Chapter 4: The Morning After the Whistle
The first thing Daniel registered was the sound. Not the hum of the minibar or the distant traffic seeping through the hotel's thin walls, but the soft, irregular clatter of keys being struck. Then a pause. Then more clatter. A rhythm as familiar to him as his own heartbeat, though he'd never heard it from this angle—flat on his back, naked and tangled in sheets that smelled like sex and cheap detergent, watching a woman type.
Gray light oozed through the curtains. The room was the color of dirty dishwater, that uncertain hour before dawn fully committed to morning, and the minibar's neon sign—that stupid "OPEN" sign that had buzzed all night—flickered like a strobe in a dive bar. Daniel blinked. His mouth tasted like whiskey and something sweeter. Mary.
Mary sat at the desk. Her back was to him. She wore yesterday's silk shirt—cream, wrinkled, the collar askew—and nothing else. Her legs were crossed at the ankle, her bare feet hooked around the legs of the chair. Her dark curls cascaded down her back in a wild, defiant mess, like they'd been fighting the pins all night and finally won.
She was writing. Her pen tapped against her teeth between sentences, a staccato counterpoint to the clicking keys. The notepad beside her laptop was open to a fresh page, half-filled with her slanted handwriting.
Daniel should have left. She'd told him to leave. Twice.
Instead he watched the morning light paint her silhouette in shades of ash and rose. The curve of her spine. The shape of her shoulders. The way her fingers moved across the keyboard with the same precision she used when she was dismantling a quarterback's mechanics on national television.
He shifted. The sheets rustled. Mary didn't turn around.
"Six-twelve," she said. Her voice was steady, clinical, like she was reading a teleprompter. "I told you to leave."
"You did."
"And yet."
"And yet."
She kept typing. Daniel sat up. The sheet pooled around his waist. His body ached in places he hadn't known existed—his shoulders, his thighs, the scratches she'd left down his back. He remembered those. Remembered the way she'd clawed at him when he fucked her against the wall, her leg hooked over his arm, her breath hot against his ear.
"Writing about me?" he asked.
"Writing about the draft." Her pen tapped again. "You're not the only prospect in the league."
"I'm the only one who fucked you last night."
Mary's fingers paused. Just for a second. Then she resumed typing.
"That remains to be seen," she said. "I haven't finished my evaluation."
Daniel swung his legs over the side of the bed. The carpet was rough under his feet—industrial, the color of oatmeal. He stood up. His body protested. The whiskey bottle on the nightstand caught his eye, half-empty, the amber liquid glowing in the dim light.
"You want coffee?" he asked.
"I want you gone."
"I'll take that as a no."
He walked toward her. The room was small—five steps from the bed to the desk—and by the time he reached her, Mary had stopped typing again. Her back was rigid. Her pen hovered over the notepad.
"Don't," she said.
"Don't what?"
"Don't come any closer."
Daniel reached out. He didn't touch her shoulders, didn't grab her, didn't pin her arms to her sides. He just wrapped his hand around her wrist. Gentle. Firm. She could have pulled away. She didn't.
"Mary," he said.
"No."
"I want to."
"You can't."
"I'm not asking for permission."
She spun the chair around. Her eyes were fierce, her lips pressed into a thin line, and her hair was the kind of wild that belonged on a book cover—some tawdry romance novel about forbidden love and bad decisions. She looked at him. Up and down. Her gaze dragged over his chest, his stomach, his cock, which was already half-hard and getting harder.
"You're a problem," she said.
"I've been called worse."
"I have a deadline."
"I'll be quick."
"You won't."
"No." Daniel smiled. "I won't."
Mary exhaled. A sharp, frustrated breath that tasted like surrender. She turned back to her laptop. Her fingers found the keys. She started typing again—faster now, more erratic.
Daniel didn't ask again.
He grabbed her from behind. Not rough, not gentle—just certain. His hands found her hips, and he lifted her out of the chair. She made a sound, something between a gasp and a curse, but she didn't resist. He bent her over the desk. Her chest hit the cold wood. Her hands shot out to catch herself, knocking over a pen, sending a stack of papers fluttering to the floor.
Her notepad was right there. Open. Half-covered in her neat, slanted handwriting.
