Rookie Mistake (21 page)

Hyatt Regency

Miami, FL

I’m rooming with Colt. That’s something.

It’s not uncommon for younger guys to bunk together. I was lucky to have my own room that night in Louisiana when Sloane came to stay with me. I haven’t had my own space since, but I’ve never doubled up with Avery before. He and Tyus are tight, buddies since the start of their careers. They know they’re going to have to share space with someone so they ask that it be with each other. Tyus is out this week, though. He’s back in California nursing a concussion compliments of the Broncos defensive line. I drilled two thirty-yard passes into their end zone to thank them for it. We won the game, 30-20.

Fuck the Broncos.

“What’s your naked policy?” Colt asks me.

I pause, eyeing him as he walks across the room with his toiletry bag in hand. “I don’t want to see your dick.”

“But my ass is okay?”

“I’m not excited about it, but yeah.”

He chuckles. “You’re the first person to tell me that.”

“What’s Tyus’ policy?”

“We let it all hang out. We’re brothers, Trey. Brothers share everything.”

“Yeah, well, I’m an only child. I don’t share shit.”

“You and Matthews should be bunking together. You could draw a line down the center of the room and sit on your beds in silence.”

“As long as he’s dressed, I’d be fine with that.”

“You’re lame, Domata, but I like you!” he calls from the bathroom. “You remind me of my grandma.”

“I’m younger than you, asshole!”

“You’d never know it listening to you.”

He closes the door, kicking the shower on. This is probably my best shot at privacy.

I go to the window across the room and dial Sloane’s cell. She picks up immediately.

“I was starting to worry you fell asleep,” she teases.

“I’m in a room with Colt this trip. I had to wait for him to go to the bathroom.”

“How long do you have?”

“Not long. He’s in the shower.”

“Okay, we’ll be quick. I need Tish’s full name.”

I lower my voice, turning to face the window. “Patricia Leighton.”

“What state is her driver’s license most likely issued out of?”

“Minnesota.” I clench my jaw, feeling my anxiety start to rise. “I’ll call her. I have her number.”

“You absolutely will not call her,” Sloane replies sternly. “Delete her number from your phone. You don’t know her anymore, do you hear me?”

“I have to do something. She’s blackmailing me, for fuck’s sake,” I hiss angrily.

“I know that, and I’m taking care of it.”

“If this gets out my endorsements will dry up.”

“And if you call her, you’ll only add fuel to their fire. Leave it alone. Let me put it out.”

“You mean passenger.”

“Don’t you trust me to drive yet?”

I groan, or growl, closing my eyes. “Yeah, I trust you.”

“Then let me do my job. Did Tish graduate with you?”

“No, this is her senior year.”

“Perfect.”

“Why is that a good thing?”

“Because she’s still in town. It also means I have leverage.”

“What are you gonna do?”

Sloane sighs, and I can almost see her sitting back in her chair behind her desk, all of Los Angeles glowing in the evening light at her back. “I’m running background checks tonight. Tish I’m pretty sure I can reason with, but David is a loose cannon. He’s desperate and angry. I’ll have to find something solid on him.”

“Solid like illegal?”

“Exactly, and if he’s willing to blackmail you like this, I’m guessing it’s not his first offense. I’ll find something on him. Don’t worry.”

“Are you going to threaten him?”

“Do you not want me to?”

“I want to beat his ass.”

Sloane chuckles. “Let’s try reasoning with him first. Save your hand for the Dolphins.”

I let my head fall forward against the cold glass between me and the city. It’s warm on the other side. Sultry hot and sweaty in the city. There are bodies out there. Beautiful bodies, tanned and toned, looking for fun. I could burn this anxiety from my system. I could pull in girls with Colt like fish from the overabundant ocean just outside the door. It’d be easy. It’d be relaxing, exactly what I need.

So what’s stopping me?

“Trey?”

“I miss you,” I tell her bluntly, surprising us both. “I wish you were here for this one.”

“You’re stressed,” she acknowledges evenly. Unemotionally.

“It’s not that.”

“Be real. It’s a little bit that.”

“Okay, yeah, it’s a lot that, but it’s you too. Doesn’t that count for something?”

