Player Season: The Pickup Artist Who Hacked Nike

"Brad! We know you're in there!"

The Secret Service knocked on my door, and I knew why they were there. In fact, their arrival was long overdue; they should have come for me five months ago.

I quietly scrounged around my desk for the only proof linking me to the crime – my external hard drive.

"Brad! Open the door!"

Their requests were ignored; I tiptoed past the front door and into the spare bedroom of my recently acquired penthouse condo. Crime paid well, but it was coming to an end. Panic was setting in as I struggled to find an adequate hiding spot to conceal this vital piece of evidence.

"Brad! Open the door or we're coming in!"

My adrenaline spiked, my heart rapidly pulsated, sending shockwaves through my body, echoing in both arms.

Time was running out. I frantically sprinted towards my balcony, slung the door wide open, gained two steps of momentum and launched the hard drive into the Arizona sun – watching as it splashed in the lake below.

An earsplitting bash and a stampede of Secret Services agents immediately followed. They rushed into my room, wearing bulletproof vests on top of plain clothes and surrounded me with their guns drawn. I dropped to my knees and placed my hands behind my head.

"Get on the fucking ground!"

Two agents dragged me to the living room, each pressing a knee into my back as they bounded me in handcuffs.

The last three years of my life were spent picking up girls for professional athletes. I couldn't help but wonder how it all came to this...

I suppose it all began in the third grade when I was suspended for lighting toilet paper on fire – on the very first day of school.

My alarm clock let out a loud and tumultuous shriek, forcing me to roll out of bed in the morning. I rubbed my eyes to escape the confusion, slipped on a pair of corduroy pants, donned my favorite black t-shirt and grabbed a tarnished green backpack from the chair; reluctantly en route to my first class.

While peddling down the street on my BMX bike, I decided to make a pit stop in the woods next to the school. The path of trails lying within were well known as a place the older kids went to smoke†cigarettes and look at stashed Playboy magazines ... and this is exactly what I planned on doing.

Once I arrived at the secret location, I quickly rested my bike against the dirt and clutched a pack of Marlboro red's from my backpack. After scanning the surroundings to make sure the coast was clear, I pulled the white lighter out of my pocket, ignited the cusp and took a deep drag until I coughed uncontrollably ... the telltale sign of a novice.

Buried underneath a stack of leaves and pinecones sat the holy cache of pornography, waiting to be unearthed. I reached for the most recent edition of Playboy, sat down on a moss-covered rock and puffed my cigarette – passing judgment as each page turned.

The fragrance of smoke strongly exuded from my clothes as I gallantly walked through the front door, an aroma most students this age only smelled on their grandmother.

Sitting slouched in a wooden desk, I began to conjure a rebellious way to overcome my boredom. Knowing I was likely the only kid in school with a lighter, I decided my day would be more entertaining if I escaped to the bathroom and set something ablaze.

The first spark was ignited just below the bathroom light switch, melting the plastic down until it resembled hot wax dripping off a candle.

Every roll of toilet paper was then stacked up, engulfed in flames and ultimately burnt to a crisp.

My teacher stood outside the door just moments later. I quickly hid the lighter in my sock.

"Brad, where is the lighter?" she asked.

"What lighter?" I responded, while maintaining direct eye contact.

I wasn't aware the stench of burned toilet paper quickly spread through my classroom and out into the hallway. Because of this, I disavowed any knowledge of her allegations.

After shaking her head in disgust, the teacher grabbed my shirt and escorted me to the principal's office for further interrogation.

I glanced back at the classroom of terrified students, spectators of my plight, and shrugged my shoulders as if I were the product of false accusations.

The principal was an old, pudgy man with weathered skin and glasses far too small for his immeasurable face.

"Brad, we know what you did," he said.

"I seriously have no idea what you're talking about," I replied.

"The whole hallway smells like smoke, and it was coming from the bathroom YOU were in," stated the suspicious principal.

"I don't know what to tell you, but this comes as a surprise to me. I didn't smell anything," I countered.

After making a long series of denials, I finally pulled the lighter out of my sock and slapped it firmly on the desk.

I was probably the only third grader to ever receive ten days out of school suspension, but this was only the beginning of my troubles. Let's just say the next time was more embarrassing.

Then there was the time I got busted getting a handjob in the school stairwell. Unfortunately, this didn't take place in third grade.

It happened during the 10
^th
grade. I strolled into school with my head settled high, wearing a black mesh varsity baseball uniform with teal numbers imprinted firmly on the back. The swagger I carried possessed an air of confidence which falsely suggested I was better than everyone else, simply because I played baseball. As they say; pride comes before the fall.

