Looking to Score(3)

Mom laughed loudly, the sound like expensive bells hanging from a booming church tower. “Your father did not Lori Loughlin shit for you. Despite your excessive extracurriculars,” Mom began. Excessive extracurriculars was a politically correct way of saying I spent every night drunk off my ass and bouncing between frat houses back in California. “You have an amazing GPA and awesome recommendations from your professors. Everyone was shocked when you—”

“Okay,” I interrupted. My whole purpose for running here was to escape what I’d done, not dig it up every time I spoke to my mom. I could hear her huffing on the other end of the line. “I’ll let you know about my placement and how the first day of school went. I love you,” I said while speed walking on the sidewalk past crowds of people. My stomach was rumbling, aching for some food.

“Okay, baby. Go do great things,” she said.

I hung up the phone with a smile on my face. A homeless man on the street was playing a battered and scuffed violin. His eyes were closed, and he had a look of pure joy on his face. His skin was burnt from the hot Texas sun, and his clothes were dirty with various holes in them. I paused for a moment to listen to the haunting song he expertly played before placing my apple in his box.





2





“We couldn’t find you a placement for your internship.”

My advisor was leaning back at his desk, thumbing through papers. I had been waiting outside of his office for our appointment for two hours. I’d expected that the first words to leave his mouth would be an apology, not that.

“Excuse me? What do you mean you can’t find me a placement?” I asked. “My program requires an internship for graduation. I’ve already arranged my Public Relations courses around this schedule. This is the final step to graduating early. What am I supposed to do for an entire semester?”

My advisor, whose name I think was Luis Tuesday or some shit like that, let out an exasperated exhale, as if my freak out was dampening his mood. “I looked at your schedule. Have you ever considered Sports Media?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know anything about sports. I want to work with artists.” My dad’s love of music had definitely been passed down to me. The whole reason I was looking to graduate early was so I could start working with him. His streaming service just formed an agency that focused on promoting independent artists. The future of the entertainment industry was through the indie community, and I wanted to lead that division for him.

“I’m good friends with the head football coach. Since all the other internships were taken, I was wondering if you’d be open to working with one of the players on his image.”

My eyebrow rose. Working with a football player? It wasn’t exactly on my projected career path, but that could work. In Texas, football was God, and that multi-million dollar stadium was church. They attended religiously. It was an entire thing—a thing I didn’t particularly care for. But, if I did a good job, it was a networking wet dream. Working with the football team could open a few doors. Yeah, I could get excited about that.

But still. I didn’t know what this would entail. “I don’t know if I’m qualified for that. I’ve catered all my courses to brands and musicians.”

“I think you’d be surprised how much crossover there is,” Mr. Tuesday began. “Public relations is about creating and maintaining a positive image—in this case, for the athletes or sports clubs they represent. You’ll be responsible for coordinating the seamless flow of favorable information about this player. Monitoring his social media. Keeping him out of trouble and out of the news. Fans are more likely to buy tickets, purchase merchandise, and fill stadium seats when there’s a public interest, and right now, the good wholesome Bible Belt of Texas is not amused with our star running back.”

“What’s the damage?” I asked.

Mr. Tuesday slid his phone across the desk to me, and I picked it up, frowning at the social media feed I saw there. Picture after picture showed a tall, muscular guy with bulging muscles and thick lips in compromising photographs. He was kissing random girls and doing keg stands. There were even a couple of him cupping his junk. This was a media clusterfuck of epic proportions. He was kind of hot, though, if you were into that kind of thing.

“Doesn’t the coach have rules about this?” I asked. “Is there a scholarship on the line?”

“He does. But Oakley Davis is a god. There’s never been a player like him. He knows he can get away with anything because there is no one that can match his talent or his mother’s wallet, you understand?” I resisted the urge to roll my eyes. I never understood why a large bank account made you immune to rules. “Coach Howard’s contract is up for consideration this year. He wants to keep his job, which means he needs to keep Oakley playing.”

“And what am I supposed to do?” I asked, sliding the phone back across the desk. From the looks of it, Oakley Davis needed a complete overhaul of his image. It was the type of job that would require a lot of hours and a lot of patience.

“Do what you’ve been taught to do—polish his image. Find opportunities to put him in a more favorable light. I’ve taken the liberty of enrolling you in the Intro to Sports Media class. It’s a freshman course, but it’ll help you this semester. Coach Howard will be grading you. He’s your boss. Keep him happy with Oakley’s progress, and you’ll graduate early just as you planned.”