Daniel pushed it aside. She reached for it.
"No," he said. "Leave it."
"I was writing."
"Keep writing."
She turned her head. Her cheek pressed against the desk. Her eyes met his—upside down, defiant, still trying to be in control.
"You want me to keep working while you fuck me?"
"Yeah."
"That's obscene."
"You're the one who's still typing."
She stared at him. Her breath came in shallow waves. Her legs shifted—spreading just a little, just enough.
"Fine," she said. "But I'm not stopping."
Daniel reached between her legs. She was already wet. Slick and hot and waiting for him, like she'd been thinking about this since the moment she woke up. He ran his fingers through her folds, slow, deliberate, just to feel her. Just to hear the way her breath hitched.
"Don't," she said again.
"Don't what?"
"Don't tease. If you're going to do this, do it."
Daniel pressed his cock against her entrance. The head slid between her lips, slick with her wetness, and he paused there—just for a second—feeling the heat of her, the tightness, the way her body opened for him like it had been waiting.
Then he pushed inside.
Mary gasped. Her fingernails dug into the edge of the desk. Her spine arched, then flattened, her ass pressing back against him.
"Fuck," she whispered.
"Keep typing."
"You're—" She bit her lip. "You're impossible."
"Keep. Typing."
She turned back to the screen. Her fingers found the keys. Daniel started moving. Slow. Deep. He pulled out until just the tip remained, then buried himself to the hilt. Again. And again. A steady rhythm, measured, deliberate, the kind of pace that made everything last.
Mary's fingers stumbled.
"The—" She cleared her throat. "The quarterback's footwork is—" A pause. A moan she tried to swallow. "Is—"
Daniel thrust harder. The desk creaked. The laptop slid an inch across the wood.
"Is what?" he asked.
"Inconsistent." She managed the word. "His footwork is inconsistent. Under pressure. He—" Another thrust. Another gasp. "He rushes the throw."
"Tell me more."
"I can't—"
"Tell me."
She typed. One letter. Another. The words were coming slower now, her fingers dragging across the keys like they were moving through water.
"He—" Her voice broke. "He has the arm talent, but his mechanics—" Daniel leaned forward. His chest pressed against her back. His lips found her ear.
"Go on," he murmured.
"His mechanics—" She shivered. "Break down when he—when he—" Daniel reached around her. His fingers found her clit. She dropped the pen.
The clatter of plastic against wood was loud in the quiet room. Mary's whole body tightened. Her hips bucked. Her forehead hit the laptop screen, leaving a smudge.
"Fuck," she breathed. "Fuck, fuck, fuck."
Daniel rubbed her clit in tight, deliberate circles. His cock was still buried inside her, stretching her, filling her, and he could feel her walls fluttering around him. She was close. He could feel it. He could feel everything.
"That's it," he said. "Come for me."
"I—"
"Do it."
She did.
Her orgasm hit her like a body blow. She shuddered, clenched, bit her lip hard enough to draw blood. A low, long moan escaped her throat—raw and real, nothing like the polished voice she used on camera. Daniel fucked her through it, hard and fast now, chasing his own release. Three more strokes. Four. Then he was there.
He came inside her. Pulsing, spilling, groaning against her back. His hands gripped her hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh, and for a moment the world went white.
Then he collapsed against her.
Breathing hard. Sweating. His chest heaved against her back, and he could feel her heart pounding through her ribs—or maybe that was his own heartbeat. He couldn't tell anymore.
Mary lay there for a long moment. Her cheek was pressed against the desk. Her fingers were still on the keyboard. The cursor blinked at the end of a half-finished sentence.
Then she moved.
She twisted underneath him, turning until she was facing him. Her hand came up. It connected with his chest—flat, hard, loud. A slap that wasn't about pain. It was about being seen. About being fucked when she'd said no. About the fact that she'd loved every second of it.
Daniel grinned. "That the best you've got?"
"That's the only one you're getting." She grabbed the back of his neck. Pulled him down. Kissed him.
Her mouth was fierce against his. Tasting of wine and regret and something underneath that was softer, warmer, something that felt like the first day of summer after a long winter. Daniel kissed her back. He didn't rush. He didn't try to push the moment further. He just held her there, her bare legs tangled with his, her lips moving against his like she was trying to memorize the shape of his mouth.