She pauses, leaving my heart hanging in the air. Waiting.

“It counts for a lot,” she answers softly.

“Tell me you miss me too.”

“I miss you too.”

“Tell me you wish you were here with me.”

“I wish I was there with you. I wish I could make things easier for you.”

“How?” I demand, my blood and body rising. “Tell me how?”

“I’d lay with you. Just lay with you, that’s all.”

I smirk. “We’re not very good at that.”

“No, but when we manage it, it’s amazing.”

“What do you smell like?” I ask suddenly.

She laughs. “What?”

“Is it perfume?”

“I don’t wear perfume.”

“But you smell like something. Almost like a dude.”

“Oh, I know what you mean. It’s my deodorant.”

“What is it?”

“Old Spice.”

“You wear men’s deodorant?” I chuckle.

“I like the way it smells,” she replies, unimpressed with my reaction.

I love that about her; how unapologetic she is. How totally comfortable in her sweet, soft skin she is.

“I like the way it smells on you.”

“Thank you.” Her phone shuffles, a voice coming over the line indistinct and unfamiliar. “Hey, Trey, I gotta go. We’re getting some traction on that background check on David. I need to go over it and get a game plan in place.”

“Ok, but first tell me what you’re wearing.”

“No.”

“What color is your bra? Is it that white one with the lace?”

“No.”

“The black one with the pink edges?”

“Yes.”

“I love that one.”

“I know you do.”

“What about your underwear? Pink or black?”

Sloane coughs quietly. “I really have to go.”

“Pink or black?” I insist.

“Neither.”

“Since when do you not match?”

She sighs impatiently. “Since I left them at home.”

“Fuck you,” I groan. “You’re not wearing any underwear?”

“Goodnight, Trey.”

“Don’t hang up on me.”

“Sweet dreams,” she coos softly.

The heartless bitch hangs up on me.

October 2nd

Venetian Apartments

Los Angeles, CA

Tish is living in an apartment off campus. Her phone number isn’t listed, but I wasn’t going to call it anyway. What I have in mind happens face to face. There’s no other way.

I dress carefully before I go to visit her. I get into the back of my closet, digging out a large, expensive purse, big jewelry that sparkles with money, a pair of high heels I wouldn’t be caught dead in at work. But they’re designer so they matter now. They’ll matter to her, because you intimidate a man by being bigger than him. Louder. Faster. To intimidate a woman, you have to be prettier. Richer. Bitchier.

I park my Mercedes in front of her building where she can plainly see it and I make a show of locking it three times, the horn honking every time. My wrist jingles with the Tiffany charm bracelet that reminds me obnoxiously of my mother as I click my way up the stairs to Tish’s apartment. My hand feels heavy with the rock of a ring on my finger, but it’s all part of the show. It’s intimidation for women the way flexing is for men. It’s petty and it’s stupid, but it’s the game and no one could ever accuse me of not knowing how to play it.

Tish opens the door slowly when I knock. She’s about my height. Slender. Small chest, narrow hips, but gorgeous eyes and rich auburn hair. She has an oval face that’s open yet suspicious. She looks me over from head to toe, her lip curled back slightly in disgust.

She hates me at first sight. It’s exactly what I wanted from her.

I smile brightly, offering her my hand. “Hi. Are you Tish?”

“Yeah,” she replies reluctantly, taking my hand. “Who are you?”

“Sloane Ashford, of the Ashford Agency. I’m Trey Domata’s agent.”

She pulls her hand back immediately, shaking her head. “I don’t want to talk to you. I don’t
have
to talk to you.”

“No, you don’t. You’re right. I’m not a cop and I’m not a lawyer, but I am a friend.”

Tish snorts. “I doubt that.”

“Give me ten minutes of your time and I’ll change your mind.”

“Why should I?”

“Because I need to know what really happened.”

“I’m sure Trey told you that nothing happened.”

“Mr. Domata has told me that he had a sexual relationship with you. He downplayed it, saying it was on and off. Nothing important. I doubt that’s the truth, though. I want to hear your side of the story.”

She narrows her eyes at me suspiciously. “You’re calling your client a liar?”

