“Yes, Derek, I’m listening.”
He frowns at me. “You sure? I mean, hey, I bet the ginger over there could totally negotiate you a fucking forty-million dollar first-round contract too, buddy.”
I roll my eyes and grin. “Okay, okay, you have my attention.”
“Should I dress up pretty for our next meeting?” Derek says dryly. “You know I’m sure I could find that dress in my size.”
“Please don’t.”
Derek smirks. “May I proceed?”
“Yeah, but back it up. I honestly wasn’t listening.”
Derek sighs and reaches up to stroke his goatee. “Put bluntly, you need to get your shit together, Taylor.”
He scowls at me over the rim of his diet soda, his best “serious manager” face on. It’s a tough look to pull off because Derek is one of those baby-faced guys that has a hard time looking over the age of fifteen, despite the paunch and the thinning hair. It’s also a tough look to pull off when you’re drinking a fucking diet soda with four lemon slices in it.
But of course, it doesn’t stop him from bitching me out like I’m the kid here.
“I’m not fucking around here, man, this is thin-ice territory.”
I roll my eyes at him as I slug back the rest of my whiskey and motion to the bartender for a refill.
“Little early to go nuts, isn’t it?”
I turn and give Derek a look. “Says the man who wanted to have this meeting in a bar.”
“For the low profile, genius,” Derek grumbles, gesturing with his chin at the near-empty hotel bar around us. “Not so you could get loaded.”
“Well,” I grin and thank the bartender before I raise my fresh glass to Derek. “To best laid plans.” He scowls as I take a slug. “Cheers, buddy.”
“You know all of this is about more than getting wasted and getting laid, right?”
I chuckle. “Yes, Derek, I’m aware there’s some football playing involved.”
“Jesus Christ, Austin.” He pulls his glasses away from his face and rubs the bridge of his nose - something he tends to do when I make him play the babysitter role like this.
And I know he’s right, to a degree. I’m aware that at some point I need to shape up, at least a little bit. But the season hasn’t even started yet, and until then, I fully plan on reveling in my new place as a fucking God amongst men.
Or more specifically, amongst women.
Being the star of college ball was one thing. Being the hottest thing to come through Texas football got me laid more than most entire fraternities on Spring Break. But when you’re the biggest thing to hit the goddamn NFL since Super Bowl halftime shows, life gets interesting real fast. Banging college hotties was junior league shit. Sleeping my way through sororities and coeds was practice.
Forty-million dollar contracts and twenty-four hour ESPN coverage is the big leagues. That’s lingerie models and pop stars, crazy shit college coeds have never even fucking heard of. Because let’s be real, when you’re the most talked about quarterback in cable news history, and the number one NFL draft pick at twenty-three years old in this football-obsessed country?
Yeah, you’re basically the second coming of Christ.
Derek hooks his glasses back on his face and shakes his head at me again. “I need you to think long-term, Austin. Think past your next lay once in a while, okay?”
I nod earnestly. “Derek, c’mon. You know I do.”
He raises a brow.
“I’m always thinking past the next lay, to the one after that.”
Derek’s mouth tightens as I chuckle, before he mumbles something and starts to get up.
“Okay! Okay!” I laugh as I grab his arm. “Derek, stay, I’m sorry. I’m listening now.”
He glares at me.
“Scout’s honor, I’m listening.”
He sighs. “I’m talking endorsements, asshole. I’m talking sports drinks, and shoes, and your handsome mug behind the wheel of a Lexus up on a billboard.” He steeples his fingers as he looks at me. “I’m talking money that makes your contract look like pocket change. Sound good?”
Okay, I’m listening.
I nod. “You’ve got my attention.”
“It’s where the real money is, buddy.”
I snort and raise my hands up. “Well? Why aren’t they knocking?”
Derek turns, snagging the gossip magazine lying on the bar, and tossing it at me. “That’s why.”
I grin as I look down at the headline in my hands. It’s two days old, and I’ve of course already seen it, but it’s still making me crack up.
My “shenanigans”, as Derek put it when the story first broke. My “predilections towards fucking my own shit up,” I believe were his exact words. I glance down at the paparazzi shots - then ones of me leaving the club with that girl that night, followed by pictures of my Maserati crashed into the side of that Starbucks on Vine about twenty minutes later.