After driving Knox to the airport, I stop by Ara’s apartment.

“Sorry, she’s not here,” Fleur says apologetically. “And no, I don’t know where she is. She said she needed to finish her paper and disappeared.”

I scrape a frustrated hand over my face, but hold in my angry words. It’s not Fleur’s fault that Ara’s acting like a scared rabbit.

“She’ll come around,” Fleur tries to reassure me. “Be patient.”

“I leave for the combine in five days,” I remind her.

“She’ll be back soon. I promise.”

I leave then, but when I return the next day, Ara’s conveniently gone. The day after is the same and my patience is gone.

“Are you hiding her from me?” I slap my hand against the door.

“No!” Fleur jumps out of my way. “I don’t know where she is. She texted me and said she was okay and not to worry.”

“Well, I am worried,” I seethe. I stalk to Ara’s bedroom, but it’s the same as when I left to go see Knox. Damn him for coming at such an inconvenient time.

“She’ll come around. She just doesn’t want to lose you.”

“Funny way she has of showing it. Text me when she comes home,” I order as I walk to the front door.

“I can’t do that,” Fleur protests.

“Why not?”

“Because that would violate the girlfriend code. Not to mention the roommate code.”

I stare at Fleur in disbelief.

She crosses her arms defensively. “I’m sorry, but you need to work it out with her directly.”

“What the hell do you think I’m trying to do by coming here every morning?” I explode.

“Stop shouting,” Fleur cries.

“Sorry.” I run a frustrated hand through my hair. I can see I’m not getting anywhere with her. Knox would probably laugh his ass off if he could see me now. “Tell her I stopped by.”

“If I feel like it.” Fleur steps back and slams the door in my face.

I decide to go to the training facility to work out. Enough pain and I won’t be dwelling on the fact that Ara’s avoiding me.

Unfortunately, Ace is there wearing a grim expression. I keep my headphones on as a clear sign I don’t want to talk. He ignores my silent cues.

“Have you decided what you’re going to do?”

I pull off my headphones.

“Be agentless?” I suggest, only half joking.

“Sounds dangerous.” He taps a folder against his hand before offering it to me. “Your interview requests are in here.”

His sober tone suggests I’m going to see something I don’t like in there. “Any good endorsements?” I think back to Knox’s offer. “Did I get an offer from another car dealership?”

He doesn’t answer. I flip it open and scan the contents.

“This is it, huh?” There are only three. A few weeks ago, I had a couple hundred.

Ace hesitates and then says, “The car dealership decided to go with the lady who won the state fair pie-baking contest.”

I’m too surprised to respond. He slaps me on the back. “That endorsement deal was too small for you anyway. There’s still some media interested. It might make some sense to do them, even though the outlets are small.”

“Ridgewood Elementary School?” I read in disbelief.

Ace grimaces. “Maybe not that one.”

I shove the piece of paper back into the folder and slap it shut. “Forget it. The media has moved on. Why stir up shit now?”

My scandal has been superseded by Carlysle Miller, whose hoverboard exploded. That wouldn’t have been problematic but for the fact that he was on it, smoking a joint. He’s still getting an invite to the draft. At 6’ 5”, the wide receiver is too fast and too big for teams to overlook, but the shock jock radio personalities are having a field day. A couple of years ago, a player fell from number one to number thirteen due to a weed scandal.

“Feel bad for Miller,” Ace says.

“Yup.” While I don’t wish bad press on anyone, I can’t lie that I’m not a little relieved that the focus isn’t on me.

“Take this then.” He hands me a pink-colored piece of paper. “Bryant made out a list of agents you might want to talk to.”

Reluctantly, I tuck paper away.

“Need me to set up some tackling dummies?”

“Nah. I’m just gonna do some lifting.” But I don’t even get out of the locker room before my parents call.

I knew it was coming, but I was dreading it. I drape my towel around my neck and answer.

“Ty! We just heard the news. Are you okay?” Mom worries.

“Of course. It’s no big deal.”

“I saw the articles about that Rhyann girl. What is going on?”

Of course Mom is more concerned about the girl than Dana. “It’s nothing, Ma. She wasn’t happy because I couldn’t spend enough time with her and I guess she decided to take it out online. I saw her just the other day with another guy so she’s not broken up about it.”

“But what about all these things she said? They’re all over the Twitters.”

I rub a tired hand over my face. “It’s nothing. I don’t think it matters to anyone anymore.” Although, given the rapid decline of interview requests, maybe it has.

“Still. It's not good. Maybe your dad and I should fly out.”

“No,” I say sharply. Then, because I love my mom and don’t want to hurt her feelings, I try for a more moderate tone. “I’m working out and focused on getting ready for the combine. It’s less than a week away.”

“All right. If you say so. Hold on, though, because your dad wants to chat with you.” She hands off the phone and I can hear her tell him to not badger me.

