“What if I said I could get you an agent?”
I stop dead in my tracks, and look over at this guy questioningly. He’s smirking at me.
“Who are you, exactly?”
He holds out his hand. “Quinton Smith.”
“That sounds fake.”
He barks out a laugh. “I’ve heard that before.”
I raise a brow, hoping he continues because I don’t have time for this. I need to catch the end of the game. Austen asked me to go out with him after, and though I don’t want to, I said I would. But maybe he’ll give me another free pass because I really am exhausted.
“My father is a scout for a pretty high profile men’s magazine, and maybe I get some of his commission if I help him find people,” he says casually.
“Are you fucking with me?”
He shakes his head. “Not at all. I think you’d do great modeling. You’ve got the body for it.”
“Thanks, but my comfort zone ends at thirty people.”
“You wouldn’t be naked. It’s not a porn magazine. It’s clothes and cologne. That sort of thing.”
I stare at him, because this is exactly how scams start.
“You’d make a lot of money,” he says with a grin.
I still stare at him, not sure what to say. He digs into his pocket and pulls out a card. What is with all these people and business cards?
“That’s my father’s contact info. Email him, get more information, but make sure you tell him I sent you. You have headshots or anything?”
“No, those cost money. I’m a struggling art student, just like all the rest.”
“It’s fine.” He waves a hand at me. “Just send him an email. Trust me, this would be good for you.”
I murmur an “mhm,” and then we keep walking. The field isn’t too far, but it’s far enough that our silence is awkward. Once we reach the gates, we part ways, him going to the top of the bleachers and me continuing down the walkway to get to the other side.
I sit in the bottom row, since that seems to be where no one wants to sit. I’m tall enough that I can see over the railing, so it’s no fuss for me. I don’t know much about football anyway, so it’s not like getting a better view means anything. I only somewhat know what’s going on when I’m watching it on TV and have that yellow line to help me out. Who knew that wasn’t a real thing out on the field?
You’d think being friends with Austen for so long I’d know the game in and out, but I don’t. I know just enough that I’m not lost when I’m here, but there hasn’t been one single time that a flag is thrown, and I understand why. Doubt it’ll change, no matter how many times Austen explains it to me.
They’re down by seven points, which I know means they need a touchdown and the extra point. They don’t play well under pressure, and if they’re losing going into the last quarter, they won’t make a comeback. It’s just not their thing.
It’s proven true a short time later. They lose. Meaning Austen isn’t going to take me changing my mind about going out well, but I’m so tired I can’t handle his annoying jock buddies who think it’s okay to make stalker jokes about me right to my face. At least have some decency and do it behind my back. I laugh at that because I’m sure they do that, too.
They’re a bunch of immature cretins who’ve been hit in the head one too many times. They’ll likely never change and willmarry the hottest girl they find who will deal with their shit, pop out a bunch of entitled little brats, and live their lives making people feel like shit about themselves.
I fucking hate jocks. I hate people. This whole state sucks ass. Bunch of close-minded assholes in all these Virginia small towns.
The exception being Austen, because he doesn’t fit in with them, and I don’t understand how he calls them friends.
As I head toward the parking lot, I text Austen to let him know I’m going home because I have a headache. It’s not entirely a lie. I feel one coming on, right behind my eyes. I’m tired and need to sleep. I should catch up on homework, since it’s going to be a busy weekend, but I just want my bed. So, after I send the text, I shove my phone into my pocket and head for my room, ignoring the way it’s blowing up. I’m so tired I sleep right through the dings, and don’t wake up until morning.
Chapter Seven
Austen
The tension in the air from our defeat is damn near palpable in the locker room.
