for singles night at Cam’s bar.”

“What’s the theme?”

“Comic book cosplay.”

“Ooooh. I love getting dressed up. Who are you going as?”

“Captain America.”

She busted out laughing. “That had to be Cam’s idea.”

I smirked. “Yeah, it was.”

“Genius. You look the part. Is she on a mission to match you up with somebody, or are you going to troll for chicks?”

“Neither, just going to hang out.”

She sighed. “It’s been a year since Jessica. You’ve got to get back on the horse. Can’t let a slag like her ruin you like that, Tyler.”

“She didn’t,” I said simply as I stuffed my free hand in my pocket. “This isn’t about Jess.”

“Well, then what’s it about? You haven’t dated anyone since.”

“That’s not true. I’ve been on dates.”

“Right, but you haven’t
dated
anyone.”

I came to stop at a corner and watched the light, struggling to find the words. “I dunno, Meg. I haven’t found anyone I’m interested in enough to go for, I guess. I’m not interested in investing any more of myself into someone until I’m sure about their intentions.”

“So it
is
Jessica’s fault.”

My face was flat. “Would it make you feel better if I admitted she was one of many reasons?” The light changed, and I stepped off the sidewalk and into the street.

“Yes, it would. Thank you.”

I snickered. “I’ll date when I’m ready. How about you?”

“No one serious. I’m just too busy to date between the sorority and being a senior. But Jamie and Grace
both
got asked to homecoming.”

“They’re too young to go to homecoming with boys.”