I send the call to voicemail because I can’t just answer a call when I need to fix this. I change the photo on my phone to the same picture I had on there before, which was just a pretty purple design, and then I flash my phone at him. “Better?”
“You’re a little terrifying,” he finally croaks.
“Yeah, I know.”
He laughs, and then he sits back in the same chair which I will call his chair. Pepper jumps back on his lap. “So let’s see...you stalked me on social media, you changed your phone wallpaper to a picture of us, and now you’re living with me.”
“Yep, that about sums it up.” I twist my lips. “Okay, subject change. How’s football going?”
“Well, we’re in the offseason, so right now it’s pretty stagnant. But the upcoming year is a contract year.”
“What does that mean?” I ask stupidly.
“It means I have to play my ass off so my contract is renewed.” He scratches Pepper behind the ears.
“How long do you want to keep playing?” I set my phone down next to me.
He lifts a shoulder as he keeps his eyes on the dog. “Forever? Football’s just...everything to me. It’s been a constant in my life since I was a little kid. I’m from a football family. My dad was a college coach and it was just sort of expected of me. It’s all I ever wanted to do.” His voice holds vulnerability that he hasn’t shown me before. Apparently football is the thing that makes him emotive. I lean a bit in his direction as he opens up. “The Aces just drafted this kid right out of college, and that tells me they’re looking at the future of the team. He’s young and fast and he’s going to slide right into my slot.”
“You don’t know that,” I say, but maybe he does.
“I’m the oldest receiver on the team. The average age for receivers in the league is twenty-six. I’m thirty-one. The average career is two years. I’ve been playing for nine. It’s only a matter of time.” He doesn’t seem at all like he’s okay with that. In fact, that vulnerability has taken a turn to something else. A little bit of sadness mixed with some despondency.
“So what’s your plan?” I ask, my public relations background forcing its way out. I’m not one to sit around and complain. I’m more likely to find the solution.
“To keep playing until I can’t,” he says.
“And then what?”
He twists his lips. “Nothing definitive.”
“Broadcasting?” I ask.
He shrugs.
“Coaching?”
“Maybe.”
“Okay, you need a plan, dude. You need something to look forward to. Isn’t there something you’ve always wanted to do?” I ask.
“Yeah. Play football. I don’t want to talk about what happens when I can’t anymore.”
Okay, so this guy is stubborn. I tap my chin and change the subject, but I don’t forget about it. I just push it to the back of my mind for now. “Would you consider playing somewhere else?”
He shakes his head. “I’ve played for the Aces my entire career. I’d love to finish my career here, too.”
“What if you were traded?” I ask.
He looks at me in horror. “We don’t speak the ‘T’ word in this house,” he says, and I think he’s joking but I’m not totally sure.
“Then you make yourself essential,” I say, as if the answer was obvious all along.
His brows push together. “How do I do that?”
“Simple,” I say, suddenly feeling very comfortable in my own shoes. “We put together a PR strategy. And I know just the girl to do it.”
CHAPTER 17
He rubs the back of his neck and tilts his head. “What sort of strategy?”
I shrug. “You already know I know nothing about football, but I know a little something about proving your worth. Off the top of my head, and I’m just thinking out loud here, but community outreach is a good first step. Charity work. Meeting fans, shaking hands, holding babies, that sort of thing. Becoming the fan favorite that brings money to the team will keep you around. Obviously you’ll need to let people in via social media to do any of that.”
He shakes his head and holds up his hands. “Nope. I’m out.”
“Why?” I demand.
“Being a fan favorite won’t secure my spot,” he says.
“You don’t know that.”
“Uh, yeah, I do,” he says. “I’ve been in this business a long time, and that’s the thing, Ellie. It’s a business. I’m just a pawn in the league’s game, and there are thousands of men waiting to snatch my position away from me.”
“But it couldn’t hurt to step up your presence, could it?” I press, wondering why he’s so against this. “Wouldn’t that only help?”
“My social media presence? That’s a hard no.”
“Why are you so against social media?” I pry.
He glances away and doesn’t answer.
“Look, you can still maintain your privacy. I’m just saying, post a picture of you and Josh from this weekend to show how your relationship translates off the field. It’s not like you need to post my phone’s wallpaper as you brag about your one-night stand conquest.” My cheeks redden even as the words tumble out of my mouth.
Why, exactly, am I reminding him of this?
I press on. “A picture of your pool with your hand holding your Gatorade. No face.”
“Then I look like I’m endorsing Gatorade,” he says.
“Do you have a contract with Powerade?” I ask.
He shakes his head.
“Some other sports drink?”
He continues shaking his head.
“Then who cares? You like Gatorade, and you drink it after a workout. Cover the label if that makes you feel better. Post a picture of you working out on that treadmill on your patio. Post a picture of yourself playing basketball on your backyard court. You at practice. Your uniform. Hell, even a shot of your shoes for next season. It doesn’t matter what it is. People want to feel like they have an inside pass to your life, and that is how you become a fan favorite. You want to be that guy that will cause a fan revolt if the ‘T’ word is even mentioned in this city.”
He narrows his eyes at me. “Okay, well, for one thing, no, but for another thing, how would I even get any of those pictures to post?”
I give him a look like he’s stupid.
I may be dumb when it comes to football, but clearly Luke is dumb when it comes to public relations.
“Uh, you have a roommate who’s basically volunteering to help you, Luke. Social media is a key part of PR, and if you want me to be your expert, it’ll be my job to curate your content, post it, and stimulate engagement.” I pull my phone out and open Instagram. I search one of the clients I worked with back in Chicago and toss him my phone. “This is one of my former clients, and this is their Instagram feed. You can see the types of things I posted on their behalf.”
“This looks great,” he says as he scrolls through the photos and stops to glance at some of the captions. “But it’s a restaurant. I’m an athlete.”