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Is he common riff raff who snuck in here while everyone else had left?
My stomach drops.
No.
That can’t be right.
He had a key to get into the locker room.
And another key to that locker.
I let out a tense sigh, telling myself it’s fine. He probably just wants to flirt with me. It’s not a tactic I’m beneath engaging in, to get a good story. Obviously, I don’t want to do anything with him, but if I flatter his ego a bit, he might give me something I can work with.
“Not until you tell me something about yourself,” I tell him, trying to prod for the information I need. “Like your name, maybe?”
“It’s Bob,” he says, grinning. “You gonna write that down in your little notebook? B-o-b. Make sure to spell it right.”
Damn, what an absolute ass this guy is.
Almost all athletes I’ve met in this job have had some degree of cockiness, but this one really takes the cake. Plus, it’s not even cockiness, but downright rudeness that he’s exuding.
Just who does he think he is?
If I wasn’t chasing a story – and being the one to break the name of the new player on the Leviathans who showed up just before the Superbowl would be quite the story – I wouldn’t even bother talking to him.
And it’s obvious to me now that he’s not going to give me anything of substance.
Three letters, one first name,Bob,is all he’s giving up.
Hrmph.
Is his name even Bob?
There’s no way to be sure and he clearly had no desire to follow it up with a last name.
“Well, ‘B-o-b, Bob,’ thanks for letting me know that much,” I tell him. “Pretty sure I can remember it. I’ll just be on my way now, since you don’t seem to want to talk to me after all. I’ll be sure to put out the story that the Leviathans have a new player named Bob, roaming free around their locker room.”
I don’t know why I said it this way.
As if I’m onto him, when I don’t even know what I’m onto.
I’m mostly convinced he belongs here, for whatever crazy reason, and that he’s just an asshole, not that that he’s dangerous. But throwing out a veiled threat seems to do the trick. He leans back against the locker and glares at me.
“Look, there’s no need to get all bitchy,” he says. “I was only asking you to come over here so I could show you my jersey. Then you’ll know the things that really matter: my name and jersey number. You’ll be the first to get the scoop.”
It’s so tempting. I almost fall for it. In fact, I take a few steps towards him and he smiles at me. His mean stare is gone, and it’s replaced by something that looks like delight.
Delight that I’m falling for his trick?
I hear my parents’ harsh warnings in my head.
Don’t trust any man.
They’re not good.
They all have bad intentions.
I’m almost at his locker when I decide it’s not worth it. Maybe it’s a bad idea to listen to my parents’ voice in my head – hell, they’re the reason I’m an awkward virgin at age twenty-one – but I guess I’d rather be safe than sorry.