When she finally pulled away, her eyes were wet.
"Hey," he said, quiet. "What is it?"
She shook her head. "Nothing."
"You're crying."
"I'm not." She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. "I'm just—" She stopped. Swallowed. "My producer called this morning."
Daniel's whole body went still. "What?"
"She called while you were asleep. I didn't answer." Mary sat up. She reached for her blazer, draped over the back of the chair, and pulled it on. It hung on her like a coat on a hook. "She booked me for the whole draft week. Day one. Day two. The green room. The interviews. All of it."
Daniel watched her. The way she straightened the collar. The way she avoided his eyes.
"You're covering my draft," he said.
"I'm covering all the top prospects." She found her underwear on the floor and pulled it on. "You're one of them."
"You didn't tell me."
"I didn't know." She found her pants. Pulled them on. Didn't bother zipping them. "She called this morning. I told you."
"You told me you weren't sure."
"I wasn't. Now I am."
Daniel sat on the edge of the bed. He ran a hand through his hair. It was damp with sweat. His body was still humming from the sex, but his brain was catching up now, and it didn't like what it was finding.
"So what happens now?" he asked.
"Now?" Mary buttoned her pants. Zipped them. Looked at him—really looked at him—and something in her expression shifted. Hardened. "Now I go to work. And you go to your interviews. And we don't do this again."
"That's not what I asked."
"I know."
"Mary."
She walked toward the door. Her steps were even. Measured. She was professional again, the polish back in place, the armor on.
"If anyone finds out about this," she said, "my career is over. Do you understand that?"
Daniel stood up. He crossed the room, naked, unbothered. He stopped in front of her. Close enough to touch. Close enough to smell her shampoo—something floral, something fading.
"I understand," he said.
"Do you?"
"I understand that you're scared."
Her eyes flashed. "I'm not scared."
"You're terrified." He reached out. Tucked a curl behind her ear. She flinched. She didn't stop him. "You built your whole career on not being like everyone else. Not flattering athletes. Not playing favorites. Not being the pretty face who sleeps with the guys she covers."
"Exactly."
"So if this gets out—"
"If this gets out, I'm done."
Daniel nodded. Slow. Thoughtful. He ran his thumb along her jaw. Felt her shiver.
"Then it doesn't get out," he said.
"It's not that simple."
"It is."
"You don't—" She stepped back. Her voice cracked. "You're twenty-two. You have no idea what you're talking about."
"I know I don't want to stop."
"Daniel—"
"I know I've never met anyone like you." He stepped forward. She stepped back. Her heel hit the door. "I know you see me. The real me. Not the jersey. Not the arm. Me."
Mary's mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"You don't know me," she said.
"I know you were a sprinter."
Her whole body went rigid. "Who told you that?"
"I Googled you."
"Of course you did."
"I know you got injured. Your junior year. Torn hamstring. Ended your career." He watched her face. Watched the way the words landed. "I know you built a new one. A better one. I know you're the best in the business."
"Flattery isn't going to get you anywhere."
"I'm not flattering you." He smiled. The real smile. The one that felt like a confession. "I'm telling you I see you. And I'm not going to pretend I don't."
Mary stared at him. Her hand was on the doorknob. She could leave. She could walk out. She could pretend this never happened, pretend he was just another draft prospect, pretend her body wasn't still trembling from the way he'd fucked her over her own notes.
She didn't.
Instead, she laughed. A real laugh. Short and sharp and surprised out of her like a cough.
"You're a problem," she said again.
"You said that already."
"I'm saying it again."
She reached up. Grabbed his jaw. Pulled his face down and kissed him—hard, fast, the kind of kiss that was about goodbye even when it wasn't.
"Get dressed," she said against his lips. "Get out."
"And then?"
"And then I'll see you at the draft."
She opened the door. The hallway light spilled in—harsh and fluorescent, the color of headache. Daniel squinted. Mary didn't.
"One more thing," she said.
"What?"
"You're not going first overall."
Daniel blinked. "What?"
"Jackson Hines is going first. Carolina loves him. You're going second." She smiled. Real. Sharp. Beautiful. "Better start preparing your speech."
