Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 91065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 91065 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 455(@200wpm)___ 364(@250wpm)___ 304(@300wpm)
We draw a massive crowd.
“This is crazy!” Margot is next to me, pressed into my side as if she doesn’t want to lose me.
I turn to look down at the top of her head, watching as she nervously runs a hand over her hair.
She has it down. It falls in long waves over her shoulders, which are bare because of the white top she’s wearing. It’s not overtly sexy, but it’s tight and clings to her breasts.
I can see cleavage from this angle.
They haven’t opened the line yet, so there’s still a bit of time to chat and tell her how events like this work.
“They don’t last long—we’ve only agreed to be here an hour, so they’ll close the door at seven, and anyone who wasn’t in line won’t be able to meet us.”
She nods in understanding. “It seems like something that will go quickly.”
“Yeah, they do tend to go quickly.”
“Are they always like this?”
“Always like what?”
“You know—full of energy? Loud? Busy?”
It is loud, fans chattering excitedly as they wait, and I can see several of them looking at their watches and phones for the time.
Two more minutes.
I’ll have to take my seat in a few seconds.
“Not always but usually,” I reply, butterflies in my stomach betraying my cool, even tone. We’re part of the hottest team in the league right now, and the fans’ enthusiasm is palpable. It never fails to amaze me.
I shake my hands out. “Jeez, who knew I’d be nervous?”
I play in stadiums full of thousands and thousands of people!
“Here. You might need this, then.” She rises on her toes to kiss me on the cheek.
“That’s all I get?” I flirt, puckering my lips.
Margot rolls her eyes, planting a kiss on my lips before I take my seat.
Behind us is an eight-foot-tall backdrop, twelve feet or so wide, with the team logo in the center. Managers, event coordinators, and building supervisors are among the throng to oversee us. Everyone wants a glimpse. Everyone wants credit.
They move the line-control barriers, and the fans rush forward.
I grin as a young boy clutching a football walks over, his eyes wide as he approaches, clearly in awe of us.
Me.
“Hey, buddy. How are you?”
He stands in front of me, not sure what to do or say. Shy.
“What’s your name?”
“Bryce.”
“Well, Bryce—do you want me to sign your football?”
He nods, still clutching it.
“Want to hand it over?” I wink, taking the ball in one hand and then signing it with a flourish, black Sharpie now permanently attached to my right hand.
Bryce beams as I hand it back, staring at the signature.
And off he goes . . .
Kendrick’s manager does the Lord’s work, keeping the line moving, ushering people along. I’ve met her on several occasions since her office is in downtown Phoenix, and I’m always appreciative of her no-nonsense, no-bullshit attitude, making sure everyone is on task.
If we let everyone have five minutes of our time, we’d be here until midnight.
And speaking of time . . .
With each minute that passes, each interaction becomes a blur—a sea of faces, names, and excited chatter. A sea of autographed photos and posters. Footballs. Some fans come with stories of how we’ve inspired them in their lives, some come with memorabilia.
All of them want a selfie.
This connection with the fans makes every moment being here worthwhile. This is more than just a contractual obligation; it’s a chance to make someone’s day—like young Bryce’s, who couldn’t have been older than twelve—to be a part of something bigger than ourselves. And that, more than the paycheck, is what keeps us coming back to the table.
I want to be me when I grow up.
Ha!
There are no lulls, but Margot appears beside me, resting a hand on one of my shoulders and squeezing. “How we doing? Hungry yet?”
Starving. “Hell yes.”
“Twenty more minutes,” she whispers in my ear before going back to her spot, her presence somehow reassuring.
Yeah, I’m a big boy. I do this shit for a living.
But it’s also . . . nice knowing she’s behind me.
Didn’t realize I would appreciate it the way I am.
We obviously haven’t had the opportunity to speak since I took my seat at the table, but I’m looking forward to grabbing a quick bite on the way back to her place. I can always eat.
It’s still early enough.
Twenty more minutes turns to fifteen.
Fifteen turns to ten.
Eight.
Three.
Then,
The event is over.
The event planner is locking the doors to the room where we’re seated and reintroducing herself to us as Tracy, asking if there’s anything more she can do before we leave.
She shakes our hands.
“Thanks so much for keeping these dipshits in line,” I tell her, tossing a thumb over my shoulder at Kendrick and Dominic, who both take offense, though not really. They’re faking their outrage.
“Dipshits? The fuck, bro!” Kendrick clutches his heart dramatically, shit-eating grin on his handsome face. Damn, he’s a good-lookin’ bastard. “You haven’t even introduced us to your friend here, and you’re throwing us under the damn bus. We want to be invited back. Not cool.”