“Oh, yeah?” Dylan says lightly. “What am I wearing?”
I can’t believe what I’m hearing. His agent dresses him, and they pay for rooms just to take pictures in?
“Why don’t you just use the room you already have?” I whisper to Dylan. “Isn’t it the same thing?”
The elevator doors open, and we quickly move down the hall.
But Tim apparently has super-good hearing and overhears me. “Oh, no. You can’t do that. It makes no sense.”
“Why not?” I say.
“Because.” Tim stops at room 1820 and opens the door. “Here we are. In you go, Dylan boy. Jaylie, you can stay out here with me.”
“Jasalie is coming with me,” Dylan says firmly as he takes my arm and brings me with him into the room.
“I’ll be waiting for you when you come ou…” Tim’s voice is drowned out as the door closes behind us.
“Hi,” Dylan says to the woman standing inside the room. “I’m Dylan Wild. This is Jasalie Gordon. Nice to meet you.”
“Hi, I’m Shayna. Dylan, I’m here to get you ready for your photo shoot. These dark pants will look perfect with this cream button down. And we’ll roll up the sleeves to make it more casual and rugged looking.”
I take a seat in a chair as Shayna begins to work on Dylan’s hair. A football player being made up and primped. This might be the weirdest moment of my life.
* * *
We go into the “interview” room next. The photo shoot takes forever. And it feels like a waste of a whole lot of film to me. The photographer must take twenty shots of Dylan from the same exact angle.
“Just like that—perfect, Dylan,” over and over again, and “That looks fantastic, don’t move.”
Of course, Dylan does look gorgeous. The thin fabric of the shirt shows off the outline of his chest muscles. His pants hug his ass in all the right places, and when he strides across the room, I nearly fan my face. I make sure to keep my gaze away from his crotch.
Well, okay, I pretend to keep my gaze away. Really, I look in that area as much as I can without making it obvious. Dylan’s pants don’t just fit him well in the back—their snug style shows off all of him quite nicely. Fine, so I have to use my imagination a bit—the pants aren’t exactly a football uniform. But I’m so wired right now I feel like I’m halfway to orgasm just by watching him pose.
“So, Dylan.” Mike smirks as he begins the interview a few minutes later. “You’ve been in the league for six years and finally reached the pinnacle at age twenty-eight. What’s it like to be the hottest guy on the planet right now?”
I roll my eyes. Mike has a large body but a face like a skinny hawk. I’m sitting in a tiny space on the floor as far away from the interview area as possible. That’s where Tim told me to sit; he said I’d be more comfortable out of the way. Dylan actually can’t see me after all. He’d have to crane his neck in an uncomfortable manner in order to catch a glimpse of my left foot. Chances are, it’s not really worth it. But from my angle, I can see him and Mike.
“I don’t really pay attention to that stuff,” Dylan says. “You know, I just like to play football.”
“How does it feel having everyone love you?” Mike asks.
“They love you when you win,” Dylan says matter-of-factly. “When you don’t win, they don’t. I had a lot of years in the league without winning. So I’m enjoying this now, believe me, but I’m not naïve to it, either. I know that popularity is a fleeting thing. That’s why I focus on football.”
Mike nods briefly like he didn’t actually hear or truly understand one word of what Dylan just said. I myself found his answer fascinating. Sports are so strange, how somebody always has to lose. I had a hard enough time with one art teacher’s criticisms, and I can’t imagine an entire region of the country pressuring you to succeed for them. In sports, you aren’t okay unless you win, and a lot of times, luck plays too big of a role.
“But come on, you must do something besides football,” Mike says. “Right? Something else interest you?”
“Well, I’m really busy with football so much of the year,” Dylan says. “Right now, I have a little time off, which is great. But the season takes up most of your time, plus all the training. You can’t do much else.”
“Hmmm,” Mike says. “Do your girlfriends get bored of you only talking about football?”
Mike works for one of those new “trendy” magazines geared toward health fanatics but not necessarily athletes. He surely was not an athlete himself, or he’d be more interested in Dylan’s answers. And he’s clearly a jealous asshole.
“Nope,” Dylan says lightly.
I don’t understand why Dylan’s not saying anything in his defense. I want to scream out that Dylan doesn’t only talk about football, that he’s smart and well-rounded and a good listener. But he’s letting this guy believe the stereotypes.
“Wow.” Mike exhales loudly. “I don’t know how a chick could handle that. Do you think you get away with more than the rest of us subnormal males do? You know with your playboy looks and all?”
