Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Whatever. We don’t need to be friends. We’re opponents, after all.
2
SNOW IN AUGUST
Jason
A little later, after our separate practices have ended and everyone’s showered, Reese escorts Beck and me to a media briefing room inside our facility. Reese chats about baseball and a new food truck she and her husband are obsessed with. I trade some food recs and weigh in on some pitching changes, and our small talk makes it even more glaringly obvious that Beck barely says a word.
Maybe he’s just a quiet guy. This is my turf, after all. I could try to make him feel more welcome, but we’re at the room a few seconds later.
“The usual crew is here,” Reese says when we reach the doorway.
“I’ll be sure to invite them all to my barbecue later,” I say to her with a wink.
“Have fun, Jaybird,” she says.
I bound up the steps to the podium on the low stage. “Hey, there,” I say with a smile as I reach the mic. I ask Megan from the local radio station how her daughter’s doing, then ask Jon from a popular sports site whether his fantasy baseball team is still killing it.
Once that’s done, Megan stands and sticks out her phone to record. “Opponents have been trying to figure out your weakness for the last few years. Is it . . . kittens?”
I just shrug helplessly. “I was hoping to keep that a secret, but it seems the cat’s out of the bag.”
Several reporters groan, but they’re laughing at the dad joke too. That’s the thing about handling the media—jokes that are so bad they’re funny can make you likable.
That’s my goal when I talk to the press. Charm them, keep them on my side, and win over more fans day by day. It’s not easy being the only openly gay starting quarterback in the league, so I made it my mission when I won the coveted job to be accessible to the press and as upbeat as possible. The latter’s not hard—I’m a glass-half-full guy.
After a few more questions, I’m done at the lectern. When I pass Beck, I give him a murmured good luck and a smile.
Least I can do, I suppose.
He simply nods. He keeps his eyes forward and his shoulders square.
I head to the doorway, watching from there as the broody guy drags his feet toward the steps. When he reaches the mic and lifts his face, he looks like he wishes a fire alarm would go off.
Ohhh. Maybe that’s his issue? Public anxiety?
A sports talk host goes first. “You seemed to get along well with the orange tabby. Are you an animal person?”
That’s a softball question for the newbie if I ever heard one. But Beck just nods awkwardly for an answer.
He says nothing.
Silence follows from the press corps like they’re waiting for more.
Beck glances at the doorway, a flicker of longing in his eyes.
Another reporter sticks up a hand. “Did you have pets growing up?”
They’re still going easy on him. Makes sense since this is a presser about kittens.
Beck shifts on his feet, tugs at his T-shirt. “Yes,” he says.
Megan pipes up. “Are you looking forward to tomorrow’s game?”
He might be breaking out in a cold sweat. “Yeah.”
I cringe for him. This is like having a dream where you go to school naked. Now I feel bad for thinking he was hot and cold. He’s just . . . really fucking uncomfortable.
Jon’s arm goes up. He clears his throat. “Jon Bastion. The Sports Zone.”
Stop, please stop. Someone should put Beck out of his misery. I glance at Reese, who stands a few feet away. Her brow is knitted, a sign she’s going to nix this Q and A soon.
“Tomorrow is your first game as a starting quarterback,” Jon begins. “Your dad and brother were quarterbacks too, but you’re the first to play in the pros. How are you feeling about hitting the field?”
Beck blinks. Straightens his spine. Grunts out, “Fine.”
Oh, man.
I’ve got to do something. I can’t wait for Reese or anyone else. I bound back up the steps to the podium and lean into the mic. “Out on the field, Beck was saying he looks forward to beating us tomorrow, but c’mon. I told him there’s a better chance of snow in San Francisco in August, didn’t I?”
He cracks a small smile. “You did. Get ready for it to snow.”
After I do a quick one-on-one interview with Megan at the end of the presser, I double back to the locker room to grab my phone and keys from my stall. Time to get out of here. There’s a grill in my backyard calling my name.
As I walk down the corridor to the players’ lot, Beck pushes open the visitors’ locker room door and steps into the hall, peering both ways as if checking for lurking press. When his gaze lands on me, I brace myself just in case we’re back to the “get away from me” routine.