A-fucking-gain.
Chapter Five
SAINT
Idon't even bother showering right after the end of the game, because I refuse to get cleaned up to go face the firing squad of reporters. So I just wipe the sweat off of my body with a towel, toss on one of my signature gold Nighthawk hoodies, lift the hood up to make sure it covers my entire head, and walk into the press room.
I really wish I could wear my shades, so they can't start making shit up about what my facial expressions say about my state of mind, but the team will probably try to fine me if I do that. So I compromise by only wearing the hoodie.
The questions start flying from all over the room, and like usual I answer only the ones I want. The way I want.
"Saint, what did you say to your teammates during halftime to try and get their heads back into the game?"
"Whatever I said didn't work, now did it?"
Next.
"Saint, how do you feel about Wachowski's injury?"
Fucking Annoyed. That jerk can't stay healthy to save his life.
"Disappointed."
Next.
"Saint, what do think about some of the official's questionable calls today?"
"They were bullshit."
Next.
"Saint, over here! Do you think you'll make the playoffs this year?"
A random reporter asks this stupid question. I've never seen him in the pit before. He's probably some sort of lame ass sports blogger. He looks all of eighteen years old. I guess the league gives anyone a press pass nowadays.
So Stupid.
"We gotta win at least one game first," I reply in a smart aleck voice.
Next.
"Saint, what do you think you need to do to turn things around this season?"
Now this guy I know. Jim Mathers. He's practically a relic. An old, balding guy from The Football Network, and he always asks the same irritating questions. Every single game.
"Score," I deadpan.
Next.
"Saint, unlike you, your brother seems to be having a fantastic start to his season in Seattle. How do you feel about that?"
And that question comes from a reporter named Myra Kitch. Rhymes with bitch. She's the worst out of the bunch. She's had it in for me since the day the Nighthawks signed me. She probably would play football herself if they allowed women to play in the pros. She's bigger and rougher than half of my offensive line, but because she's a woman, I have to beextra carefulwith how I handle her.
The team's PR people have repeatedly warned me that I need to be careful and make sure to keep my statements politically appropriate. That shit infuriates me though. Where's the equality in that? I should be able to rip her a new one like I do any male reporter when they ask me something asinine.
"That's a stupid question, Myra," I respond. Because it is.
"Is it? The way I heard it you Stevensons are highly competitive, and that you might not be so happy about your brother's success."