She stepped into the hallway. Pulled the door closed behind her. The latch clicked.
Daniel stood naked in the empty room. The curtains glowed with gray light. The minibar hummed. The laptop screen had gone dark, but the notepad was still there—flung on the floor, open to a page of half-finished notes, one sentence trailing off into nothing.
He picked it up.
Her handwriting. Slanted. Precise. The words she'd been writing while he fucked her.
Quarterback displays elite arm strength, but mechanics deteriorate under pressure. Decision-making remains a concern. Recommend further—
The sentence ended there. A single line trailing down the page like a skid mark.
Daniel smiled. He tore the page from the notepad, folded it, and tucked it into the pocket of his jacket.
Then he got dressed.
He got dressed in the gray light of room 712, his movements mechanical, his mind still stuck on the curl he'd tucked behind her ear. The notepad page crinkled in his jacket pocket. He touched it once, twice, like a talisman, then forced his hand away.
The hallway was empty. The elevator hummed its descent, and Daniel watched the numbers tick down, each floor a reminder that she was somewhere in this building, probably already in a cab, probably already on her phone with her producer, probably already pretending he didn't exist.
He walked out into the parking garage. His truck was where he'd left it—a black Silverado, mud on the tires, a dent in the rear bumper from a post he'd hit sophomore year. He climbed in, started the engine, and sat there with his hands on the wheel.
His phone buzzed.
Not Mary. Bud.
Where the hell are you? Meeting at eight. Don't be late.
Daniel typed back: On my way.
He wasn't.
---
The week passed like a kidney stone.
Monday: interviews at the facility. Scouts with clipboards and dead eyes, asking the same seven questions in different orders. Daniel smiled. Daniel said the right things. Daniel watched the clock.
Tuesday: physical testing. Forty-yard dash. Vertical jump. Three-cone drill. His numbers were good. Not great. He didn't care.
Wednesday: more interviews. A team psychologist asked him to describe his relationship with his father. Daniel said they were fine. The psychologist wrote something down. Daniel wanted to grab the clipboard and read it.
Thursday: Bud called him into his office. The old man sat behind his desk, chewing on a toothpick, looking at Daniel like he was a puzzle with a missing piece.
"You've been quiet," Bud said.
"I'm always quiet."
"No." Bud shook his head. "You're always thinking. There's a difference."
Daniel didn't answer.
"You been sleeping?"
"Enough."
"Eating?"
"Enough."
Bud leaned back. The chair creaked. "You want to tell me what's going on?"
"Nothing's going on."
"Bullshit."
Daniel met his eyes. Held them. "I'm fine, Coach."
Bud stared at him for a long moment. Then he sighed—a long, ragged exhale that seemed to deflate him—and waved his hand toward the door.
"Get out of here," he said. "Go lift something."
Daniel went.
---
Friday night, the bar was loud.
Not The Blind Pig. A different place, closer to campus, the kind of bar where college kids went to forget they were about to graduate and face the real world. Daniel sat in a corner booth with Marcus Webb, his backup quarterback, and Terrence "T-Bone" Jackson, his left tackle. They were drinking cheap beer and arguing about whether the Jets or the Giants had the worse offensive line.
"You're crazy," Marcus said. "The Jets haven't had a real O-line since Ferguson retired."
"The Giants gave up forty-seven sacks last year," T-Bone countered. "Forty-seven. That's not a line. That's a turnstile."
Daniel laughed. It felt foreign in his mouth.
"You've been weird all week," Marcus said, turning to him. "What's up with you?"
"Nothing."
"That's what you keep saying." Marcus leaned closer. "But you've got that look."
"What look?"
"The look you get when you're hiding something." Marcus grinned. "You meet somebody?"
Daniel's hand tightened around his beer. "No."
"Liar."
"I'm not lying."
"You're a terrible liar."
"I'm a great liar. I'm a quarterback."
T-Bone snorted. "He's got a point."
Marcus shook his head. "Fine. Don't tell us. But whoever she is, she's got you twisted."
Daniel didn't answer. He finished his beer and ordered another.
---
Saturday.
