Free Rookie Mistake by Tracey Ward

sitting up on the bench. “I’m getting ready.”
    “You should be relaxing.”
    “Yeah, I don’t do that very well,” I mumble.
    “I’ll teach you.”
    “You’ll teach him to be a fat ass,” Cummings snaps.
    “He could use some weight on him. Make it harder to sack him.”
    “If you did your job protecting him, he wouldn’t have to worry about being sacked.”
    “He does his job,” I argue. “Remember that girl at the bar? The tall one with the red hair and the… the, uh… shit, what is it called?”
    “A scrunchy,” Defoe reminds me proudly. He remembers.
    I snap my fingers, pointing at him. “Yeah, that’s it. The scrunchy thing with my number on it. She wouldn’t get off my ass all night, and when she licked my ear on the dance floor Defoe was in there, man. He bounced her right out of that bar.”
    “He banged her,” Cummings says, unimpressed with my story.
    “What? No, he didn’t.”
    “He did,” Folk confirms. “In your car.”
    I scowl at Defoe. “You fucked that psycho in my truck?”
    “I got her off your back, didn’t I?” he demands defensively.
    Cummings snorts. “Yeah, and onto hers in his ride.”
    I shake my head in disbelief. “You asshole.”
    “What?” Defoe cries. “She was into it. I told her it was your truck and she got all excited. What was I supposed to do?”
    “The bed or the cab?”
    “Come on, Trey, don’t be pissed.”
    “The bed or the cab?” I repeat clearly.
    His shoulders slump. “The cab.”
    “Asshole.”
    “It was too cold for the bed!”
    “You’re scrubbing my seats. Today.”
    “It’s been months.”
    “I don’t care. You’re doing it.”
    “That truck is a piece of shit anyway. I don’t know why you’re getting so mad. Go buy a new one.”
    “I’m with him on that,” Cummings agrees. “That beast is trash, Trey. You have the money. Go buy a new one.”
    I ignore him and this argument that never ends. They all want me to blow through the money in a matter of hours buying a car, buying a house, buying all new clothes and watches. Folk has been on my ass to get a pimp cane every hour of every day for a week. I’m tempted to buy one just to beat him in the head with.
    What I really want to do is send the money to my parents, at least part of it, but they won’t take anything. It’s driving me crazy. Not cash, not gifts, and not plane tickets to the Draft in two weeks. They said they’ll watch it the way they watched the Combine – on the TV in the breakroom at the hotel where my mom works the front desk. I’d rather they were here. I’d rather not be alone.
    The guys are always around, but not all of them are graduating with me. Cummings and Folk, they’re sticking around for another year. Defoe is graduating but he isn’t entering the Draft. His career is over, which is probably why he’s parked on the leg press, sitting there like none of this matters, because for him it doesn’t. Once he’s graduated he’s going back home to Texas. The guy has been my family for four years and I’ll probably never see him again.
    I only have one class this term, one class next term just to keep me on campus and eligible for graduation in June. The class is weight training. I’m in it right now. This is me learning.
    This is me leaving.
    I feel lonely. It’s a weird feeling when you’re surrounded by people. When your face is on the cover of magazines, on billboards and websites. It doesn’t seem right that you be alone when the whole world knows your name, but I am. The media makes it more obvious to me, because every time they take my picture who am I with?
    No one.
    “Dude, isn’t that your agent?” Cummings asks, pointing to the TV.
    When I look up I expect to see Sloane, and I’m surprised by how eager I am. I haven’t seen her since Pro Day, and even then it was only for a minute. She gave me a hug that caught me off guard, told me I’d be great, and disappeared into the crowd of coaches. I saw her later walking