Page 2 of Who’s Playing You (In The Nick of Time #1)

NICK SOBA

T hey call me The Diva. To say that I wear that title with pride is the understatement of the century. In fact, I’ve leaned so far into it that it’s become my whole personality.

And being the diva that I am, I fucking love it!

Give me the star treatment. Gush and fawn over me. Worship the fucking ground that I walk on. And just fucking deal with my temper tantrums and diva behavior - I really don’t give a shit. I get what I want, when I want it, and how I want it. I’m just that fucking good.

And I suppose that’s the difference too, I have absolutely every-fucking-thing to back up all my arrogance, all the chatter, all the claims, all the rumors, and my entire diva personality.

So let me just say it again: I’m that fucking good.

Which is also why I’m not a narcissist by clinical diagnosis and terms because I am that good - I know it and I also show it.

But The Diva isn’t my only nickname. Oh no. You can’t get through twenty-some years of life without acquiring a handful of other select names in the process. Some of which might not be entirely as flattering. Unfortunately.

But with my inflated ego and a precisely chosen moment to throw a temper tantrum or a distraction, that negative chatter seems to go away.

Does the fact that those things just seem to disappear have something to do with the network I’ve built around me?

That my “team” helps handle things in my life?

Perhaps. But I’m like the sun: I’m the center of the Universe.

Without me there would be no solar system, no planets, no life.

And likewise, without me, there’d be no team.

I’m not completely delusional though. Again, not a narcissist.

I haven’t drunk all the Kool-Aid by myself - despite appearances.

I’m aware of the importance of the people I’ve been lucky enough to get into my orbit.

And my college football teammates had my back, no matter what.

Specifically my two best friends. Nic Loving and Nik Papas who are my brothers.

We might not be blood, but we’re more than that.

We met and started playing together during pee-wee football and played together all through high school, cinching a state title or two. No big deal.

We were then recruited together to play for Zeiders University in Arkansas where we continued our winning streak for all four years. And boy did we win! Both on and off the field. Arkansas is now the mecca of college football.

You’re welcome world! I did that.

So now, as I sit on a bench on the sideline of the practice field of the New York Rage, I’m thinking maybe I made a mistake. My Diva armor might have a crack or two in it (internally of course) and I might be having an existential crisis because, right now, I don’t feel like the shit .

I’m flying fucking solo… for the first time ever.

I bid farewell to my college teammates last spring after we won the title, and just a few months ago when I sat on those couches during the first round of the draft, my two best friends and I were separated for the first time in our lives.

It really fucking sucks.

But what no one knows is that I’m sort of to blame for us not having gotten drafted together to San Francisco, which is what we had hoped would happen. Well, in fact, we weren’t just hoping that would happen but we were wheeling and dealing to make it happen.

But I did a thing…

I fucked us all over.

Knowingly. Willingly. Consciously. Call it what you will.

All over a girl.

Well, to be fair, not a girl , but a woman. Because Scottie Anderson is nothing if not the most spectacular specimen of a woman that this planet has to offer. And she’s not in San Francisco.

She’s in New York.

So obviously I couldn’t be going clear across the country, especially not after I decided that it was now finally time to get what I’d been wanting for almost ten years. Ergo, I needed to be in New York. To get the girl.

That is why, leading up to the draft, I was taking some calls .

Having some meetings . Not necessarily on the up-and-up and the stuff you’re supposed to be doing during that time or when you were in my position.

But let’s be honest: I was set to go not just in the first round of the draft, but damn near the top.

Every team wanted me. And most teams wanted all three of the Trickie Nickies. So I had some serious fucking leverage.

When it came to the New York team though, they only wanted me. They needed me. I was going to be their saving grace.

Even though they were impressed with what the three of us had done, and the magic that we had together, they didn’t need two more receivers, let alone replace the two that they had nor their backups. What they did need, however, was the best quarterback to enter the draft in a decade.

And that was me.

San Francisco on the other hand was dying for our trio. That is what their organization desperately needed: our brand of magic and winningness. They had a sweet deal they were willing to make us too. Long-term. High figures. Record-breaking signing bonuses. Extended contracts. You name it.

But individually, other teams were offering us better deals. But together we had wanted San Fran… and their deal was pretty damn sweet.

But I walked away from it all.

Nik and Nic don’t even know about it, the deal of a lifetime - the opportunity - our dream coming true - or me blowing it up. This is the first and only secret I’ve ever held from them. It makes me sick every day. But… I couldn’t do it. I needed to be in New York.

So I’m here. The new QB1 for the New York Rage, while Nik is in South Carolina playing for the Warriors, and Nic is in Texas of all fucking places, and he’s now a Houston Driller.

And me? I’m a fucking New Yorker, a Rager to be precise… is it even called that? Rage-r? So fucking weird.

As that realization hits me while I sit on this bench next to the Rage practice field, all by myself, I realize that I am in fact all by myself. My brothers aren’t here. None of my old teammates. My usual fan club… I got jack shit.

I got a new team and a roster of team mates who honestly couldn’t give two shits about me, because they’re pro athletes and look at me like some spoiled little bitch that’s straight out of college and doesn’t know jack shit about shit.

They have zero faith in me and that I can lead them to any sort of victories, let alone all the way to the big game.

They think my draft pick and hype around me is ridiculous. They’re also offended that The Rage have put so much faith in me.

They’ve probably heard about The Diva. My reputation does precede me, but this is the first time it’s affecting me in a negative way.

People always love The Diva. And I’m sure that they think my reputation is not an attribute but a detriment to the team.

With that attitude, they obviously think they know more than management, which is who drafted me.

Management saw my stats. They saw what I did in the combine.

They saw this physique. I am a specimen after all.

But I’m getting the impression that these guys - my new team - they’re not all about it.

They’re skeptics.

And what’s annoying as fuck is that now I may potentially have to work for it. Oh the horror. I snort-laugh at my own sarcasm.

I’ve become accustomed to being a primadonna and haven’t had to work for shit since before I grew pubes. So yes, the sigh I let out when I realized that I needed to schmooze some people just rubbed me the wrong way.

My way of “working” and “working people over” is to just be myself.

I literally just show up and demand perfection, throw the ball, make the best plays that college football has seen in…

well, forever. But it’s become evident with the cold shoulders and under current of animosity that I’ve gotten from my new team, that they’re so far from fucking impressed. That reality bites.

It was an ego check, for sure. And to tell you the truth, I didn’t really appreciate it - didn’t care for it. It’s a “do not recommend”, zero out of five stars.

But alas, here I sit - by my-fucking-self - contemplating if I made an error in judgement. If being selfish and self-centered by making this decision was a mistake. And the question I really hate having to ask myself is if she’s worth all of this.

I really hate that I’m questioning that because she’s been the end goal for the better half of a decade. Total end game.

The thing is though, she barely knows I exist.