Page 8 of Freckles

“Same to you.”

I grab a water bottle from the cooler and spray it over my face. The droplets fly as I shake my head from side to side, basking in the exhilaration of winning. Then I collapse onto the team bench, letting my head fall forward, spraying what’s left of the water onto the back of my neck.

“King,” Coach yells, gesturing me to join him and the man we saw earlier. He lowers his voice when I’m closer, saying, “This is Harlow Grant. He’s a sports agent.”

Not as helpful as a selector, but still an opportunity.

The man has a firm grip and meets my eye as we shake, a change from most of the students and teachers here at Westlake.

“And what exactly does an agent do?” I ask. “I heard you guys were leeches.”

Coach gives me a warning frown, but Harlow laughs. “Make you as much money from your talent as I can, then take fifteen percent.”

His accent has an American twang that fills my mind with images of cowboys and cattle ranches, and his straightforward manner is appealing.

“And how much money do you think you can make from me?”

“Depends how important the game is to you and where you want to travel. Have you thought about tertiary studies? We have some colleges might be interested.”

I stifle a laugh.

My uncle’s demands already make heavy inroads into my school hours. He’d probably gut me if I headed overseas for a couple of years. I’m lucky to still be in his graces, considering I’m from the black sheep side of the family.

With a shrug, I say, “It’s expensive,” like my family fortune isn’t obscene.

“It is, but rugby is gaining traction at the varsity level. If you can maintain the standard I saw today, I can pull together a decent package. Not just a full-ride scholarship, but game bonuses, even private sponsorship if the college allows.”

“Yeah?”

“We can also handle your transition from college to private clubs. A decent amount of my stable earn high six, low seven figures.”

It’s less than I earn working odd jobs for my uncle, but still more than I’d spend.

The conversation is what I’ve dreamed about for years, a chance to earn serious money doing something I love. I should be ecstatic.

Instead, it’s hard work to force a smile. “That sounds good.”

“Here’s my card.” Harlow hands it across. “And your coach already has my details. If you’re keen, I’ll start fielding offers to find the best fit.”

“And that’s all part of the fifteen percent?”

He offers a toothy grin. “Definitely. Does that mean I should go ahead?”

I stare at the gold lettering on the thick white card. A bit flashy, like the man himself. “Sure. Why not?”

Back at the team bench, I wait for the warm sense of accomplishment to fill me. Instead, there’s nothing but the physical aftermath of a demanding game.

It’s the shock. You’ll have a response later.

“You want to come out with me after school?” Jared asks. “There’s a new tavern opened near the riverside. Roaring fires, small batch beers.”

“Dude, it’s Wednesday afternoon.” The gentle chastisement doesn’t appear to have any effect. “I’m gonna hit the showers, then cart the gear back to my car. Ask me again Friday.”

“Sure.”

Halfway to the gym, I glance back at the two men. Harlow is deep in conversation with Coach, oblivious to the opposition players still messing about on the pitch.

And finally, I have a reaction. Satisfaction that he’s not talking to anyone else.

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