1: Evan
The flash of the camera is bright, blinding. It stuns me momentarily, and I twist my cap around so it’s facing the right way in an attempt to shield myself from the press’s wave of frenzied questions, as if the bill is some kind of divider between us.
I haven’t missed being back here, sitting up on this stage in the stadium conference room with waves of reporters staring up at us with dollar signs in their eyes.
With it being the first press conference of the football season for the Missarali Storks here in Montana, they’re excited.
Wild. Like animals.
Security has to remind them to settle down, and after a few minutes, one younger reporter stands with a microphone in his hands, blazing eyes boring into my own.
“Evan, yet another woman has come out claiming to be the mother of your son. What do you have to say about this? Is there any truth in her statement?”
God, I wish I could knock the glasses right off his smug face.
I pinch the bridge of my nose as I exhale, but at this point, questions like this no longer bother me. All feelings towards them have faded, resulting in ignoring the reports and statements made by these women and pretending they don’t even happen. A new one emerges at least every few weeks, and I’m mentally drained by how some people are so desperate for attention that they’d involve a child in their fictional drama.
“This is the first conference of the season, and that’s the first thing you ask me?” I hike an eyebrow up and stare at the reporter.
“Yes, it is. Care to elaborate on it?”
Oh, man, this guy has guts.
The silence that follows from me tells him I won’t be answering his ridiculous question.
The mother of my son is nobody’s concern but my own. However, the media refuse to accept that and are making every effort to involve themselves.
I had high hopes for this season. It’s my last, and since we won the Super Bowl last year, I thought I’d be treated with at least a smidge more respect. But still, the mystery of my son’s biological mother is at the forefront of these people’s minds, because, like they love to remind us, stories on football just don’t sell.
They want drama. Gossip. And it really fucking ruins this for not only me, but my team.
It’s the reason I don’t understand why Coach Darrell wants me up here representing the Storks. He says I’m oneof the best players and should show my face, but I think we’ve both accepted that my presence at these conferences is taking away from my teammates’ success.
“Is that you denying it, Evan?” the reporter continues, even after the microphone has been snatched away from him by a member of security. “Is that you declaring publicly that this woman is lying?”
Shooting Coach Darrell a fed-up look, which he returns, I stand, fingers flexed against the white-clothed table. “I think I’m done here.”
Reporters snap shots of me and call my name as I leave, and as the door to the conference room closes behind me, a sense of relief spreads through my body. This is the part of football that I hate—the fame. It’s not why I do this, and if there were a way to play in the NFL and be faceless, I’d do it. But that’s not reality.Thisis, and I can’t escape it.
Marching to the hangout room in the Missarali City Stadium, my son and Hazel, Coach’s wife, come into view as I push the door open, and the second Leo spots me, he waddles over with open arms.
“Hi, buddy.”
“Finished already?” Hazel stands, placing the book she was reading to my son down on the table. “You were in there for no longer than thirty seconds.”
“Thirty seconds too long,” is my response while I continue to squeeze my son. Hazel watches us, a tint of a smile on her lips, but I can tell by her face she’s disheartened.
Disheartened that yet another nanny fell through for me. That I had to walk out of another press conference. That even though I’m trying my best, it still isn’t good enough.
I’m sure she’s also seen the recent news report of the woman I’ve never met claiming to be Leo’s mother. The pity is written all over her face.
“Thank you for looking after him, Hazel, and I’m sorry.”
She simply shakes her head, offers me a small sigh, and pats my back. “You’re a good father, Evan. Don’t forget that.”
Dipping my chin in a nod, I clear my throat, unsure how to respond to that.
Sometimes, it really doesn’t feel like I am a good father, and another blow of guilt hits me in the chest as I gaze into my son’s eyes—the ones that are looking up at me like I’ve hung the fucking moon.
