“Dang, this room islegit.” AJ tossed his duffel bag onto the couch, then plopped down beside it, feet resting on top of the table in front of it. He surveyed the suite, head bobbing in approval. “Kinda feels like they’re giving us a fine taste of rookie life.”
He had a valid point.
Our two-room suite at the Crowne Plaza turned out to be pretty dope, complete with all the amenities, plus a few extra bells and whistles, courtesy of the Combine sponsor who, that year, happened to be Verizon. The five-day event was expected to be action-packed, beginning the day of our arrival. Tight ends, wide receivers, and quarterbacks were on the same tier, attending and participating in events together, which is why AJ and I were able to travel together and share a suite. His football aspirations mirrored mine, and we hoped to be drafted to the same pro team, carrying our winning legacy with us into the NFL.
My eyes perused the schedule handed to me at check-in. “Bro, we need to head down for registration and orientation.”
Being namedone of college football’s best players came with an influx of media attention at Combine. Sure, I’d been somewhat prepped for media and the frenzy they toted, giving countless postgame interviews whenever ESPN covered UCLA games.
But holy, shit.
Stepping out of the orientation room, the convention center lobby was definitely a media circus. Reporter after reporter stopped me, asking me what pro teams I was talking to and if I’d had talks to sign with Nike, Adidas, or Under Armour, the real-deal possibilities, equally overwhelming and euphoric.
“Is it true Dallas has their eyes on you?” A smug-as-hell reporter from Sports Illustrated rocked back on his feet.
I took a sip of Perrier, a smirk tilting the corner of my mouth. “I’ve learned to steer clear of rumors and let chips fall where they may come Draft Day.”
“You seem a bit overconfident,” said the same reporter. “What if, as an expected first-round pick, you get drafted by one of the NFL’s worst teams?”
I remembered the same reporter had been a dick at Rose Bowl the year before. “My father once told me to never waste time in the crazy land ofwhat-ifs.”
Once I gotthrough orientation and the burn from media questions, my first day was wrapped up with one of several team interviews to take place throughout the week, two of which were to be one on one with team coaches and executives.
After grabbing dinner provided to us at the hotel, AJ decided he wanted to hang out at Nike’s accommodation suite for a few hours, while I chose to head straight to our suite, wanting nothing more than a shower and a phone call to my girl.
“How was your first day?” Macy’s eyes sparkled through the phone, her face beaming. “They played a clip of your media interview on ESPN. You are officially a hometown quarterback hero.”
I propped my head on the pillows. “Yeah, and that prick reporter wins the Dicky Bitch Reporter of the Decade award. Other than that, my first day went well, though I’m pretty exhausted. How are you?”
She sighed. “I’m fine, just studying. I want to hurry up and graduate already.”
“I miss you, baby. Wish you were here, curled up next to me. You should have come with me, got your schoolwork done while I was at all-day events. Plus, you could be in the stands, watching me do agility tests and drills on Thursday.”
“You know very well why we agreed I shouldn’t join you. This week you need to be completely focused on all things football and get plenty of rest at night, not being distracted by my hot ass.”
Though she meant to be funny, it was true. No matter how much I wanted Macy with me, it was best she stayed behind. Lying next to her at night, there would be no rest because even three months after our first fuck, I still couldn’t seem to get enough of her.
“What’s tomorrow look like?” She took a sip of Red Bull.
I explained I’d have a hospital pre-exam, interviews, and that I’d likely visit the Nike suite to get a massage.
Her brows lifted. “A massage? Do I need to be worried about you getting tempted by football groupies looking to score a guy with a potential fat check?”
“Stop.” I chuckled, confident she wasn’t the jealous type, especially since I never gave her a reason to be. “You know you’re the only one who will ever score with this guy.”
The next fewdays went by in a flash.
Medical exams, the big Wonderlic test filled with problem-solving questions to measure how quickly I answered the questions correctly—of course I passed with a high score—NFL union meetings, followed by the insanely brutal team-coach interview.
Strutting into the interview was like walking into an inquiry in front of a judiciary committee. They all sat behind a table with microphones while I sat at a podium, nothing but a glass of water at my disposal.
Like strategic missiles, questions were fired at me left and right.
“Do you think the NFL owes you a career because your father had a successful pro football career?” the coach from Dallas asked without a flinch.
Now, keep in mind it was expected they’d ask tough questions designed to garner a reaction out of me. Mainly because they wanted to put feelers out, test my integrity, gauge how I reacted under pressure.
My jaw ticked, the one-year stint on the high school debate team my dad encouraged me to participate in, finally paying off. “The NFL doesn’t owe me anything, but,Iowe the NFL my dedication, athletic agility, and crazy love of the game.”
