November 17, 2013
"Nick, kid, you gotta stop breaking your phones."
"Why? I can just buy a new one." A dismissive shrug told Adam that Nick wasn't really thinking this was a problem. Nick had a way of spending money as soon as he got it, a problem that had been going on in the NFL since before Nick was even born. It had always been a problem. Besides, the point was kind of moot, considering Adam was the salesman at AT&T that he always talked to when he broke his shit. What did he have to worry about? He got a commission off of every sale, anyway.
"That's not the point. Every time you do, you have to go through getting people's numbers again. You lose all your shit."
"I know man, I know."
"Listen. Sync your shit up to Google. All your contacts, all your photos, all your shit. Then every time you drop your phone with no fuckin' case on it, and you get a new one, you just sign in and sync it back up. Boom."
Adam had a point. It was 2013, phones did that kind of shit. They could browse the internet. They could track fitness goals and successes. They had access to countless apps for everything between meal tracking and setting your DVR. Why not let it save all your shit as you add it, so you never have to lose it?
What could go wrong?
"Nick, kid, you gotta stop breaking your phones."
"Why? I can just buy a new one." A dismissive shrug told Adam that Nick wasn't really thinking this was a problem. Nick had a way of spending money as soon as he got it, a problem that had been going on in the NFL since before Nick was even born. It had always been a problem. Besides, the point was kind of moot, considering Adam was the salesman at AT&T that he always talked to when he broke his shit. What did he have to worry about? He got a commission off of every sale, anyway.
"That's not the point. Every time you do, you have to go through getting people's numbers again. You lose all your shit."
"I know man, I know."
"Listen. Sync your shit up to Google. All your contacts, all your photos, all your shit. Then every time you drop your phone with no fuckin' case on it, and you get a new one, you just sign in and sync it back up. Boom."
Adam had a point. It was 2013, phones did that kind of shit. They could browse the internet. They could track fitness goals and successes. They had access to countless apps for everything between meal tracking and setting your DVR. Why not let it save all your shit as you add it, so you never have to lose it?
What could go wrong?
June 9, 2016
Should've known. Should've fuckin' known. Adam had talked Nick into enabling the sync on his phone almost three years ago, and he hadn't even thought of it lately. He got a new phone at least once a year, sometimes for free, and he'd just gotten used to signing in to his account and moving right along. All he ever thought was, huh, really nice having all my contacts there still.
Phone numbers. Email addresses. Snapchat names. Pictures. Video. Saved notes. Saved documents. All of it had been backed up on Google, saved on his computer at home in Los Angeles. He hadn't even been home when that fucking asshole had hacked into his computer. Dude hadn't even known whose computer he was getting into as he went about his normal business of going to shopping sites, trying to buy gift card codes on any account that was logged in. He didn't even know who he was hacking until he successfully logged in to his Amazon account, and saw the name at the top right. Nicholas Offray. Not everyone was a football fan, but everyone at least knew the name from tabloids. Some random asshole that might have been in a different country, even, knew Nick's name.
What had started as a quick in-and-out turned very quickly into more than that. He accessed Nick's email, which led him to his contacts. Phone numbers and email addresses--though, thankfully, nearly everyone in Nick's contact list had a first name only, or a nickname. Nothing terribly identifiable. What was identifiable, however, was pictures. Faces. Videos. Voices. Who was Nick sending pictures of his dick to? Messages, both incoming and outgoing, were on display. Pictures saved in the gallery (for later usage, of course) were found and saved elsewhere.
Oh, shit. Football plays. Call signs. Shorthand. A virtual fucking jackpot for anyone rooting for a rival team, or anyone looking to make a shitload of money. Pictures were one thing--those could be used to humiliate, maybe blackmail. But knowing all the secret plays and how they were called was virtually indispensable, if sold to the highest bidder. And this guy, this fuckin' guy, he knew right where to go with it.
Should've known. Should've fuckin' known. Adam had talked Nick into enabling the sync on his phone almost three years ago, and he hadn't even thought of it lately. He got a new phone at least once a year, sometimes for free, and he'd just gotten used to signing in to his account and moving right along. All he ever thought was, huh, really nice having all my contacts there still.
Phone numbers. Email addresses. Snapchat names. Pictures. Video. Saved notes. Saved documents. All of it had been backed up on Google, saved on his computer at home in Los Angeles. He hadn't even been home when that fucking asshole had hacked into his computer. Dude hadn't even known whose computer he was getting into as he went about his normal business of going to shopping sites, trying to buy gift card codes on any account that was logged in. He didn't even know who he was hacking until he successfully logged in to his Amazon account, and saw the name at the top right. Nicholas Offray. Not everyone was a football fan, but everyone at least knew the name from tabloids. Some random asshole that might have been in a different country, even, knew Nick's name.
What had started as a quick in-and-out turned very quickly into more than that. He accessed Nick's email, which led him to his contacts. Phone numbers and email addresses--though, thankfully, nearly everyone in Nick's contact list had a first name only, or a nickname. Nothing terribly identifiable. What was identifiable, however, was pictures. Faces. Videos. Voices. Who was Nick sending pictures of his dick to? Messages, both incoming and outgoing, were on display. Pictures saved in the gallery (for later usage, of course) were found and saved elsewhere.
Oh, shit. Football plays. Call signs. Shorthand. A virtual fucking jackpot for anyone rooting for a rival team, or anyone looking to make a shitload of money. Pictures were one thing--those could be used to humiliate, maybe blackmail. But knowing all the secret plays and how they were called was virtually indispensable, if sold to the highest bidder. And this guy, this fuckin' guy, he knew right where to go with it.