“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?
“Hello, sir.” I brace myself for his response—I suspect it won’t be pleasant. I haven’t seen him since our very short, very awkward brunch back in January, when he made his dislike for me crystal clear.
“It’s time we have a talk,” Dr. Davis retorts. “Man to man.”
I swallow a sigh. “I would love to do that, sir, but I’ve got a game starting in about twenty minutes. Maybe we could postpone this until tomorrow?”
“No. We can’t. I take matters regarding my daughter very seriously.”
“So do I,” I say simply. “She means a lot to me.”
“Does she? Is that why you’re encouraging her to throw her future away?” Ice hardens his tone, and his harsh features are even more forbidding when he’s pissed.
Evidently Demi’s trip to Boston didn’t go as well as she’d hoped.
“She’s not throwing her future away,” I reply in a careful tone. “She’s staying in the same field, just taking a different direction to get there.”
“Do you know how much a psychiatrist makes on average? Over two hundred K annually. Two seventy-five, on the top end. Want to compare that to a clinical psychologist? Or better yet, a run-of-the-mill therapist? There’s one of those on every street corner.”
“Demi doesn’t care about money. And she doesn’t want an MD. She wants to get a doctorate.”
“Look, son, where do you get off dictating my daughter’s life choices?”
“I’m not dictating her life choices. If anything, she’s the dictator in our relationship.” I can’t help but snort. “Have you met your daughter? She’s the bossiest person on the planet.”