Page 22 of The Late Hit
“Thank you, Quinton.”
“Anything for you, Wilder.” He squeezes me before releasing me from his grip.
It’s in this moment, with his arms wrapped around me, I’m clued into how different this hug feels. This hug isn’t a brotherly hug. In fact, if I let myself accept the truth, his hugs have never felt brotherly. The heat between us is rising within me, like lava about to erupt, as he holds me, caressing my skin with his gentle touch.
What if I look up? Will I find him looking down at me? Would his eyes be darkened with lust? Would my own desire be reflected back? And where did these feelings come from?
With his grip released, I take a much-needed step back. Shit just got way too serious. With a pep in my step, I turn toward the kitchen.
“Ice cream and a movie?”
“Grab the ice cream, and I’ll go up and pick something,” Quinton answers, giving my butt a love tap as he bypasses me.
Startled, I jump in surprise at his contact. Fire spreads throughout my body.
The rest of the night is spent lying in bed with my best friend, watchingAnchorman, eating ice cream, and laughing.
It felt good to have the old Q and B back, laughing our asses off, and quoting a movie we’ve seen too many times to count.
“Hellofagametoday, boys!” Coach calls from the front of the locker room. “It feels pretty damn good to be five and oh!”
Cheers and hoots erupt.
Truth is, it does feel pretty damn good to be undefeated. Our season is halfway over, and next weekend is a bye week.
“It’s a bye week. While we don’t have a game, there are still some things that we need to work on. But, if we work hard this week, I’m prepared to give you Friday through Sunday off from practices. Just do some kind of workout on your own. Check your emails for the updated practice schedule for the week. Now, hit the showers and get the hell out of here.”
More cheers come from the team. Turning to my locker, I strip out of my uniform and grab my toiletry bag. The game was an early one, which means we have the rest of the day to kick back.
“What’s the plan for the day, Q?” Grant Campbell asks, following me toward the showers.
I enter my stall, turning on the faucet to let the water heat up.
“No idea, man. I think I’m just gonna chill.” Standing under the faucet, I let the hot water pour over my body. I’m starting to feel some aches and pains. I need to meet with the team’s PT for a good full-body massage. There’s still a lot of season left, and I can’t get injured.
Yesterday, I had a call with my agent Eliza. She likes to call every couple of weeks with an update on the draft. Even if she doesn’t have anything major to talk about, she still likes to check in and let me know that she’s watching my games and recognizes the year I’m having.
It’s nice to have these kinds of conversations with her.
The firm that Eliza works for is based out of New York, and they are pretty amazing. Some of my previous teammates had put me in contact with them, and it’s nice to know that my dad didn’t find them for me. He tried to push me on a firm that I knew was just going to kiss his ass, do whatever he wanted, and not what I wanted. That’s why I chose to work with Eliza.
At our first meeting, my parents came, of course. When Dad started to showboat and talk about himself, Eliza put him in his place, telling him this meeting wasn’t to discuss a former athlete, but the potential of someone who’s going to be bigger and better than him. He shut up real quick, sitting with his arms folded, pouting, the rest of the meeting. A tiny smile had my lips turned up the remainder of our appointment.
That was the day I signed my contract to work with Eliza. I didn’t need to hear anything else during that meeting. If a woman, a woman barely over five feet no less, could stand up to Howard Boyd, I knew I needed her in my corner.
She hasn’t let me down once.
“Quinton, mate, things are looking good this year!” she exclaims on the phone in her thick Australian accent.
“Thanks, Eliza,” I reply. “What all have you been hearing?”
Pacing around my bedroom, I can’t help but let my mind wander.
Going pro has been a dream for as long as I can remember. As a boy, my dream was to be like my dad. What boy doesn’t look up to his dad? Then in junior high, I fell in love with the dream even more. As a sophomore, college scouts started coming to more and more games. I always thought it was a favor to my dad, until I realized that I actually had the potential to go pro.
That was all on me. Not my dad. My numbers spoke for themselves. I kept my head to the turf, got good grades, and busted my ass.
Interrupting my thoughts, Eliza continues. “Mate, I’m tellin’ ya, things are lookin’ good. First round, good. Especially at the pace you’re going.”
