The Play

A strangled cry bursts out, courtesy of Bucky, followed by a widespread hush that lends a spooky air to the room.

I feel like the wind was just knocked out of me. Pablo’s been a part of us for so long that I don’t even know what to say. My teammates’ stunned faces confirm they feel the same way.

Coach Jensen crosses his arms. “Congratulations, you passed the absurd task I didn’t want to assign or think you’d remember to carry out. But—” His voice becomes gruff. “—you all showed some real teamwork and responsibility passing that egg around. And I’m a man of my word—I spoke to the dean and he said we might be able to make something happen with the pig.”

Bucky looks ecstatic. “Seriously? We get the pig? Guys, we did it.”

“Pablo the Pig,” Jesse says slowly. “Doesn’t have the same ring to it. We need a new name.”

“Pablo Pigscobar,” Conor and I blurt out in unison, then turn to each other, grinning.

“Oh Jesus,” Matt says with a wail of laughter. “That’s it, everybody stop talking. Nothing you say could ever top that.”

The rest of the team is cackling their asses off. Even Coach’s lips are twitching. But then he claps his hands to signal that Happy Time is over, and everyone resumes getting ready.

I’m about to slide my chest protector over my head when my phone buzzes. I peer into my locker to see an incoming call from Garrett.

“Hey Coach,” I call out. “Your favorite child Garrett Graham is on the line. Mind if I take this?”

He glances at the clock. We have thirty minutes before the puck drops. “Yes, but make it fast, Davenport. And tell him that was a brilliant play at the end of the third during yesterday’s game against Nashville.”

“Will do.” The locker room’s too damn loud, so I step out into the hallway, where I nod at the security guard standing there. Briar takes the protection of its athletes seriously.

“G,” I answer, raising the phone to my ear. “What’s up?”

“Hey, glad I caught you. I was worried you’d already shut your phone off.”

“Aw. Calling to wish me good luck?”

There’s a snort in my ear. “Nah, you don’t need it. BU doesn’t stand a chance.”

Damn right they don’t. They’ve been our toughest competitor this year, but I’m confident we can beat them. Granted, I would’ve preferred playing a softer opponent. Like Eastwood College, who, just as I suspected, couldn’t pull their shit together despite their amazing goalie. Kriska can stop a thousand goals, but it won’t help if his forwards aren’t scoring any on the other net.

“Anyway, I’m with Landon in his office right now. He’s headed for LA tonight and will be gone for two weeks, but he wanted to touch base with you before he leaves.”

“Landon?” I have no clue who G is talking about.

“Landon McEllis? My agent—but that word isn’t allowed to be spoken right now, so pretend I never said it. In fact, we’re not having this conversation at all, okay?”

“Okay? Why are you calling exactly?”

“Because I was just talking to Demi and she said you were hoping to sign with a franchise after graduation.”

I almost drop the phone. “What?” When the hell did he speak to Demi?

“Yeah, she and I spoke at length about it. She was wondering if you’d need an agent in order to do that, and I explained that technically you can’t have an agent while you’re in an NCAA program. But I was with Landon when she called, and he wanted to have a quick chat with you. Just remember—this conversation ain’t happening.”

I understand his need for secrecy. NCAA athletes aren’t allowed any contact with sports agents. Even guys who’ve already been drafted are required to officially end their player-agent relationship for the duration of their college careers.

That’s the official party line, anyway. In every sport, there’s a fair bit of shadiness behind the scenes. But it’s important to be careful.

“I’m putting you on speaker now,” Garrett says. “Cool?”

“Sure.” I’m still a tad dazed.

“Hunter, hey. This is Landon McEllis.”

“Hello, sir.”

“Can it with the sir stuff—call me Landon.” He chuckles. “Listen, when G mentioned you might be in the market for an agent next year, I just about jumped out of my chair and dove for the phone.”

Damned if that doesn’t puff up my chest a little.

“I wanted to introduce myself,” he goes on. “Unofficially, of course.”

I try not to laugh. “Of course.”

“And I won’t beat around the bush—you’re one of the top college players in the country. If you’re interested in going pro, I can put together a deal for you without even lifting a pinky.”

“Really?” I know it’s far easier for the eighteen- and nineteen-year-old guys to land somewhere big. But I’ll be twenty-two when I graduate. Yup, I’m getting up there in my years, an old man at the current age of twenty-one. But athletic careers have short life spans.

“Absolutely. And look, I can’t sign you right now, and we can’t speak again after tonight. But I just wanted to gauge your interest, find out which other agents you might be considering.”

“I’m not considering other agents,” I admit. Hell, I didn’t expect to hear from this agent. I don’t know whether to be pissed at Demi’s interference, or eternally grateful for it. I could get in trouble with the university if anyone found out Landon and I were even having this conversation.

“Then you’re interested,” he says.

“Definitely.” Even if I had a dozen agents knocking on my door, Landon McEllis would still be at the top of the list. His client roster is staggering, and Garrett’s said nothing but good things about him.

“Perfect, then we’re on the same page.” He chuckles again. “I’ll touch base with you next year.”

“Sounds great. Thank you, sir—Landon.”

“Kick ass tonight,” Garrett’s voice chirps in my ear. “I’ll talk to you later.”

“Later, G.” I hang up. Once again I feel winded, as I stand there staring at my phone. Fuckin’ Demi. That woman is literally the best thing that’s ever happened to me.

“Davenport,” booms a deep voice.

The universe has a real sense of humor, because the moment I think about Demi, her father appears like a scary apparition.

I stare in confusion, because either I’m hallucinating it, or that’s actually Marcus Davis at the other end of the hall.

A second security guard is preventing him from entering. The university started taking more precautions after one too many troublemakers snuck into the team locker rooms. It never happened in my day, but Dean said that when he was a freshman, a rival team smuggled in a duffel full of chocolate syrup containers and sprayed the brown sauce all over our locker room. When the Briar players showed up before the game, they thought there was actually diarrhea dripping down the walls.

“Hey, it’s okay,” I call to the guard. “I know him.”

The guard steps aside, and Dr. Davis comes stalking toward me in all his terrifying glory. Jeez, he is a big man. Ironically, he’s only two, maybe three inches taller than me, but he’s built like Dwayne the Rock Johnson, and looks twice my size. It boggles the mind that this enormous man spends his days performing delicate surgeries in an operating room. But never judge a book by its cover, right?