I smile again, turning on the high beams. “I assume they all are. It comes with the territory. Do you have any idea how often cases like this come up? It’s, like, half my job. And between you, me, and the sea, most of them settle quietly. They’d be stupid not to.”

Tish hesitates, looking me over again. Finally she opens the door a little wider to let me in. “Ten minutes. Like you said.”

“Ten minutes,” I agree easily, gliding into the room. It’s small and simple. Battered furniture covered in soft blankets. Ikea vases on Ikea furniture with unpronounceable names, built despite indecipherable instructions. Definitely a college apartment but touched with those delicate feminine colors and accents that I so carefully avoid. I almost envy how cozy the place feels. How well it matches Tish in every way.

“Cute place,” I tell her honestly.

“Thanks.”

We sit down on mismatched couches with a small white coffee table between us. I set my massive bag down by my feet, pulling my phone out of the side pocket.

“I’m going to record this, if that’s okay with you,” I tell her, already bringing up the app.

“Why?”

“For my own records but also to play back for Mr. Domata. You’d be amazed how honest a man gets when faced with reality. It’ll make the entire process go much more smoothly. I’ll record my discussion with him as well and send you the file if you want.”

“No, that’s… Yeah. I guess I should hear it, right?” she asks uncertainly.

I nod seriously. “Absolutely.”

“Okay then.”

I take that as my approval. I hit record.

“Can you state your full name for me please?”

She crosses her legs, pulling her body away from the phone. “Patricia Leighton.”

“Patricia Leighton here in her apartment with myself, Sloane Ashford. And you’ve agreed to this interview as well as this recording?”

Her brow pinches with concern. “I guess so, yeah.”

“Yes or no, please?”

“Yes. I agreed.”

“Great.” I pull a notepad and pen out of my purse, dropping them down on the table between us. “Since we’re on a time limit here, let’s get right to it. You and Trey Domata dated?”

“Yeah, we did,” she agrees before adding quickly, “but he’ll say we didn’t.”

I scrunch up my nose in disgust. “Isn’t that always the way? They’re in it when it’s happening but after it’s over suddenly they have amnesia.”

Her brow slackens slightly. “Yeah. Yeah, exactly.”

“So, when was the last time you and Mr. Domata had sex?”

“Wh-what?”

“The last time you had sex.” I click my pen expectantly. “When was it?”

“I don’t know.”

“You don’t know?”

“No.”

“When was the abortion?”

“Uh, in April.”

I make a note on my pad. “Early or late?”

“Early or late in the month?”

“Yes.”

“Late, I guess.”

“You guess?”

“I don’t remember the exact day. It was kind of awful,” she answers bitingly. “I’ve tried to forget it.”

“Did he go with you?”

“Did he go with me to the clinic?”

“For the abortion, yes.”

“No. He gave me the money for it but he never showed his face.”

“How much?”

“How much did the abortion cost?”

I cock my head to the side. “Are you having that much trouble hearing me? You’re repeating everything I say.”

Her brow tightens again. “I can hear you.”

“Alright, then how much did the abortion cost?” I ask, enunciating clearly.

She shrugs. “A few hundred.”

“A… few… hundred…” I mumble to myself, making notes on the pad. “How far along were you?”

“How far along—“ Tish catches herself when I look up at her sharply. She licks her lips. “I was about two months along.”

“Two months along at the end of April, so the last time you had sex with Mr. Domata would have been somewhere near the end of February, correct?”

“Yeah. That sounds right.”

“According to Mr. Domata, you had sex the day before the Combine. February 28th.”

“That’s it,” she agrees, her eyes lighting up as the facts fall into place. “That was the time.”

“He says he used a condom.”

She smirks. “Which time?”

“Every time,” I answer coolly, unimpressed with her sudden swagger. “He says he always used a condom with you and every girl he had sex with to avoid exactly the situation you’re describing. How do you respond to that?”

“I—uh, I don’t know. He’s lying.”

