Page 31 of Just Playin'
My steps down the abandoned corridors of the 69ers home stadium are long and efficient, only halved when Danny unexpectedly steps into my path.
“Hey, you ready?” He tugs down the collar of the shirt I threw on haphazardly before attempting to lick and spit my messy locks into submission.
I step back to avoid his saliva-coated fingers while bouncing my eyes between his. “For. . .?”
“For the pharmaceutical reps.”
He nudges his head to the door he just walked through. There are four suit-clad men huddled around a table and a lady in a fierce-looking three-piece suit helming the meeting.
“We scheduled this weeks ago; how can you not remember?” Danny leans closer to me, ensuring his words are only for my ears. “We’re looking at closing on the ten million you requested. If you can’t memorize a calendar, surely you can remember a figure that high?!”
His words are whispered, but they leave no doubt of his annoyance. He’s been working his ass off the past four months to secure the astronomical figure I wanted because he knows as well as I do endorsements are where the money is.
“I’ve got somewhere to be.” My eyes fall to my watch. Five minutes have already passed since I spoke to Willow, add that to the fifteen minutes it will take me to get to Mystra, and that gives douchebag Archer an extra twenty minutes to convince her he’s worth more than the vodka he’s plowing into her. “Can it wait ‘til tomorrow?”
“Please, for the love of God, don’t do this to me again.” Danny rakes his fingers through his hair to give it a rough tug as his chest displays early signs of a panic attack. “I did as you asked, I schmoozed the fuck out of them to get this deal to the amount you requested, but if you walk away now, they aren’t coming back, Elvis. The deal will be done. Swiped from the table. Given to one of the many agents waiting for me to fuck up this deal.”
He bends in half, his dramatics not unusual. If he gets so much as a papercut, he demands 911 be called. He’s as far from an agent as you can imagine, but that’s why I asked him to be mine. I needed someone out of the industry, someone I trusted to put my interests before anyone else’s. Danny has done that. He renegotiated my return to a game he knew nothing about with the skill of a man in the industry for decades. He’s profited much more than at the insurance firm where he used to work, but like every man in the world, he wants more.
His prima donna routine is tucked away when I ask, “How long are we talking?”
He gives me his best puppy dog eyes while murmuring, “Five. . . twenty minutes tops.”
His eyes widen when a growl rumbles between us.
“Ten? Can you give me ten?”
My eyes return to my watch while my brain calculates how fast I could reach Mystra’s if I ran every red light. It would be pushing it, but I think I could trim it down to eight minutes.
Danny’s brows furrow when I ask, “How many points do you have on your license?” When he looks at me, stumped, I add, “Enough to cover the handful of fines Imayincur tonight by attending this meeting?”
“If it gets your ass into the meeting, I’ll reinstate my MetroCard before calling it a night. Scouts honor.” He crosses his heart and hopes to die. . . I can’t remember the rest of the pledge he usually makes. It’s something about kissing boys—or other parts of their bodies.
When Danny thrusts his hand toward mine, I accept it. “Deal, now let’s get in there and make me some money.”
Then I can offer Willow something fancier than a cheap-ass bottle of vodka.
OUR MEETING WASover in three minutes, meaning I don’t need to run the one red light I’ve been slowed by the past thirteen minutes. The swiftness of our meeting shouldn’t be surprising. It was the standard one every company has while forking over a heap of money to the superstar they want recommending their products.
“Sign here, here, and here.” They then toss the encyclopedia-sized contract into their briefcase, lock their hands with mine, and say, “We’re very excited to work with you, Mr. Carlton.”
I then leave the meeting with an armful of their products—which get tossed into the coat room in my condo, never to been seen again—while my agent works out all the minor details such as filming location, scheduled in-store appearance and anything else they want me to do to have them handing over the amount we negotiated.
I don’t like this side of my industry but understand it’s a major part of it. I’m not just an athlete; there is a lot more to this industry than running onto a field once a week. I have nutritionists, coaches, physical therapists, and muscle conditioning instructors, just to name a few. There is an entire field of people behind me, which means I need a lot more than a standard man’s income.
Love it or hate it, that’s where endorsements come in.
I lower the revs on my Aston Martin when the neon lighting outside Mister Mystra enters my vision. This place was my old hangout when I played college ball. Its beers were under three dollars, and their TV was bigger than the computer monitor-sized one Dalton and I had in our dorm room, so it wasn’t just ideal for two broke-ass students, it was like our second home. The only places we spent more time at than here were the field and class, which we took the bare minimum hours needed to maintain our sports scholarships.
Mr. Mystra passed away four weeks before my final college game. Rumors are he was so excited about the upcoming playoffs, his heart couldn’t function with the massive surge in his blood pressure every season. He was a great man, and it was only right his devotion to the game was honored during championship week. Both teams, home and away, wore black armbands to mark their respect, then the game ball signed by the captain of the winning team was donated to his family. It sits proudly in a glass cabinet at the back of the bar.
“Hey, man, you can’t park there. That’s a tow zone.”
I toss the key to my car into the cautionary teen’s chest before jogging around my idling vehicle. “I’ll only be a minute, and if you stop it from being towed, I’ll show you my gratitude with a freshly printed Benjamin Franklin.”
He smiles like I just told him I’m paying his tuition for the next four years before he dips his chin in silent agreement. While he moves to guard my driver’s side door, which I leave hanging open, I enter Mystra’s.
The number of drunk college students filling the space is eye-numbing. The bitter scent of beer filters through the air and the tangy smell of too many people in one place reveal nothing has changed the past eight years, not to mention the chatter of patrons as they slap down their glasses on the beer-soaked bar. This place is as packed and as happening as it was when Mr. Mystra was alive. I’m glad to see his legacy is being kept alive, just like the ink I scribbled across his football all those years ago.
