Total pages in book: 14
Estimated words: 13605 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 68(@200wpm)___ 54(@250wpm)___ 45(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 13605 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 68(@200wpm)___ 54(@250wpm)___ 45(@300wpm)
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.
Instead, he waits for me to approach, his expression slightly rueful. When I’m a few feet away, he says stiffly, “Hey, McKay.”
I stop. “What’s up?”
He gestures in the direction of the briefing room. “I didn’t get a chance to thank you for that back there. You didn’t have to help me, but I appreciate it.”
“No biggie,” I say, relieved he’s saying thanks rather than fuck off, you presumptuous asshole. “Your first presser?”
“That obvious?” He rolls his eyes. But not at me or the question. It’s one hundred percent self-directed.
I’m glad I did what I did. “You’ll get there. It takes time.”
He sighs and drags a hand through his messy hair. “Thanks, man. That was . . . cool. I needed it.”
Glad we’re good. I gesture toward the doorway. “I’ll see you around.”
But Beck doesn’t make a move to leave. He scrubs a hand across his jaw as if he wants to say something else. Finally, he does. “I grew up with dogs. I trained our Border Collie to high-five, play hide-and-seek, salute, and even sit quietly in a room when we had guests over. I don’t know why it’s hard to just say that.”
Ah, hell. I feel for the rookie. I was in his spot a few years ago. It can be suffocating—the pressure to step into the role of the team leader. No wonder he’s been all over the place today. “I’m throwing a barbecue this afternoon. Guess I’m in a charitable frame of mind because I invited some Mercenaries too. I’ll make sure everyone is gone well before curfew. You’re welcome to join.”