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Danica was wiping the corners of her mouth, insinuating that she sucked me off between the bookshelves. She started laying it on thick once she failed to get the reaction she was looking for from Kassidy. The best part was when I stepped up behind her, freshly showered, hair still damp.
Calling out a soft “boo,” Danica let out an ear-piercing scream that resulted in her being banned from the library for two weeks.
I was definitely grateful that Kassidy had my phone number and knew exactly where I was.
The more time I spend around this girl, the deeper my affection runs. Trying to get her on a real date is a joke with my crazy schedule. The best I can do right now is buy her breakfast or lunch when we are out on the road.
Kassidy and I have grown closer. Not getting left behind on the road is doing wonders.
Father is content with my grades. Depending on the class, my average is a B or C. While it isn’t as high as he demanded at the beginning of the semester, it is keeping him off my back. I am sure that the major league offers that are coming in have something to do with that as well. My father is acting as my agent. From what I understand, the scouts have been to several of my games, watching me play, and they are impressed with my performance.
Reaching my locker after practice, I see a note taped to the shelf. Holding onto the towel around my waist with one hand, I peel back the tape. The near-illegible scrawl is a meeting demand from Coach Pollard. Confusion makes my head spin as I review my behavior both on and off the field. Nothing comes to mind on what this is about. Dressing quickly, I rush to get to Coach’s office. I am supposed to have a late study session with Kassidy and would prefer to be on time.
Raising my hand to knock on the door, I hesitate. The last two times I was here, so was my father. That last conversation with Father didn’t end well, and our relationship, while tumultuous at best, has been even more strained. Taking a deep breath and letting it out slowly, my knuckles connect to the door. It doesn’t take Coach long to demand me to enter. Cautiously pushing the door open, my shoulders sag in relief to see that Coach is alone.
“Sit,” he demands, nodding to a chair.
Taking a seat in one of the chairs opposite him, my spine stiffens. Coach doesn’t look happy. Mentally running through the past couple of weeks, nothing comes to mind on what I could have done to earn that look of irritation.
“Brock, you need to get an agent,” he states bluntly. “Arealagent.”
“Wha-what do you mean, a real agent? My father is acting as my agent,” I state, my confusion evident.
“That is the problem, son,” he sighs heavily before continuing. “One of the scouts called me. They made an offer for you to play ball starting next season. When they sent the contract to your father, he started to negotiate,” Coach pauses to take a breath, and my mouth opens to ask questions. He holds his hand up, halting my words.
“Negotiations are normal and to be expected,” he pauses again, as various looks cross his face as if he is trying to soften the blow of whatever he needs to tell me. “When Donovan called me to tell me what your father is doing, it surprised me. Kid, you are going to lose your chance at the big league if you don’t cut him loose.”
“I don’t understand.” I shake my head.
“Your father is trying to negotiate salaries that are almost three times as much for a rookie right out of college. Which, if you go next season, you won’t even be completing college.”
“Sooooo, he is trying to get me a nice salary,” I say, stating what seems to be obvious but still confused about what prompted this meeting.
“Yes, but it’s more than that. What he is adding as his signing bonus and other contract riders is unheard of. He has already developed a reputation. Three teams have already dismissed you because of him. That’s the ones that I am aware of; that number could be higher.”
Coach stares at me expectantly. I’m stunned, the only emotion I can really focus on. No doubt there is a stupid look on my face, making those thoughts very obvious.
“Do…uhm, do you, ah, know of anyone I can contact?” I stutter out my question, my thoughts running rampant making me unable to form complete sentences.
Pollard leans over his desk, a slip of paper between the fingers of his extended hand. Reaching out to grab it, my hands are shaking. Looking down at the paper, a name and phone number are the only two pieces of information written on it. Coach’s voice has my head snapping up, focusing back on him.
“I have already spoken to Ripley,” he nods at the paper clutched in my hand. “He is expecting your call,” Coach pauses, steepling his hands together as they rest against the desktop. “Ripley has been in communication to some of the teams, trying to get some feelers out there, and spreading the word that your father is no longer representing you. Hopefully, this works in your favor, and it isn’t too late.”
Staring open-mouthed at Coach, my mind whirls. My eyes bounce between him and the innocuous slip of parchment in my hand.
Finally, as I rise to my feet, my voice decides to work, although a bit scratchy. “Th-thank you, Coach. If you don’t mind, I am going to call him now.” I toss my hand in the general direction of the door; my feet are moving before Coach responds.
Looking over my shoulder at him, I see him wave toward the door, dismissing me. When he speaks, his tone is sympathetic.
“If you need me kid, my door is open,” he says to my retreating form.
Quickly stopping at my locker, I grab my things, specifically my phone. Before getting on the phone with this agent, my fingers fly over the screen, texting Kassidy to let her know our tutor session is off for today.
Running back to the frat house and needing the privacy of my room, I don’t bother stopping to chat with any of the many who call out to me along the way. Taking the steps two at a time, I lock myself in my room and pull the slip of paper out of the front pocket of my jeans, I take a moment to catch my breath. The last thing I need to do is make this guy think this is a prank call.
Sitting on my bed, my hands shake worse than they did while speaking with Coach. It takes several tries to dial the number because my fingers are hitting the wrong number. After two rings, a pleasant voice comes through the line.
“Ripley Pomeroy.”
