“I want more dirt than what they get on their pants from sliding.” When I protested, he responded with a patronizing, “Sweetheart, I didn’t hire you because you were the best. I hired you because you were hungry. Now use that hunger to get us the story no one else has.”
I ignore the unease scratching down my back as I say, “Back to the topic of roster changes, it seems you’ve changed your personal roster again.”
Tenny’s brows scrunch.
“Last night, you were photographed with your arm around a red-headed woman at a Scottsdale hotspot, but it’s been less than a month since your breakup with makeup mogul Kiera Brown. Are you hoping a new woman will help with the new season?”
A part of me cringes as my journalistic integrity dies, but it’s well-established that Tenny is even more of a player off the field than he is on it. His first year in the minors, he had eight public relationships and a staggering twelve the following season. Numbers like that aren’t just a red flag; they’re a flashing neon caution sign visible from space.
Had a younger version of me felt betrayed and a little heartbroken when the man I shared an earth-shattering kiss with turned out to be a huge womanizer? Absolutely. But did I also dodge a missile-sized bullet by not being able to get in touch with him that fall semester? Undoubtedly.
It’s the one positive thing that came from my accident.
“What are you asking, exactly?”
“I’m just pointing out that you had…what, six public relationships last season?”
I don’t miss how his shoulders tighten, how he stands a little straighter. “You’re keeping score?”
“It’s not hard to notice the pattern. With relationships imploding off the field, one begins to wonder if that kind of turmoil might eventually spill onto it.”
Tenny rears back like I’ve slapped him. “Nothing affects my game. I’m a professional.”
“You’re admitting that these relationships are meaningless to you? Is that why you move on so quickly?”
A flare of anger flickers through his eyes, and he looks past me—briefly—to the camera.
“That’s not what I said.”
His voice is even. Controlled. It’s nothing like the version of him that does charity hospital visits and stays twenty minutes longer than he has to, signing autographs.
“Then what are you saying?”
Behind the lens, Daphne shifts her weight. I can feel the subtle disapproval in that tiny moment. This line of questioning wasn’t on the pre-interview rundown.
Tenny exhales slowly through his nose. His lips tilt upward, but it’s a sad excuse for his normally jubilant smile.
“What I’m saying,” he replies carefully, “is that who I date has nothing to do with how I perform on the field.”
“But you’ve talked about growth this season.” I keep my tone measured, almost conversational. “That requires stability. Accountability.”
A tendon jumps in his neck.
“I show up every day,” he says. “I put in the work. I don’t miss games. I don’t cause problems on the field or in the clubhouse.”
“That’s not what I asked.”
Tenny’s stony silence feels like a shove to the chest.
“My personal relationships are none of your business.”
Heat crawls up my neck, but I push through it. “You’re saying every breakup has been mutual? Clean? No fallout?”
When Tenny looks to Daphne for help, I feel slimy, like I’ve been dipped in a vat of expired hair grease.
Then something in him hardens, and my breath gets trapped in my lungs.
“I’m done,” he tells me, voice icy. “If you want to ask about baseball, I’ll be happy to answer any question, but leave my personal life out of it.”
