Barry me followed me back up the stairs, talking the whole way.
"Yeah, as I was saying, you better get used to suits, Mr. Barlow. Wearing them and dealing with other people who wear them. You're in the big leagues now, kid. Literally."
"Yeah," I called over my shoulder from the bathroom, "but I can play football. As long as I can play football I'm good, right?"
Football players weren't angels. Sure, the NFL cracked down on those who crossed the line, but I was aware of the fact that most of them lived a lifestyle other men our age could only fantasize about.
"You're good as long as that's all you want to do," Barry called back. "But no one just wants to play football. You know that contract you signed? You can easily double that - triple or quadruple it, even - with the right endorsements."
As soon as I was finished showering, the conversation continued. I asked Barry for more details about endorsements. I knew they were a thing - I'd been watching my favorite sports personalities in commercials since I was a little kid - but somehow it hadn't clicked yet that I might be a candidate. A lot of stuff that should have crossed my mind hadn't appeared to - it was probably the situation with my mom - and with Tasha - the distraction and worry of it all, that kept me a little removed from what was happening to me until I actually set foot in Texas.
"I've had inquiries from the sports drink guys, the car guys, you name it. Kaden, you're a good-looking kid. The panties are going to go flying wherever you go, my man. But you also happen to one of the best quarterbacks anyone has seen for a long time. They'll just build a money pipeline straight from their accounts to your backyard and crank that shit all the way to capacity, is what I'm saying."
I put on the suit Barry had brought into the house and looked at myself in the mirror. It fit like a goddamned glove and it made me feel different, too. Like an actual adult rather than an oversized kid. Like I was ready to go out there and take what I needed from the world.
"These endorsements, though," I said to Barry as he drove me to my first interview at the local sports radio station - a warm-up, he called it, before the big national broadcast that night. "I mean, my contract is enough money for fifty lifetimes. Why do I need the endorsements on top of that?"
"You don't need anything on top of it, Kaden. And you're right, it's more money than most of us would even know what to do with but does that mean you just stop there? Why? You're probably going to have a family one day, aren't you? Pretty little wife, a whole mess of kids, all that. This is about the long-term, it's about legacy-building. The more money you make when you're young - and you already know a pro football career isn't exactly long-lasting, and that's if you're lucky enough not to get injured - the more you can do for your future, your family. From where I'm sitting you'd be insane not to talk to these guys. They're all itching to throw money at you. Why not take it?"
I sat back and looked out the window at the unfamiliar scenery passing by in a blur. What Barry was saying made sense. Didn't it?
"I thought you had to agree to all sorts of bullshit with these contracts, though?" I said. "You know, good conduct, that stuff. I just want to live my life. I want to play football and live my life - that's it."
Barry made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "Please. Kaden, these guys know damn well how pro football players live. It's all about keeping it private. Just keep your shit private - and that's something you're going to have to do anyway - there's already paparazzi sniffing around the training ground. They wouldn't care if you fucked their own mothers as long as it never got out."
I had to give it to Barry, he had a way with words.
"Huh," I said. "OK."
"So what should I do? Because some of these guys are calling me ten goddamned times a day. Can I set up some meetings?"
"Yeah," I told him. "Sure."
I got home to the empty mansion that still didn't feel in any way like a home at just past midnight that night, thoroughly exhausted. Doing interviews turned out to be strangely tiring. Not like football, not the kind of tiredness that comes from physical exertion but the kind that comes from mental effort, from having to be 'on.' I'd even heard people talk about being 'on' before and had never really understood what it meant. That was the day I learned. It meant a certain level of affable charm, a smiling enthusiasm in the face of the same questions over and over and over. At least Barry thought I did well. He slapped me on the back after the big national TV interview as soon as the cameras were off and leaned in to whisper in my ear:
"They're going to be fighting to the death over who gets your face on their bullshit sugar water, Kaden. Everyone loves you! Just keep doing what you're doing, young man."