The party was at a house off Fraternity Row—a sprawling brick monstrosity with a wraparound porch and a lawn that had been trampled into mud. Daniel didn't want to go. He went anyway.
The music was loud. The beer was cheap. The air smelled like sweat and perfume and something vaguely floral that reminded him of Mary's shampoo. He pushed that thought down.
He found a spot near the keg and stayed there, nursing a red cup, watching the crowd. Girls in tight dresses. Guys in polos with their collars popped. Everyone drunk, everyone laughing, everyone pretending they weren't terrified of what came next.
"You're Daniel Whitmore."
He turned.
She was blonde. Tall. Legs for days. A cheerleader—he could tell from the way she held herself, the confidence, the sparkle in her eyes. She wore a tight white dress that barely covered her ass and heels that made her almost his height.
"Yeah," he said. "I am."
"I'm Amber." She smiled. "I've watched all your games."
"Thanks."
"You're even better looking in person."
Daniel took a drink. "You're not bad yourself."
Amber stepped closer. Her perfume was sweet—vanilla and something else, something sharp. She put her hand on his chest. Right over his heart.
"I've wanted to meet you for a long time," she said.
"Why?"
"Because you're going to be famous." Her fingers traced a slow circle. "And I want to be able to say I knew you before."
Daniel looked at her. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. Perfect teeth. She was beautiful. She was willing. She was here.
She wasn't Mary.
"Come upstairs," Amber said.
"Why?"
"Because I want you to."
Daniel finished his beer. Set the cup down. "Okay."
---
The bedroom was small. A twin bed. Posters on the wall—some band he didn't recognize, some movie he'd never seen. The sheets were rumpled. The window was open. The music from downstairs thumped through the floor like a heartbeat.
Amber closed the door. Locked it.
Daniel stood by the bed.
She walked toward him. Slow. Deliberate. The same way Mary had walked toward him in the hotel room. The same click of heels. The same hungry eyes.
"You nervous?" she asked.
"No."
"Good." She reached for his belt. "Because I'm not."
She unbuckled it. Unzipped his pants. Pulled them down. His boxers followed. His cock was half-hard already, and she wrapped her hand around it, stroking him slowly.
"Jesus," she breathed. "You're big."
"I've been told."
She knelt. Took him in her mouth.
Daniel closed his eyes. It felt good. Wet and warm and tight. She knew what she was doing—her tongue worked the underside of his shaft, her hand cupped his balls, her head bobbed in a steady rhythm.
But it wasn't enough.
He opened his eyes. Looked down at her. Blonde hair. Blue eyes. She wasn't Mary.
"Stop," he said.
Amber pulled off. Looked up at him. "What?"
"I want to fuck you."
She smiled. Stood up. Pulled her dress over her head. She wasn't wearing a bra. Her tits were perfect—round and full and tan. She hooked her thumbs into her underwear and pulled it down.
"Sit on the bed," she said.
Daniel sat.
Amber climbed onto his lap. Straddled him. Her cunt pressed against his cock, wet and ready. She reached down, guided him inside her, and sank down.
"Fuck," she whispered.
Daniel grabbed her hips. She started moving. Slow at first, then faster. Her tits bounced. Her head fell back. She moaned, loud and long, and Daniel fucked her from below, his hips driving up into her.
"Harder," she said.
He gave her harder.
The bed creaked. The headboard hit the wall. Amber's nails dug into his shoulders. She was tight—not as tight as Mary, but tight enough—and she was wet, dripping down his cock, making a mess of both of them.
"Don't stop," she panted. "Don't fucking stop."
Daniel didn't stop.
He flipped her onto her back. Spread her legs. Fucked her deep—the kind of deep that made her gasp and claw at the sheets. Her eyes rolled back. Her mouth fell open. She was close. He could feel it.
"Come," he said.
She did.
Her body arched. Her cunt clenched around him. She screamed—a high, sharp sound that cut through the music—and Daniel fucked her through it, chasing his own release.
Two more strokes. Three. Then he pulled out.
He came on her stomach. Hot ropes of white painting her skin. She gasped, surprised, but didn't complain. Just lay there, breathing hard, watching him with glassy eyes.
"That was—" She swallowed. "That was amazing."
Daniel grabbed his pants from the floor.
