“I’m here for the clinic,” I say, steadying my voice. “These questions can go through the team rep.”
I aim my gaze over their heads toward the turf where the drills are set up. I keep my tone calm, the way you talk to a dog that’s barking too loud because it thinks it’s in charge.
The reporters do not care.
A volunteer tries to step in. A staffer waves at the media line. None of it matters.
Then a voice cuts through, familiar in the worst way.
The ruthless one. The guy who always seems to show up when there’s blood in the water and a chance to get his face on camera.
He steps forward, mic angled just right, smile sharp as broken glass.
“Is it true you’ve hired a relationship firm to clean up your image?” he asks.
My blood spikes.
The field goes quiet in my peripheral. Not completely, but enough that I notice. A couple parents glance up. A few kids slow down, sensing the shift without understanding it.
ERS.
They’re already sniffing around it.
Something cold settles in my chest, heavy and clean, like a door closing. I don’t respond, because I don’t trust what will come out if I do. I’m one wrong syllable away from a headline that reads like a confession.
I swallow hard and keep my eyes forward, past the cameras, past the microphones, past the people who want to chew up my life and spit it out in a thirty-second clip.
I want to tell them to get away from these kids.
I want to tell them to leave me alone.
Instead, I turn toward the field, because the clinic is still happening and those kids are still waiting, and I refuse to let my mess become their moment.
But as I walk, I can feel the press at my back like a shadow I can’t outrun.
I force myself onto the field like nothing happened.
Like I didn’t just have my life interrogated ten feet from a group of nine-year-olds in football cleats.
The grass smells clean. Fresh. Honest. That helps. Football fields don’t care who’s trending. They just wait for you to do the work.
The kids spot me immediately.
“Cam!”
“Throw it to me!”
“No, me!”
They swarm like happy chaos, all elbows and laughter and untied shoelaces. A couple of them bounce on their toes like I might vanish if they don’t keep moving.
My chest loosens a notch.
This is why I like these clinics. Kids don’t want explanations. They want spirals and jokes and someone to tell them they’ve got a great arm even if the ball goes sideways.
I toss one football high and easy. A kid jumps, misses it, then laughs so hard he has to bend over.
“Again!” he shouts.
