He nodded and looked over the disfigured cookie cake.
—This was last minute.
He didn’t say anything else as he unloaded the contents of his backpack onto the second bed. A pair of carefully folded jeans and two polo shirts, a ziplock bag tidily packed with toiletries, a notebook, a calculus textbook, and a novel I’d never heard of, Cane. The questions I wanted to ask were running into each other like harried office assistants sent in conflicting directions: What was he doing here? Did he know who I was? Was he upset I’d eaten some of the cake? Did he know me? But I didn’t ask anything, too intimidated to initiate conversation as his presence—Reshawn Mc-Coy!—continued to sink in.
He sat at the desk next to the windows and began work on a calculus problem set. It was the first time I’d been in a room alone with a black person.
Chase McGerrin was just this side of albino, his hair so light and buzzed so short that when I saw him from the opposite end of the hotel lobby, I initially mistook him for bald. He seemed bluntly big even from that distance, and to walk toward him and watch him take on his true dimensions was like spotting a boulder from afar that you know is huge but that, when you finally reach it, still surprises you with its sheer rocky immensity.
I was ready to be intimidated by the team’s second-string Will linebacker, but Chase’s face melted into a friendly smile when we shook hands.
—They still putting a giant cookie in the rooms? he asked. When I was on my visit, I thought I had to eat the whole cake or they’d take away my offer.
—I don’t have an offer yet.
I wanted to go right back to my room and die. Chase nudged me.
—It’ll happen.
It was kind of him to say so, and I continued to warm up to Chase as we talked. Meanwhile Reshawn awkwardly traded pleasantries with his own host, Devonté Sanders. Devonté was the starting tailback, black, on the shorter side, and formidably built. Even in long sleeves and pants I could tell he had the exquisitely detailed muscle definition that’s common to smaller players. And yet Devonté was measly compared to Reshawn; from the way he kept looking over Reshawn’s body, it was clear he understood this himself.
We walked out to Devonté’s car, a 1991 Grand Marquis with a rattle in its throat and a heel-sized hole in the floorboard. The hole let chill night air stream into the car’s interior, keeping us in our jackets, and when we pulled onto the highway, the air rushing into the car made a high-pitched whistle.
—What do you guys major in? Reshawn asked from the backseat, having to raise his voice to be heard.
—What, in school? Chase said.
Devonté glanced in the rearview mirror and saw Reshawn was being serious.
—Marketing, he said. Minor in kinesiology.
—Haven’t declared, Chase said, and turned to Devonté. They let us major in female anatomy?
—Are there any English majors on the team? Reshawn asked.
—English?
—Like, literature.
—Hell no, Devonté said. Most guys can barely speak the shit.
—Well, I am, Reshawn said, looking out the window. I’ll get a PhD, too.
None of us knew how to respond to such a strange, defiant declaration. Everyone was quiet for the rest of the ride.
We arrived at a sprawling corporate campus and parked in front of a cylindrical office building with a rounded glass roof. We rode the elevator to the penthouse and entered the most elegant space I’d ever seen—dimmed lights, gleaming stainless surfaces, floor-to-ceiling windows that gave views of the Blenheim skyline. Toqued servers stood behind steel buffet containers doling out steaming proteins and carbs, while above our heads flat-screen TVs played a King Football highlight reel on loop.
I sat with Chase at a table full of other recruits and their hosts. The King players talked among themselves, leaving us recruits to silently scarf our dinners and wait for one of the coaches to come over. But at the moment all the coaches were talking to Reshawn, a dozen grown men turned Beatlemaniacs for the first five-star prospect to have come through King in decades.
—This is like prom in hell.
So said a tall, sharp-jawed white boy in the seat next to me.
—I’m Charlie, he said.
—Miles.
—Got an offer, Miles?
Was everyone going to be asking me that?
—Me neither, Charlie continued, recognizing my stymied expression. I hear they call this Pity Weekend. They already made more offers than they have scholarships. So you got some long shots they wanna woo—
He lifted his chin at Reshawn, then added:
—But mostly you got players like us.
—I have a meeting with Coach Zeller tomorrow.
Charlie popped a roasted rosemary potato into his mouth and shrugged.
—Me too. Doesn’t mean we’re getting offered. They get a certain amount of money for these visits every year. They figure, hey, we got cash left over, let’s give the no-hopes a weekend in lovely Blenheim before we reject them. Like I said, prom, and we’re the girls nobody wants to fuck.
—Miles!
I turned to see Radon Hightower, the linebackers coach. Black and in his early forties, he was six foot four and the rare ex-athlete who’d gone lean rather than chubby after his playing days. I shot up from my chair to shake his hand.
—So you’re the one who took the last flank steak, he said.
Hightower was born in low-country South Carolina, and I was so unaccustomed to deep southern accents that his words came in strange shapes I had to work hard to decipher.
—Flackstake, Coach?
—Huh? —Sir?
—Steak, son. Steak.
—Oh. Do you want mine?
I’d have gladly cut it up and hand-fed it to him. Coach Hightower smiled.
—Fuckin’ with you, Miles. You have a good flight? —Yes sir.
—Don’t have any mountains around here.
He leaned down and pinched Chase on the back of the arm.
—How’s Miles doin’?
—Good, Coach, Chase said, rubbing his arm.
Hightower nodded absently and glanced over my head at the next recruit he wanted to talk to.
—Good good, he said, patting
