Dax Coulter fidgeted in his seat, loosening his tie as his agent fielded calls. His mother placed a hand on his shoulder, a sign for him to stop and sit still. How the hell did she expect him to be calm? This was his future. And he was about to let everyone down.
His father sat across the room next to his grandfather, who was loudly ranting on and on. The old man was furious, and he wanted everyone to know about it. Dax had to give props to his dad, though; he'd managed to keep Gramps mostly off his back.
Nerves had never been Dax's problem. But it was the third day of the draft, and no one had expected they would still be sitting there. No one except himself, that was. Was it okay that in some weird way he didn't want to be drafted?
He rolled his shoulders and tried to relax. He hadn't slept a lot in the last few weeks. This weekend could make or break his career, and the closer it got, the sicker he felt.
He had this recurring nightmare where he went undrafted, and his grandfather forced him to go door—to—door, begging team owners one by one to sign him. Only to have them slam every door in his face.
Who are you kidding? You did this to yourself.
As Gramps had said all along, the Coulter name would only carry Dax so far. His family was the stuff of legends—sports mags, even. And it had always been clear that he didn't measure up.
Rory Coulter, his grandfather, had been magic on the football field and at the Olympics. His grandmother Serina was an Olympic icon. His father a basketball and baseball star. His mother a dancer. And don’t even get him started on his siblings. He was the bad apple.
The agent hung up the phone and they all quieted down, waiting to hear what news he had.
"Okay, nothing official yet, but what I'm hearing is it's gotten down to Pittsburgh and Dallas. It'll probably be this round. Dallas picks before Pittsburgh, so we should know what they've decided between them, based on what Dallas does." Vic was using his professional, cautiously optimistic voice.
"Well, obviously if Dallas doesn't pick him—" Gramps started, but quickly shut up when Grams smacked his arm.
Dax’s father asked, "Do we know what each team's concerns are? Maybe there's something we can do to help reassure them."
"It doesn't matter what their concerns are. Anything can be fixed," Dax’s mother Julia spoke up. "What matters is that he gets signed. And one of them will sign you," she said, reassuring Dax with a smile.
Bile rose in his throat and he turned away, unwilling to watch his grandfather roll his eyes one more time. Gramps's disgust was more than apparent with his sneer.
"We know what they want from him and what has them worried, and it's the same answer for both questions," Gramps said. "The name. They want the Coulter name and what it can bring the team. But it's also what they're worried about. He's going to get noticed no matter where he goes, and the team that takes him is going to want him to be noticed for the right things. Good luck with that. Dax can put up decent numbers if he really wants to, but he's got to show up first. How many games did he sit out last season? And everyone knows it wasn't because he was injured. Injuries heal. Injuries you can bounce back from, but reputations…"
"Okay then, I think I've had enough." Dax stood abruptly, crossing the hotel room to the minibar, but his twin sister Echo intercepted him.
"Bryce called. He and Tami cut their practice short so they could stream the draft," she said. She raised her voice in an attempt to drown out the sound of their grandfather's constant stream of criticism. "They wanted me to wish you luck."
"Yeah, well, you don't need luck when you've got the Coulter legacy propping you up, right?" Dax muttered. Sure, he covered with humor, but he really wished his big brother was here. They didn't always get along, but Bryce was the only one who'd understand the pressure.
Half an hour later, Dax and his agent were down in the main hall with the other prospects, their agents, and parents. They all watched the teams' representatives crossing to the microphone to announce their selections.
The Dallas representative crossed and announced their pick. Some random guy, not Dax. Did you really expect it to be? The large defensive lineman crossed the stage to shake hands with his new team and pose for photos holding a Cowboys jersey up in front of his suit.
"Must be Pittsburgh," his agent leaned over to whisper.
Dax just nodded. If he were honest, he'd been hoping it would be Pittsburgh. Maybe it might shut the old man up if he proved he was good enough. But the other possibility was that they might take him just because of his grandfather's history with the team. Dax had to admit there was a part of him that hoped it would make his grandfather proud to see the Coulter name on the back of a black—and—gold jersey again. The team would undoubtedly promote the connection every chance they got. And let's face it, that was what he knew would make Gramps the happiest.
The old man had been increasingly irritable since retiring from Legacy Sports, the family's sports—equipment retail franchise. The great Rory Coulter needed to be seen. To feel relevant. What better way was there for the old man to live vicariously than through the only one of his grandchildren to follow him into football?
The Pittsburgh rep crossed the stage, and Dax wiped his palms on his pants. He closed his eyes and dragged in deep breaths as he listened for his name. Any second now…
It didn't come. Fuck. He gritted his teeth, but he clapped for the lucky player whose name had been tacked onto the back of the jersey moments before. He recognized the guy, a defensive tackle, from a few match—ups they'd had over their college careers. Dax had evaded the guy's grasp every time they'd gone head—to—head.
During the brief break before the next team took the stage, Dax glanced back toward the area where his family members were sitting. Echo was massaging her temple. No doubt picking up on his stress. His mother's frown deepened. His father patted her knee. They didn't notice him watching them. He was familiar enough with the looks on their faces to know what they meant.
Gramps, however, looked…happy. There was a smug, I—told—you—so smile on his dour face that told Dax everything he needed to know. As far as his grandfather was concerned, the Steelers were his team, and Dax didn't make the cut.
He slumped farther into his seat, his eyes pointed at the stage and his ears blocking out everything that wasn't his own name. He'd fucked up. And now it would cost him everything.
It finally came. In the fifth round, the Jacksonville Thrashers announced that they had selected Dax Coulter. His agent nudged him to his feet, and in a daze, Dax made his way to the stage and shook his new boss's hand. He was given a blue jersey with his name emblazoned on a strip and adhered to the back with Velcro. Cameras flashed, and he plastered a smile on his face.
He'd just been drafted by the league's worst team.
