I take his question as a good sign.
“I’m going to say we’re just friends.”
He comes to a complete halt. “And my daughter is okay with that?”
This guy gives me whiplash.
I scratch my neck, clearing my throat. “It was Lilly’s idea, sir.”
He nods, and we walk into the conference room.
The owner is present too, and I put on an impenetrable mask. This conversation won’t be comfortable.
It isn’t. They go into a thirty-minute-long lecture about consequences. How I must behave, chastising me like I am a fucking kid. But when they say how Coach Parker went to bat for me, my throat clamps up, suddenly emotional.
I don’t even care about the fine I have to pay for my misbehavior. Thankfully, they don’t ask me if I regret it because I don’t. That asshole had it coming.
I wait with Coach in the interview room, waiting for the press conference to begin.
“Thank you,” I say, emotions clear in my voice.
He spears me with an intent look, making me stand straighter. “Don’t disappoint me.”
“I won’t, Coach, sir.” I don’t even know what to call him now.
“In here, I’m coach, outside I am sir,” he groans and shakes his head as if coming to terms with something. “For now.”
That has my hopes high enough, I don’t get fazed by the assholes who have never played before, but think they know better about what and how I should behave on and off the field.
I can’t lose my temper again. That is exactly what they’re after. Once these guys smell blood, they’re hungry for more—wild beasts, greedy to claw into your jugular and feast on your misery.
I won’t jeopardize my legacy by becoming someone known to have a temper.
“Coach, can you give us some insight as to your relationship with Ian Weston? Surely there’s friction between you two. He’s with your daughter, and that changes the dynamic,” an arrogant journalist asks from the crowd.
“Ian is an incredible football player and a man I’m comfortable being friends with my daughter, who is an adult and can do as she pleases,” Coach says straightforwardly.
“You lost your temper for just a friend, Ian?” another one asks me.
If these assholes want to go that route, fine by me. “So, let me get this right. You would allow a drunk guy to insult and grope someone who matters to you when she told him no repeatedly?”
That shuts him up, and another one says, “What are you hoping for this season? Your gameplay has been up and down.”
That’s what they remember, my two lost games where my head wasn’t in it, while completely ignoring all the other wins. Fucking pricks.
“On the field, I always strive to give my best. But I’m also human, a fact everyone seems to like to forget. I struggle sometimes, just like everyone else. I love the game, the fans.”
“Do you think you can win another Super Bowl?”
“That’s the plan.”
They direct their next questions at the coaches. I am about to stand up when someone asks. “Will we see more of you and Miss Parker?”
“We’re friends,” I mumble. “So, yes, you will.”
I know they’re going to fucking hunt for every moment of us together. Just like that, my mood threatens to plummet.
Leaving the conference room, I pace around the break room as my coach enters. “You did well in there.”
