Page 13 of The Tip-Off
“Have a good trip.” I take a step toward the house and she calls out, “Zeke, hold up.”
I like Blair, I do, but the look on her face tells me she’s about to ask me a favor I’m not going to like.
“I have a favor.”
Called that. I blow out a breath before I ask, “What’s up?”
“Can you check in on Gabby this week? I know you’re busy preparing for the draft, but I’d feel better about leaving her if I knew she had someone looking out for her.”
I jab a thumb back to the house. “Nathan doesn’t have shit going on this week. Why not ask him?”
“Because…” She worries her lip before continuing. “I trust you and I know you’ll keep her safe.”
I run a hand over my head and sigh. Nathan can barely look after himself so yeah, I get it. And it isn’t that I mind doing it, but I’m probably the last person she wants checking in on her. I slept like shit last night, Gabby’s ocean blue eyes filled with so much hurt and anger as she fled from the gym haunted me all damn night.
I stare past Blair’s head to Wes sitting in the car. He watches our interaction carefully through the backseat window. I’d do anything for Wes, we’ve had each other’s backs for four years. No questions asked, whatever the other needed. And he’d do anything for Blair. “Yeah, okay. I’ll check on her while you’re gone.”
Blair lets out a high-pitched squeal and throws her arms around my neck. “Thank you so much. You’re the best.”
She runs off toward the car and hops in, giving me a little wave and a big grin as they pull away from the curb.
And just like that, my week of focusing on myself is shot to shit.
* * *
Three days later I’m sitting at The Hideout doing my first check-in on Gabby and also meeting with my agent. Two birds, one stone and all that.
“My assistant Colleen tells me you still haven’t set up a social media account.” Sara’s expression is amused, but her tone is serious. “If you don’t want to do it yourself, we can hire someone to do it, but having a social media presence is non-negotiable. Most college athletes already have them and boast big followings. It’s good for endorsements. Colleen emailed you some photos with suggestions for posts, but mix in a little of your personality, too. You have the week off. Hang with your friends, snap a couple pictures and post them. People want to know what it’s like to be you.”
Sara Icoa, my agent, is no-nonsense. I love that about her. Unless she’s telling me things I don’t want to hear.
I grumble as I take another large bite from my salad. Social media is just one more thing pulling my attention from practicing, and I’ve already received plenty of endorsement offers, but I don’t argue against her logic. I’m paying her for a reason.
She offers me an apologetic ‘this is just how it is’ look before moving on to the next topic. “I anticipate you’ll get your official invitation to the NBA Combine later this month, so keep up with your workouts and the diet.”
I swallow the soggy vegetables in my mouth and prepare to speak, but Sara holds up a hand. “I know, I know, I don’t need to remind you, but I feel better having said it.”
She closes the portfolio in front of her and I’m struck with how young she looks in her jeans and white t-shirt, hair pulled back in a tight ponytail. It’s only her third year as an agent, but she’s been just as good and thorough as she promised. “This is gonna be fun.”
“It’ll be fun on June twentieth.” The date of the draft. Until then, it’s a singular focus. I’m so close, no holding back now.
“Can I get you anything else?” Gabby’s bubbly voice asks, standing at the foot of our booth, eyes never leaving Sara.
Sara politely declines and hands Gabby the empty salad plate in front of her and then looks to me. I could go for dessert or maybe a cheeseburger, hell, I’d even eat another salad, but I just shake my head.
Gabby drops the check. “No rush. You two are the only thing stopping Brady from sending me home early.”
I glance around The Hideout. Place looks weird so dead, but most students left in search of fun or family over spring break.
When I turn back, Sara has her wallet out, paying our check.
“I’ve got the tip,” I offer and drop some cash on the table.
Brady, the manager of The Hideout, approaches our table with a wide smile. “Zeke. Good to see you. How’ve you been? We haven’t seen you in a while.”
“Doing good, Mr. Williams, just been busy.”
“Ah, I bet. Number one draft pick right here in my restaurant. It’s exciting.” His eyes crinkle as his lips pull into a wide smile.
