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Super Big Game
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There’s a big game coming up so I have to behave.
Stacy Allen is a new reporter, but she’s fierce.
This could wreck both of our careers and the Big Game.
Super Big Game is a standalone enemies to lovers sports romance. Jamie Knight promises to always bring you a happy ever after filled with plenty of heat. And never any cheating or cliffhangers!
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“Excuse me, Mr. Carson, can I please ask you some questions?”
The running back ducks his head as he comes out of the locker room, his head turned away from me, as if he didn’t even hear me, but there’s a look on his face that lets me know that he has. It’s a look of pity. It’s almost the same look you give after someone asks you for change on your way into a gas station, but you don’t have any, so you pretend you didn’t hear them or don’t speak their language.
But instead of spare change, I’m asking for hand-outs of a different form. I need one of these football players to give me a statement about the upcoming Superbowl. Their team, the Leviathans, just won the play-offs and are headed there in two weeks.
As a rookie reporter trying to work the beat and make my way up on the sports reporting circuit, I have to take a lot of rejections like this until I get someone nice enough to bite and to throw me a little bit of a scoop. It’s rough out here, with players not liking to talk because they don’t want to spill the beans on what their predications are for the big game. Plus, this particular team’s coach, Coach Kramer, is known for being tight-lipped.
He probably told his players not to talk to me, or anyone, today, so as not to jinx their chances at the Superbowl or say something stupid that will make them look bad in the press, which is always his number one concern. I’m sure that’s why they all look particularly stand-offish as they rush out of here – even more so than normal.
I’ve been standing outside the locker room – because I hadn’t been invited in – all evening, and there are only a few stragglers left to come out. A couple hurry by me but one is going slow. I hate to bother him, but I also hate to come up dry on my assignments, and my current one is to get some sort of statement or story.
My boss, Monica, will have my head if I don’t.
She is a very insistent boss.
“Mr. Mason. Lucky number 14. How’s your injury healing up?” I ask the next player who walks out of the locker room in a fake friendly voice, trying not to sound too desperate.
He just shrugs and walks by me with a slight limp. I suppose that that fact, combined with the one where he was the last one out of the locker room, could be a juicy tidbit – maybe a story in and of itself.
I take out the small notebook and pen I keep in my pocket and scribble down a note to myself for later.
Mason still injured and slow. Won’t be playing in two weeks? Speculation. But probably accurate. Based on eyewitness testimony of this reporter.
I put my notebook back in my pocket, wondering if it’ll be enough to satisfy my boss. Probably not, I decide, but beggars can’t be choosers.
“You know, you really should get a dictation machine,” someone says, and I spin around to see a player I don’t recognize, leaning against the entryway to the locker room.
He had come out of nowhere and I have no idea who he is.
Had the Leviathans traded a player so late in the season and gotten this guy instead?
Who would they have even given up, though?
That scenario didn’t seem likely, but then again, Coach Kramer is a very unorthodox coach known for doing things that leave even the most seasoned sports commentators scratching their heads and guessing as to the purpose or strategy behind his actions. It’s as if he takes special pleasure in keeping the press and everyone else in the dark.
He also has a bad temper and could replace one player at the drop of a hat, due to any crazy whim that crosses his mind. It could be as simple as the fact that they got a new tattoo he didn’t approve of. He’s known to go on power trips over dumb things, so who knows what this could be about.
It could definitely make for a good story, though, I think.
Could it really be that my persistence in hanging around the locker room to try to talk to players long after it was obvious that no one wanted to, or at least, was allowed to, has paid off? Any other reporters had given up and gone home half an hour ago or more.
“Or at least get a dictation app for your phone.”
The stranger is continuing to dole out his unsolicited advice. He’s rather rude, but he’s the best I’ve got, so I’m determined to try to work with him and get a story.
“They make those these days, you know? High tech fancy schmancy devices, that help reporters keep track of their thoughts in a new-fangled way.”