Great.

“What’s going on, son?”

“Just some nonsense. Nothing really.”

“For being nothing, it’s made a lot of press.”

Amazing how your parents can still make you feel small and immature even when you're twenty-three.

“I’m sorry.”

“It’s not me you should be apologizing to. It’s your mother. She’s been fretting all morning.”

And guilty. They make you feel real guilty. “I am sorry. Give her the phone back and I’ll tell her that.”

“I want to know what you’re going to do about Dana. You know I never liked him.”

“At the time, he was the best pick for me. He did sign the biggest rookie deals last year.”

“Other than your brother’s,” Dad corrects.

Since I don’t have a good response, I remain silent.

“Knox thinks you’re giving the Elam model some serious consideration.”

I shouldn’t be surprised that Knox arrived at that conclusion even though I didn’t say a word about it. That damn twinsense again.

“Maybe.” A few years ago, Matt Elam was the last pick in the first round and he negotiated his contract all by his little ol’ lonesome. “The collective bargaining agreement makes it easy, I suppose,” I say. The CBA basically sets what a player gets based on where they are drafted. The only variable is the signing bonus. In the NFL, the signing bonus is the only money that is guaranteed, and for players who will average five years in the pros, that can be very meaningful.

“I’m still figuring it out. There’ll be agents at the combine,” I tell my dad.

“You should have an agent before then. You need someone whispering in the ears of management on your behalf.”

“I’ll figure it out, Dad,” I insist.

This time it’s his turn to grapple with his temper. “You’re so damn stubborn.”

“Gee, I wonder where I get that.”

He snorts and we move on to other things, such as taking a family trip together to Cancún before training camp starts.

After he hangs up, I reluctantly pull the pink slip from my pocket. I’m not one to shy away from conflict. I’ve always felt it’s better to face it head-on so I might as well start calling agents.

I start with the biggest firm. Joe Schwartzenbach’s firm handled twenty-three clients in last year’s draft. If I went with him, I’d be one of the herd. On the flip side, it’s a firm that handles everything from cradle to grave.

I dial him up.

“Joe here,” he answers immediately.

“Hi Mr. Schwartzenbach, it’s Ty Masters. We met after the Championship game. You might’ve heard I’m in the market for a new agent.”

“I have heard that. Tough luck about the Mullen thing.”

“Yeah, I didn’t see it coming.”

“You’re a little disconnected, aren’t you?” Joe says, a tinge of skepticism in his voice as if he thinks I might be feigning my ignorance over Dana’s deals.

“What do you mean?” I want to know what I’m dealing with.

“I know that you kids are advised to stay off social media, but social media is a big part of an athlete’s image. And it’s a place where news is broken on an hourly basis.”

“Is there some scandal attached to my name I don’t know about?” If there was, Remy would’ve told me. Or Ara. She’s got an Instagram account.

“Not so much a scandal but a lot of rumors. Word on the street is that you’re a handful. You have big expectations but aren’t always willing to put in the extra effort.”

“With all due respect, Mr. Schwartzenbach, I have no clue what you’re talking about.”

“May I be blunt?”

“Go ahead.”

“Football isn’t played just on the field anymore. It’s a big business. The athletes I represent share the same vision as I do. We’re a team that’s all working toward the same financial goal.”

“I work out hard every day. I watch what I eat, what I drink. My combine results are going to look better than anyone else’s. No one played better on my side of the ball than me last season.” I’m not comfortable bragging about myself, but if I have to, I will.

Schwartzenbach doesn’t bite. “Look, kid, my plate is full. Why don’t you give Randy Dunne a call? He’s a new agent and would be willing to work with you.” He rattles off the phone number and barely gives me a chance to say goodbye before severing the connection.

I call the next three agents on the list. They all give me the same variation of Schwartzenbach’s refusal. They’re looking for a team player. Athletes these days are personalities, not just grunts on the gridiron.

By the end of the fifth agent giving me the same bullshit about how I’m too challenging to work with, I’ve had enough.

I slam my phone on the bench and stomp into the weight room.

These assholes don’t think I’m good enough because I don’t want to send out stupid cat pictures or record videos of me doing some stupid stunt in hopes it goes viral?

I have to have a Snapchat and an Instagram account? I have to be a fucking personality?

I pound the weights, envisioning all these assholes in front of me. I’m going to the combine and I’m going to break every damn record there. I’ll be faster, stronger, more mentally tough than anyone in the draft pool. And when I sign my own damn multi-million-dollar deal, those agents are going to cry in their bourbon.

At the end, though, my body is tired but my mind is whirling. I need someone to talk to.

I pick up my phone and dial her number. The line clicks.

“Ara?”

“—I can’t come to the phone. Text me. I don’t listen to voicemails.”

Goddammit! I hurl the phone across the room.

If she wanted to be friends so badly, where the fuck is she when I need one?