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Reeves saw me frowning in the direction the coordinator had gone. “You okay?”
“The fuck they want me in there?”
Stone Reeves and Colby Doubard were much better suited for this. It wasn’t uncommon for me to still be on the field doing those interviews, while they’d shower and go to the press room. They were the better team spokespeople, though Reeves was hands-down better than Doubard. Colby typically gave shit answers and the sports channels spent half the next week deciphering whether he was being sarcastic or whether he truly felt donkeys could play better than we had.
Colby burst out laughing. “Oh, damn. You piss Kim off lately? She decides who does the press room.”
Reeves glared at our quarterback before shaking it off and lifting his chin toward me. “The kids are with my parents this week, so Dusty is hoping to do a dinner Tuesday night. Want to come?”
I shook my head.
Doubard groaned. “No, man. You gotta come. And we told Dusty you’re seeing someone. You gotta bring her too.”
“I can’t. Things are going on right now.”
Reeves smirked at me. “Yeah. I’m going to tell my wife you’re coming, and when you don’t show up, I’ll play dumb. That’s on you, buddy.”
I growled.
Colby laughed, patting me on the back. “Can’t wait to meet your woman.”
Well, fuck.
No one wanted to go against Stone’s wife. I was trapped and everyone knew it.
I’d headed for my area of the locker room when I heard my name shouted.
It was the same coordinator as before. He held up his arms, a clipboard in one hand. “What are you doing?”
“I was going to shower, check my phone, and then go in.”
“No. Go in now. You’re up first.”
“Why?” There had never been this urgency before. And also, we lost. The winning team went first.
He turned, shrugging. “Just go. I don’t know. I’m only told what I’m told. Get it done, and then you can take off.”
I still had my helmet in hand, but knowing Lawson, he’d yell at me if I even tried to put it down, so I headed out with it still with me.
Just as I left the locker room, Foreman, one of our running backs, was checking his phone. He looked up at me and froze. His eyes bulged out. “Shit!”
I gave him a look but kept moving. I’d decipher that later.
When I got to the press room, a spokesperson was at the microphone but waved me over when he spotted me. “Come in.”
The room fell eerily quiet as I approached and took my seat. I was still in full uniform. Sweaty as fuck. As the spokesman stepped down, he gestured to my helmet. “Would you like me to hold that?”
“No.” That was only for me or the people whose job it was to handle our equipment. I scowled at him, putting the helmet on the table.
A guy shouted from the back, “Brett, can you take that down? We can’t see you.”
Another reporter smirked. “Yeah, Brett. They want to see your pretty face.”
I mean-eyed the second guy and glared at the first before I put the helmet at my feet.
Some laughter rippled through the crowd before a tiny beat of silence. I wasn’t saying shit until an actual question was asked
“How’d you feel about the game, Brett?”