During the last class of the day, I cruised the halls looking for anything to occupy my time in place of listening to the teacher lecture us about marine biology. I was a straight A student; I only studied the night before a test.

At the tail end of my venture, I noticed a short and petite curly redheaded girl walking in front of me. She wore a blue denim dress with white sneakers, and during this juncture, she was presentable.

Emboldened by the jersey on my back, I approached her and sparked a simple conversation. After whispering a few sweet-nothings in her ear, my hormones took over and lead us to an empty stairwell separating the first and second floor. We then settled on a platform halfway between each floor, leaned up against the wall and instantly began making out.

The truth is I enjoyed breaking the rules and so far I felt accomplished in that respect; I never knew it was so easy to skip class and lock lips with a girl – but she wanted to take it a step further.

Unexpectedly, the situation was escalated when she reached for my zipper and let the hog out of its cage. This brought on a simultaneous emotional response; I was both stunned and honored.

Messing around with girls was already common practice and I considered myself a master of persuasion for my age (Chapter 21 discusses female persuasion in detail), but I still felt uneasy about doing this on school grounds.

However, I couldn't just tell her to stop.

She carried on for the next five minutes, churning away as her cheekbones clinched and her eyes leered towards me with sheer determination.

One part of me wanted to laugh over her resolute demeanor, but the better part of me wanted to continue enjoying the free labor she was providing. Still, I was weary of being caught in the act, and was too busy surveying each entrance for unwanted intruders.

In the end, the paranoia outperformed the pleasure and I politely suggested we split ways while we still had the chance. She nodded in approval and then vanished through the first floor exit without saying a word. I ascended to the second floor exit and then it dawned on me; I didn't even know her name.

Like most people, I slept in until the very last second so I was still partly asleep when I arrived at school the next day. Then the overhead intercom speakers turned on with a personalized announcement; I was about to get an effective wake up call.

"We need to see Brad Stephenson in the principals' office."

Typically it's bad news when you're called down to the principals' office, but at the time I had no idea what it was about. I should have been more aware because I wasn't prepared for the questions to come.

I sat down in a leather seat in front of Mrs. Turner, a strict disciplinarian who rarely gave leniency to anyone. She wore a red turtleneck sweater, low hanging reading glasses and shiny new perm. After taking a deep breath, she set her eyes upon me and smirked.

"What were you doing in the stairwell yesterday?" she asked.

"I wasn't in the stairwell yesterday," I replied, knowing I was screwed.

"That's funny. You want to know why that's funny? Because we have a video tape showing you in the stairwell," she said, smirking once again.

"That's impossible. Show me this video so I can prove it wasn't me." I said, buying myself time until the bitter end.

She escorted me down a carpeted hallway and led us towards the main security office. Luckily for me, the head of security also happened to be my assistant baseball coach and I hoped he would make an attempt to get his starting catcher off the hook.

The coach wore a puffy Washington Redskins jacket over his frail body, our school baseball cap and aviator sunglasses (even though we were indoors). He was sitting in front of a small TV with a built-in VCR, likely geared with damning documentation. After acknowledging me with a quick glance, he pressed play...

I'm not sure if I was more embarrassed having two people watch me being jerked off or if it was the first few seconds of the video when I realized I was wearing my baseball uniform. How could I mount a defense when I had a unique identifier on the back of my jersey? In spite of this, my assistant coach still tried to help me out.

"I don't think that's him" he testified, while adjusting his aviators.

"Hmmm" she murmured in disagreement.

"He has blonde hair, that person has brown hair," he declared.

I stood behind them, heavily amused by his efforts and also grateful; but I knew she wasn't convinced. The tape continued as both their eyes were pierced on the screen, I don't know why but I just couldn't watch.

Once they finished viewing the hard part (pun intended), more footage from the other cameras was brought into play to track my ensuing movements. This eventually revealed the class I came from and my alibi had effectively run dry.

I was taken back to the principals' office, where I was told my redheaded partner in crime had already answered their questions, confessed and identified me in the yearbook. In conclusion, the girl and I were both given ten days out of school suspension.

The worst part–by far–was the day I returned to school after serving my punishment.

Normally a walk of shame involves the act of leaving or exiting a given situation, but for me, it happened when I entered the front door. Everyone I knew was openly snickering and by chance, or bad luck, I saw the girl a few seconds later.

Only this time, she wasn't wearing a nice dress or anything even remotely presentable. In fact, it was quite the opposite. She had the audacity to wear an oversized and ragged Jeff Gordon t-shirt, patched jeans and muddy shoes. She was a walking pigpen.

For the next few months, my teammates referred to the girl as 'Jeff Gordon' and I was given two distinct monikers: 'Stairwell' and 'Stair Master'. However, this story took a backseat when my friends and I were shot at.