I dislike being the reason these assholes make money. They have zero respect for us.
“I think what Evan is trying to say here is that we all have a passion for football,” Bennet begins, clearly having taken notes on the media training I’d assigned him, “and we’re excited about our next game. We want everyone else to look forward to it just as much as we are, so why don’t we discuss that instead?”
Darrell pats him on the back, agreeing, offering him a proud smile.
The response is clearly practised and polished, but it doesn't matter if it makes the team look professional.
A reporter cackles. His stick-thin body looks like it’s about to crumble under the camera's weight hanging from his neck. He takes the microphone being held out to him, clutching at it with his lanky fingers. “Unfortunately, boys, stories about football don’t sell, and we have a living to make.”
I stop myself from criticising the man. I get it. I do. They have families to feed, but exploiting us is not an ethical way to earn a living.
“Nathan.” I mentally roll my eyes as he points at me. “What do you have to say to the people who view your team as a bunch of thirsty players, only interested in satisfying themselves with the cheerleaders as if they’re toys? Don’t you think they deserve more respect than that?”
I huff. I’m tired of this question. It’s the same every time, but they just word it differently, trying to catch me out and get me to say something less than favourable about our cheerleaders—to paint me as a sexist pig.
Nobody on my current team has touched one of the cheerleaders. The people who did last season were let go by Peter for creating too much drama, and Renee did the same with the women.
“I believe we’ve been over this, but I’ll reiterate it for you. The relationships and interactions you saw between players in my team and our cheerleaders last season were consensual. I can assure you we treat women with the utmost respect, and if I discover anyone on my team to be doing any less than that, then I’m not afraid to call them out on the behaviour.” I grind my teeth together. “We’re here to play football, though. That is our main focus.”
More humming. More scribbling. More flashing of cameras.
It bores me.
My mind wanders back to that moment with Mae in Darrell’s shed. Even though a monstrous, furry spider was on her back, I wasn’t focused on that. I was looking at the curve of her lumbar. The way her palms lay flat against the shed wall as she bent over for me. How her legs parted, shaking slightly. It had made me immediately go hard, so thank fuck it was dark in there.
I can’t get a fucking boner over Mae Bexley.
Another question aimed at Bennett through the microphone brings me back to reality.
The reporters leave me alone after my professional answer, realising they can’t get anything juicy out of me today. They look at me with their stupid faces, though—as if they’re begging me to open up and tell them about what’s happening in my personal life.
What personal life? I don’t have time for anything else.
Mae’s comment about me messing with women at the animal shelter bothered me. I was grouchy with her, and maybe I shouldn’t have been, but hearing that she felt that way intensified the irritation flourishing in my chest.
She and that mouth of hers get on my nerves.
Have I slept with women? Of course. But do I see myself as someone who toys around with their emotions and drops them once they’ve given me what I want?
Absolutely not.
That’s something I would never do.
I have more respect for them than that.
I usually don’t care much about what people think of me. I ignore it because I know it’s not the truth. Sure, it’s frustrating at times, but it doesn’t keep me up at night.
But knowing Mae thinks the same… it doesn’t sit right with me. I don’t want her to see me that way. I want her to know I’m more than the headlines.
The conference is over quickly. Darrell cuts it short after a reporter asks one of my teammates why he looks like he’s gained a bit of weight, and I order the sleazy reporter to be banned from all future conferences.
The fucking nerve.
Evan leans up against the wall in the corridor, clamping his eyes shut and cursing under his breath.
“You okay?” I ask him, my mouth downturned. It was a shit show in there, and he received the brunt force of the hit.
He opens his eyes, looking drained—like all the life has been sucked out of him. “Yeah.”
