by Jamie Knight
“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.”
Yeah, but then you would have heard me, you asshole, I think, but I don’t say anything out loud.
My best friend Clarice is always asking me why I don’t do voice dictation, too. I just tell her the truth: I like to keep my cards close to my vest.
No one can read what I scribble down. But for voice recording, you never know who might be listening and stealing your ideas or anticipating what you’re going to ask them in advance.
Case in point: this rude stranger here, whoever he is.
I think about asking him if he’s a Leviathan, but then I think better of it. Of course he is – he just came out of their locker room while I had been trying to follow Mason for a story. There must have been some last-minute change in the roster that I’m not aware of, and I don’t want to look like an idiot for being caught off guard.
I like to act prepared, even when I’m not. It’s something my strict parents taught me. They also taught me a lot of old-fashioned things – not just to always carry a notebook and a pencil in case I had any good ideas and wanted to write them down.
Things like, to never trust anyone, especially men, because they often have bad intentions.
To never watch Rated R movies or listen to rock music, because these things are of the devil.
And to never to have sex until marriage, which is why I’m still a virgin, even though I don’t really want to be.
My V-card has long passed its expiration date, but I haven’t found the right person to give it to. Still, I feel weird, walking around still having it.
This might sound strange, but I swear it makes me feel less confident, which in turn makes it harder to do my job, in which I have to act as tough as a tiger.
Like now, for instance.
I’m not going to show any signs of anxiety over not knowing who this new player is, even though that’s all I feel on the inside.
Fake it ‘till you make it, right?
“You’re a straggler,” I tell him. “You stay behind for extra practice?”
He laughs at me but nods his head as if he appreciates my sense of humor.
I was hoping my rather generic question would get him to open up and say something like, “Yes, as a matter of fact, since I’m brand new to the team and we happen to be playing a very important game in two weeks, I stayed longer to put in some extra time on the field.”
Of course, that isn’t what happens.
It was naïve of me to think it could be.
Instead, he says, “Can’t a man shower in peace? That’s all I was doing in there.”
He nods his head towards the locker room, and I do see that he’s already in his plain clothes, with no football uniform or gear on, so I guess it’s true that he’s just a slow shower-er.
“Fair enough,” I tell him, rather disappointed that he’s clearly not going to give up any juicy information.
“In fact, I have to get my stuff ready so I can leave,” he says. “I was just helping Mason out, due to his limp, but now I have to go back in and deal with my own equipment. Care to come with?”
I look at him in what I hope is the most neutral expression possible, trying not to let my jaw hang open onto the floor. I was dying to get invited into the locker room, but no other player let me in.
This new one must not yet be acquainted with Coach Kramer’s rules: the locker room is for players only; not for members of the press. For a moment, a shiver runs down my spine when I think about what Coach K would do if he found out his rule had been broken. I’m not the one who is on the team and who has to follow the coach’s rules, though, so I breeze right past him, acting as if it’s a normal thing for me to come right on into the locker room.
“Sure, I’ll come in with you,” I say, as he holds the door open for me, as if I’m used to doing this. As if it’s the most natural thing in the world, and not the very first time I’ve gotten to do it. “But only if you’re going to give me a good scoop.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” he says, and I almost can’t believe it.
I want to pinch myself.
But I don’t want to be a fool.
My mom’s voice echoes in my head, reminding me not to be so trusting.
This feels too easy and too good to be true, and I can’t help wondering what the catch is.
Chapter 2 - Stacy
As we head over to the lockers, I wonder how to ask this athlete his name without sounding like a dummy, in the event that there was some big news that broke and that I should have seen. I’m wondering how that could have happened, though. I always stay on top of my game by keeping up with all possible breaking sports news.
Maybe Coach Kramer is trying to keep this new guy under wraps. He might have even told him to stay in the locker room until after all of us reporters had left. And he either hadn’t known I was still out there, or he was a hothead who didn’t like having to follow rules – if so, he certainly wouldn’t be the first Leviathan like that.
I’m secretly hoping he’s such a rebel that he’ll spill a ton of the team’s secrets to me. But so far, he’s only slowly and nonchalantly opening a locker and rifling through whatever’s inside it.
“So, I’m sure you’re excited for the big game coming up,” I mention.
This question is definitely not one of my finest. I won’t be winning any journalism awards for it, that’s for sure.
But it’s hard to think fast about what kind of questions I can ask him that don’t reveal how very little I know about him. It’s more like I know nothing about him at all, and I don’t want that fact to be glaringly obvious.
“Sure,” he says, shrugging. “Aren’t we all?”
This guy’s a tough nut to crack.
What’s his deal, anyway? I start to wonder.
He just likes inviting reporters into the locker room and not talking to them about anything of import?
“I know you’re not a Leviathan.”
I finally decide to just cut to the chase and get to the point. I don’t want to be standing here all night if it’s not going to lead to a good story or at least a quote from whoever this player is.
He stands up straighter when I say that, as if I’m accusing him of something.
“I mean, I know that you weren’t,” I quickly correct myself.
Shit. I’m off on the wrong food already.
“You’re a new player,” I continue. “But what’s the deal? Why are they bringing you into the game so late in the season? Is someone big out with an injury?”
I’ve been racking my brain trying to think of who might have needed replaced, but I can’t think of anyone. Perhaps because Coach Kramer is trying to keep it a secret.