“One of you is.” I click my pen shut, pulling a folder out of my bag. “This is a copy of Mr. Domata’s financial records all through his college career. At no point did he have ‘a few hundred dollars’ to spare. His scholarship paid for his housing, his school, his books, and a small stipend to live on, and when I say ‘small’ I absolutely do mean small. It was a struggle sometimes for him to get by, but he was used to that.” I pull out another folder, flopping it open in front of her. “These are his parent’s financials during that same time period. Not an extra dime in the mix. There were days when they didn’t have two pennies to rub together let alone money to burn on the unexpected outcome of their son’s dalliances. So where would Mr. Domata have gotten this money?”

She shakes her head, her mouth opening and closing. “His friends, I guess. He has some rich friends.”

I pull out another folder. And another. These are thicker than the others, each labeled with the name of one of Trey’s inner circle. “These are the financials of every person close to Mr. Domata over the last two years. They’ve all offered up their records in support of Mr. Domata because not one of them believes your story. Not one of them has ever heard him speak of a pregnancy or abortion in the time they’ve known him.”

Her eyes bulge. “You told people here at the school about it?”

“I told them about the accusations. I didn’t tell them who was making them. Not yet.”

“Not yet?” she shrieks.

I sit forward calmly. “Listen, Tish, and listen closely. Trey Domata didn’t have the money for an abortion. His parents didn’t have it either. His friends didn’t give it to him. So you tell me, where did he get it? This is a breaking point in your story, so you better get it right. Where did he get the money?”

“The school,” she blurts out angrily. “He got it from the school.”

I close my eyes, shaking my head slowly. This is where I was leading her, this is what I wanted, but I’m disappointed in her for following me. Some small part of me had hoped she was smarter than that.

When I open my eyes, I reach out to stop the recording. I’m surprised to see that I have three missed texts, but I ignore them for now.

“Tish,” I scold quietly, “you are going to want to rethink everything you’re doing here today.”

“Of course you’d say that. You’re Trey’s agent.”

“I’m not telling you that as his agent. I’m telling you as someone who lives in this world and has seen how it works. You do not want to go forward with this story.”

“Why not?”

“Because you’re not accusing Trey of being a dick anymore. Now you’re accusing the University of California, Los Angeles of gross misconduct. You’re involving the NCAA, bringing them to UCLA’s doorstep to scour through their program looking for any wrong doing. It’ll be a shitstorm. It just got so much bigger than you planned and there will be no way to keep your name and face out of it. Trey isn’t going to pay your blackmail. I’ll tell you that right now upfront. So you’ll have to go forward with this story. You’ll have to tell the world that UCLA funded your abortion and open up both yourself and the school to investigation. They’ll want rock hard proof that it actually happened. Medical records. An ultrasound showing you were pregnant. A report from your doctor confirming the pregnancy.”

“They can’t ask for my medical records!”

“They’ll subpoena them, and if you won’t produce them, if you can’t prove that what you’re saying is the truth, then they’ll sue you, and I guarantee you, you will not make enough money selling your story to the tabloids to cover the legal costs you’ll incur fighting that lawsuit. You’re David going against Goliath and you don’t have a stone to throw.”

She looks at me with anger and fear in her eyes. True desperation that makes me wonder why she was doing this in the first place. She wasn’t committed to it. She didn’t even have her story straight when she sat down to talk to me, so why? Why was she going along with this?

Tish’s eyes brim with tears as she looks away, her lower lip trembling. “I was in love with him,” she whispers. “I was so in love with him. And I tried to get over him because I knew he didn’t love me, he doesn’t love anybody, but I couldn’t. Every time he came over I hoped it would be to stay. I hoped he’d change his mind, but he never did.” She wipes angrily at her cheek where a tear has escaped. “Then he got drafted and he graduated and I never heard from him again. Just like that. Poof. We weren’t even friends. I was just something to fuck.”

Her voice cracks, her face crumbling as the tremor in her lips becomes a full scale quake intent on reducing her façade to rubble in her hands. I want to reach for her but I doubt it’d help. She doesn’t want comfort from me or anyone. She doesn’t even want revenge, not really. I don’t think she knows what she wants. Maybe for it to stop hurting. Maybe it’s as simple as that.

“I’m very sorry,” I tell her softly. “I can imagine how much that hurts.”

“Yeah,” she chuckles bitterly. She sniffs, wiping at her eyes with both hands. “It sucks.”