"Where are you going?" she asked.
"Home."
"But—"
"Thanks," he said. "It was fun."
He left her there. Naked. Sticky. Confused.
---
Sunday.
Daniel drove. No destination. Just the highway, the windows down, the radio off. He needed to clear his head. Needed to stop thinking about her.
It didn't work.
He pulled into a gas station off the interstate. Filled the tank. Bought a bottle of water and a pack of gum. The cashier was a kid, maybe nineteen, with acne and a nametag that said "Travis."
"You're Daniel Whitmore," Travis said.
"Yep."
"Holy shit." Travis's eyes went wide. "You're going first overall."
"Second."
"Still. That's—holy shit."
Daniel paid. Started to leave.
"Hey," Travis said. "Can I get a picture?"
Daniel turned. Looking at the kid—the excitement, the hero worship, the way he was already pulling out his phone—he felt something twist in his chest.
"Sure," he said.
They took the picture. Travis shook his hand, pumped it up and down like he was trying to draw water.
"My sister's gonna flip," Travis said. "She's your biggest fan."
"Is she?"
"Yeah. She's got your jersey and everything. She wanted to come tonight but she's at home. Sick."
Daniel nodded. "What's her name?"
"Lena."
"Tell Lena I said hi."
Travis beamed. "I will. I swear I will."
Daniel left.
He got in his truck. Started the engine. Sat there for a minute, staring at the gas station lights, the empty highway, the darkness beyond.
Then he pulled out his phone.
No new messages.
He typed one anyway. Just one word.
Hey.
He stared at it. His thumb hovered over send.
Then he deleted it.
He put the phone in the cupholder. Put the truck in drive. Pulled onto the highway.
The road stretched ahead of him. Dark and empty and endless. He didn't know where he was going. He just knew he couldn't stay still.
---
Monday.
The facility was quiet. The draft was six days away. Most of the prospects had already left, gone home to wait, to pace, to pretend they weren't terrified.
Daniel was lifting. The weight room mirrors reflected the polished chrome of the equipment, the fluorescent lights, the faint glint of a camera lens from the press box above. He ignored it. Focused on the bar. Focused on the burn.
He finished his set. Racked the weight. Sat up.
His phone buzzed.
Bud.
My office. Now.
Daniel wiped his face with a towel. Drank some water. Walked to Bud's office.
The old man was behind his desk. He looked tired. Grayer than usual.
"Close the door," Bud said.
Daniel closed it.
"Sit down."
Daniel sat.
Bud leaned forward. Folded his hands. Looked at Daniel like he was trying to see inside him.
"Carolina called," Bud said.
Daniel's heart stopped. "What?"
"They want to fly you out. Private meeting. Tomorrow."
Daniel blinked. "Carolina has the first pick."
"Yeah."
"I thought they loved Hines."
Bud's expression didn't change. "They did. Until last week."
"What happened last week?"
"You audibled at the combine." Bud leaned back. "You threw a post-corner that no one saw coming. You made every scout in the building turn their heads."
Daniel didn't answer.
"Now they want to meet you." Bud picked up a pen. Tapped it against the desk. "They want to see if you're the real thing or just a highlight."
Daniel stood up.
"Where are you going?" Bud asked.
"To pack."
---
Tuesday.
The flight was short. Charlotte to Raleigh. Daniel sat in first class—Bud had booked it, said he deserved it—and stared out the window at the clouds. His phone was in his pocket. It hadn't buzzed all morning.
He wondered if she was watching.
He wondered if she cared.
The meeting was at the stadium. A glass tower in downtown Charlotte. Daniel walked in with Bud at his side, wearing a suit he'd bought two years ago for a funeral, and tried not to look like a kid playing dress-up.
They met in a conference room on the twentieth floor. The GM was a man named Richard Calloway—silver hair, big watch, the kind of handshake that tried too hard. The head coach was a former linebacker named Mike Delgado, thick neck, thick fingers, eyes that missed nothing.
They asked questions. Daniel answered.
They showed him film. His film. Every throw, every scramble, every decision. They paused on the post-corner. Watched it from three angles.
"Why'd you do it?" Delgado asked.
"I saw something," Daniel said.
"What did you see?"
