What the fuck is she talking about?
"You heard wrong." Myra Kitch the She-bitch.
No one has ever dared pit the two Stevenson brothers against each other like she's doing. We're America's football family. Hell, they had my mother on Good Morning America teaching Robin Roberts how to bake the perfect apple turnover and dancing to a live performance by Brad Paisley.
No one but this woman, this very evil woman, with a wider neck than my great-grandmother Stevenson (and that was one big woman), would make it seem as if me and Mikey are jealous of each other's success when that could be the furthest thing from the truth.
My dad's probably cringing right now as he watches me lose some of my composure on national television. He always taught me to be humble and smile when on camera, but I'm not in the mood for either of those things. I can't stand this part of the game. Whoever the hell came up with the idea to interview players ten minutes after they've put their asses on the line for four quarters and come up short was either an idiot or a sadistic genius. No player or coach wants to talk to the press after a loss. No one wants salt poured into their wounds when they've just been sliced and diced for the nation to see.
I can't wait for the day when I get to silence these jerks. The day that I finally get my championship ring. They'll all be kissing my ass when that day comes, because that's all you really have to do to shut reporters up. To shut everyone up.
Is win.
* * *
After wasting thirty minutes of my life in a press conference, I try scrubbing the layer of "loser" off of me in the shower, and when I'm finished I'm not surprised to see that I have a visitor waiting for me at the entrance of the locker room.
I always do.
This one is dressed in very little clothing, has the best tits her money can buy, legs for days, and is staring at me like I'm the answer to all of her problems. I'm not even going to bother asking security how she got all the way through to the player's locker room. A supposedly secure area.
All I have to do is take a look at how her hugeNational Geographiclooking nipples are practically poking through her clingy Red Bull tank top to know. She's one ofthosegirls. The kind that would step over just about anybody to get what she wants, and today what she wants seems to be me.
Typically a visit from a woman like this would be just the kind of escape I'm looking for after an abysmal game like today and a press conference like the one I just had.
They basically line up for us after the games. Cleat chasers. Ball groupies. Normally one will give me a blow job in the car, and if she knocks that out of the park, then maybe I give her a quick fifteen minutes of banging her from behind back at her place. That's all I usually want from girls like her, but I'm guessing by her body language that is what she wants too.
It's what they all want
Quick and dirty. Something to brag to their girlfriends about. Sex with the Gunslinger. Sex that their delusional asses are hoping will spoil it for all the other women after them, so that I'll come back specifically to them for more. But what this woman doesn't understand, just like all the women before her, is that there is no pussy in the world that will make me give up all the others. Forget all the others? That's never going to happen. I'm not built like that. Not anymore.
I've been getting pussy thrown at me since I was damn near fourteen years old. I guess because playing football is like catnip for certain women, case in point, this one standing in front of me licking her lips is a prime example.
Yet for some reason I can't explain my dick isn't jumping at her blatant offer. All I can seem to think about is the straight-laced, uppity woman, wearing the tight pencil skirt and bad attitude, with curves for miles from the restaurant the other night.
The girl who has no idea who I am.
Who doesn't remember me at all.
Twenty-four hours before I met her that first time, I had just been dumped by my fiancée Adrianna. Even though I trashed one of the rooms of the hotel, management was understanding. First of all the wedding was paid for, all my childhood friends and family were in town, and I'm kind of a celebrity. So we decided to stay and we spent the rest of my wedding weekend getting fucked up.
I noticed her the minute I walked into the bar that night. She was throwing back tequila shots and wobbling around on her stool with little grace but boundless beauty.
I listened to her sob story about liking some loser at her job, and then I gallantly tucked her into her hotel room bed without even as much as a peck on the cheek.
It's been a few days since our second meeting, but I still have her business card lying in the center console of my car, and I have no explanation for why I haven't tossed it or used it. In fact, all I've been doing is reading it over and over, and adjusting the hard-on between my legs every time I do.
Sabrina White.
Junior Account Manager, Carson Financial.
Midtown Manhattan.
212-555-5484
"You need aridesomewhere, Gunslinger?"
The groupie's provocative questioning snaps me out of my train of thought like a splash of cold water.
