The Baller: A Down and Dirty Football Novel(11)

“Nope.”

“Well, aren’t I the lucky one?”

“You are. Have dinner with me?”

“No.”

“No?” I sort of loved that he was shocked to be turned down.

“That’s right. No.”

“Why?”

“I don’t date players.”

“You went out with that kicker from the Saints last year.”

“I said I don’t date players, not I don’t date athletes.”

For once, Brody Easton didn’t have a witty comeback. I walked away, then stopped and turned back. “By the way, researching my dating history? Creepy. Your balls are definitely going down to the basement.”

***

I took the earliest commercial flight on Monday morning, rather than the late-afternoon team flight home. Mr. CUM didn’t care that I was halfway across the country; he still expected me to be at his mandatory Monday meetings.

When I arrived at JFK, a corporate town car picked me up at the airport, and I headed directly to the office. We made it less than a mile before we were stopped dead in traffic. I reached into the equipment duffle bag I’d carried on the plane to take out my notepad. A slash of black marker caught my eye. Brody Easton’s name was scribbled on the ball, but something was written above it.

I’d really like to f*ck you. 212-538-0321

I shook my head. Then I reached down for the other ball. I flipped it over and found:

Stop shaking your head. You know you want to.

I was a little turned on. And a lot pathetic.





Chapter 6


Delilah

“The Steel just announced a news conference on Tuesday at ten. Rumor is, Tyrell Oden has a more serious injury than originally anticipated, and they’re going to announce a mid-season trade.”

Luckily, the writer next to me kicked me under the table to get my attention.

“Sorry. Can you repeat that?”

Mr. CUM huffed.

I felt the need to make an excuse. “I was going over some interview questions in my head.”

“Your head should be in this meeting. And eyes on me.”

I nodded, and he proceeded to tell me about the news conference, presumably for a second time.

“Already registered,” I said.

“Good.” He sighed. “Now that we have Ms. Maddox’s mind back on the news, why don’t we chat about Brody Easton.”

Ummm. That was where my mind had been. I just couldn’t seem to shake the jackass from my thoughts. “Okay.”

“Phil Stapleton wants a sit-down with Easton for his weekly show. You seem to have established some sort of rapport with him. I saw him toss a ball your way after a touchdown yesterday.”

Two balls. Ones that were in a duffle bag in my office and read, I’d really like to f*ck you, to be exact. And I was pitifully hard-up in the romance department, because the thought of him wanting me had me shifting in my chair.

“I’ve interviewed him a few times, yes. Although I’m not sure you’d label our interactions good rapport.”

Mr. CUM waved a dismissive hand. “Next week, invite him for a sit-down with Phil. We want him on Sixty with Stapleton.”

It was a widely known fact that Brody Easton did not do more than required TV locker room interviews and news conferences. Newspaper articles were even limited to those where he had final approval of the words. He’d declined every in-depth, one-on-one televised interview since he’d earned himself a spot back on the team. “He doesn’t do sit-down interviews.”

“It would be a big score for us. We’re lagging in ratings this year, you know.”

I gritted my teeth. I knew what he was insinuating. Although the truth of the matter was, we were behind in ratings because of irrelevant content. Many of the old-timers stuck to interviews of the players they were friendly with and reported mostly on notable past sporting events. Viewers wanted fresh stories. “I’ll see what I can do.”

I sat through another hour of the wasteful meeting and then headed back to my office. Indie was sitting in my chair, tossing a football in the air. The I’d really like to f*ck you football. And she was smiling from ear to ear.

“Anything you want to talk about?”

“Shut up.”

“Guess the cleanse is about to end. Or did it already?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why? He’s ridiculously hot, and he’s obviously into you.”

“That man isn’t into me. He wants in to me.”

“Same thing.”

“No. There’s a major difference.”

“You know, it’s the new millennium. You can have sex without love and commitment.”

“Yes. I know. I’ve dated.”

“You date guys for a few months, find something wrong with them and then take a six-month hiatus from penises. Wouldn’t it be easier to just have sex and not date? Then you wouldn’t need the six-month celibacy recovery period. You could just f*ck your brains out year-round.”

“That logic made a lot more sense in your head before it came out your mouth, didn’t it?” I pulled a file from my cabinet and began to thumb through it.

“So you’re going to sleep with Easton?”