"The safety was drifting. The corner was in off-coverage. The middle of the field was open."
"And you trusted it."
"Yeah."
"You trust your eyes?"
"More than anything."
Delgado leaned back. Looked at Calloway. Something passed between them—a silent conversation, the kind that came from years of working together.
"Thank you for coming," Calloway said. "We'll be in touch."
Daniel stood up. Shook their hands. Walked out.
Bud was waiting in the lobby.
"How'd it go?" he asked.
"I don't know."
---
Wednesday.
The hotel room was anonymous. Beige walls. Beige carpet. Beige curtains. Daniel lay on the bed, staring at the ceiling, and tried not to think about room 712.
His phone buzzed.
He grabbed it. Looked at the screen.
Marcus.
You see the mock drafts?
Daniel typed back: No.
They got you going first.
Daniel stared at the words.
Carolina is taking you, Marcus wrote. It's everywhere.
Daniel set the phone down. Picked it up. Read the message again.
First overall.
He should have been happy. He should have been ecstatic. He should have called Bud, called his parents, called everyone he knew.
Instead, he called a cab.
---
Thursday.
He didn't remember the bar. Didn't remember how he got there. Just remembered the noise, the lights, the crush of bodies.
A girl found him. Blonde. Young. Pretty. She said her name was Lena.
"Lena?" Daniel blinked. "Travis's sister?"
Her eyes went wide. "You know Travis?"
"Met him at a gas station."
She laughed. "That's wild."
"Yeah."
They talked. She told him she was a sophomore. Told him she'd watched every game. Told him his jersey was the only one she owned.
Daniel listened. He drank. He nodded.
Then he took her back to his hotel.
The room was the same as before. Beige. Anonymous. He pushed her against the wall. Kissed her. Pulled off her clothes.
She was nervous—he could feel it in the way her hands trembled, the way her breath hitched. But she wanted it. She wanted him.
"Lie down," he said.
She lay down.
He fucked her.
It was different this time. He wasn't trying to prove anything. Wasn't trying to forget anyone. He was just moving—mechanical, relentless, his hips driving forward while his mind stayed somewhere else.
She came twice. He came once. On her stomach. Same as Amber.
"You're amazing," she whispered.
"Thanks."
"Can I see you again?"
"Maybe."
He walked her to the door. Closed it behind her. Leaned against it. Closed his eyes.
No new messages.
He deleted the thread with Mary. All of it. The texts. The silence. Gone.
Then he lay down. Stared at the ceiling. Waited for morning.
---
Friday.
The draft was tomorrow.
Daniel sat on the edge of the hotel bed. His suit was hanging in the closet—charcoal, tailored, expensive. His phone was charged. His speech was memorized.
He should have been ready.
He wasn't.
His phone buzzed.
Bud.
Get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.
Daniel typed back: Yes, sir.
Then he turned off the light. Closed his eyes. Tried to empty his mind.
It didn't work.
He kept seeing her. The curls. The pen. The way she'd looked at him in the elevator, the first night, when she said she didn't flatter athletes.
He kept hearing her voice.
You're not going first overall.
He smiled in the dark.
Then he slept.
---
Six days.
That's how long it had been. Six days without a word. Six days without a text, a call, a glance.
Daniel had told himself he didn't care.
He was lying.
The draft was in six hours. He was in New York—the city, not just the state—staying in a hotel that cost more per night than his parents made in a month. The lights were on. The cameras were ready. The whole world was watching.
And all he could think about was her.
He picked up his phone. Opened the browser. Typed her name.
Mary Castle. Four new articles. Three new videos. One tweet from last night.
See you at the draft.
He stared at the words. Three simple words. No mention of him.
He closed the browser. Put the phone down.
Then he picked it up again.
He typed a message. One word.
Hi.
His thumb hovered. Held. Pressed.
Message sent.
He stared at the screen. The little bubble appeared. Disappeared. Appeared again.
Then nothing.
She didn't answer.
Of course she didn't.
Daniel set the phone on the nightstand. Stared at the ceiling. Listened to the city hum through the window.
And then he smiled.
Because he was a problem. And problems didn't go away just because someone refused to answer.
The draft was in six hours.
He was ready.
He was wrong.