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Mind you, my grandfather called them “artsy-fartsy” jobs. He also adamantly defined them as the opposite of practical or realistic.
And as much as I would’ve secretly loved for music to be my livelihood, it just wasn’t a viable career choice for me.
Music pounded from the backyard as I pulled up in the drive behind several expensive cars, shut off the engine, and climbed from my five-year-old Dodge Durango that my parents gave me as a high school graduation present.
It was team bonding time. And the location? Quinn Bailey’s backyard.
The first game of the season was this coming weekend, and team cohesiveness, owner Wes Lancaster had insisted, was of the utmost importance. I understood where he was coming from, but all the necessity in the world didn’t stop me from feeling a little bit like a fish out of water.
Most of these guys had been under contract with the Mavericks or other big-time teams for years, and the money for a new car or a fancy house was nothing more than a drop in the bucket.
But I was the new guy, fresh out of college with a nice-sized signing bonus but absolutely no guarantees as to how long or how far my ability would take me in a seriously high-stakes sport.
I’d set my bonus aside, in a fund with my financial advisor, just in case when my three years were up, my luck was too.
Don’t get me wrong, I was damn good on the field, and I had the drive of four guys combined. But playing in college and playing in the big show were two entirely different things, and I wanted to be smart.
My parents and my Nonna, my dad’s aunt, had taught me to be that way.
Checking any nerves and replacing them with the swagger of someone far cockier than I really was, I moved to the gate in the vinyl fence at the side of the house and pushed it open to a crowd of some of the biggest guys in the world.
Six five, six six, 350 pounds, these weren’t the kind of people who ever had a shot at being a jockey.
They were big and lean, and most of them had moments of being mean.
Primarily on the field, I presumed, but hell if I knew how they treated the rookies the rest of the time. Besides practice and conditioning, I hadn’t spent much time with any of them. In fact, this was the first time I was seeing most of them outside of Mavericks Stadium.
Sean Phillips was the first to spot me as I stepped inside the yard and clicked the gate shut behind me, nudging Cam Mitchell with an elbow to turn around and look for himself.
Normally, I prided myself on being the kind of guy who stood confidently and demanded respect. But I’d already had a couple of run-ins with Cam where all had not gone well. I hadn’t been a complete fuckup, but he’d certainly gotten some kicks out of messing with me, and I’d played right into his hands. And, as a teasing smile lit his face at the sight of me, I wasn’t sure my embarrassing stint with him was done.
Falling into step together, the two of them headed in my direction, swift and true, and I did everything I could to cover up the fact that I kind of wanted to turn around and leave.
Predators prey on the weak—even the ones big enough to prey on the strong—and being a cocky little shit in front of the two of them was my only form of protection.
I saddled up to enlist the persona’s help, crossing my arms over my chest and settling into my spot to make them come all the way to me.
If they were going to give me shit, it was going to be on my terms.
“Well, well, well,” Sean said when they arrived. “Look what the cat dragged in, Cam.”
“I see,” Cam said, pretending to sniff the air. “It stinks. Smells like…” More sniffing. “Newbie.”
I cracked a smirk at that and stuck out a bold hand. Sean’s eyes dropped to it meaningfully while Cam’s grin turned into a smile. Neither moved to take it.
“Interesting start you’ve had with the team,” Sean mused instead, leaning an elbow into Cam’s shoulder.
Cam’s smile turned mischievous. “I’ll say. Messing up the piss test on the first official day as a team member. Has to be some kind of record.”
Sean laughed. I grimaced. Two months later and I was still getting shit about the whole pee debacle. It was bad enough that I’d gotten a reaming from Wes Lancaster about messing up the first of my retakes and had to go back for yet a third time—a transaction I completed successfully, by the way—but it was even worse that I hadn’t been able to go to a single practice in the time since then without someone cracking a joke at my expense.