“Maybe,” he says, smirking.
“So, what’s your name, anyway?” I ask him.
“Come here and I’ll tell you.”
Suddenly, I’m not feeling so safe. I tell myself there’s no way he could be up to no good, not here, in his own team’s locker room.
But what if this isn’t his own team’s locker room? I wonder.
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 m
e 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.
I start heading towards the door, telling him, “That’s okay, I think I’ll let someone else have the honor of breaking that scoop,” when he grabs my hand and pulls me closer to him, so that I can’t get away.
“What’s the matter?” he asks. “You don’t trust me?”
I try to wiggle out of his grasp but his grip on my hand only tightens more.
He’s spun me into him and with his other hand he grabs my arm.
What the hell? I wonder. Someone with access to not only the Leviathans’ locker room but also to a specific locker is trying to… what?
What is he trying to do?
I can’t even begin to think of the possibilities, because now pure fear takes over.
I scream, loudly, and do my best to run away from him, although it’s pointless.
“Leave me alone!” I yell. “Let me go!”
“Shhhhh,” he says, putting his hand over my mouth. “The more you scream, the worse it will be.”
I’m elbowing him, kneeing him, trying to bite his hand, doing everything in my power to fight back but it’s of no use. He starts dragging me to a bench in the middle of the room.
But I’ve never been as thankful in my life as I am when I hear the door to the locker room open.
“Hold it right there,” someone says.
I can’t see who it is, because the asshole stranger has had ahold of my hair and was pulling it to keep my head down as he dragged me over to the bench. But I can tell he wasn’t expecting this “intruder,” since he grips me even harder and says, “I was just…”
“You just nothing, you fucking dirt bag,” the voice says, as the man it belongs to crosses the room.
I can tell this much by hearing footsteps and making out the bottom of his shoes as they quickly approach.
And then, almost as soon as it had started, my nightmare ends, thanks to the guy with the strong voice beginning to pummel the stranger who had me in his grip. As soon as the stranger lets go of me, I look up and see the gorgeous eyes of my rescuer.
It’s Elias Turner.
I don’t know what he’s doing here, but I’m sure glad he is.
“Thank you!” I start to sputter, at the same time as he’s asking me, “Are you okay?”
In that brief amount of time, my attacker is getting away, barreling out of the locker room as if his life depends on it – and, knowing Elias’ strength and the anger that resounded in his voice as he called out to the intruder, it probably does.
“I’m fine, I think,” but I’m looking down at my arm where the guy had been holding me tight.
There’s a big red mark, and even a slight gash that is bleeding, from where he had put his nails into me.
“Let me see,” he says, coming up to take a closer look.
It’s mostly just a surface wound and no big deal. But it feels nice to have someone else here, looking after me, so I don’t tell him that.
“I’m going to go get that motherfucker,” he says, after he sees that it’s not too bad. “I can’t believe I let him get away…”
“It’s okay,” I tell him, putting a hand on his arm, to encourage him not to take off after him. “You wanted to see if I was okay. I appreciate it. I think he’s too far gone now and that even someone with your speedy sports stats can’t catch up with him. And I don’t think he’s coming back. Thanks for scaring him off for me.”
Now just stay here with me for a little bit, I want to beg him. Don’t leave me alone.
I feel too stupid to say it out loud. But he seems to hear the words anyway, gathering me into his arms and saying, “I’m so glad you’re alright.”
“Who the fuck would do something like that?” I ask him, my voice trembling more than I’d meant to let it.
“I don’t know,” he says. “But I’m determined to find out.”
Chapter 3 - Elias
I’ve never in my whole fucking life been so glad to be so absent-minded. After I got off the field earlier, my mind had been on the big game coming up, and I’d rushed to my car so that I could get home and try to rest.
This isn’t something I’d admit to anyone, but I get mad anxiety thinking about choking under pressure. It keeps me up at night, with insomnia, and if I don’t follow a strict bedtime routine, I’m likely to not be able to get any sleep at all.
It’s like I’m a fucking toddler or something. But it’s the only way I’ve been able to deal with the stress of being a star wide receiver for one of the best teams in the country.
Once I’d gotten to my car, I’d realized I’d left my phone in my locker and had to head back to get it. When I’d first approached the locker room, I’d been surprised to hear voices, especially one of the female variety.
But then I figured that a reporter had been able to be snuck in for some special quid pro quo. Coach Kramer hated it, but it wasn’t incredibly unusual for a player to trade secrets with a reporter, for favors of a different variety, if you get my gist. I just hadn’t expected anyone on the team to be willing to do so during such a crucial time for us.
Coach Kramer had already given a big speech about how we weren’t to talk to the press or do anything that could ruin the team’s good name or good vibes leading up to the Superbowl. Of course, he’d managed to let that leak to the media, and most journalists knew better than to try to even ask any of us, knowing we wouldn’t break the code. I didn’t expect any
of my teammates to break the code, anyway, so I wasn’t sure what kind of journalist would be ballsy enough to try.
But then I’d realized that the situation was not what I’d assumed, which, to be frank, involved rough sex and some loud noises during orgasm. And the guy in here wasn’t a teammate after all!
I had no idea who he was and at first, I hadn’t even recognized the girl. I had just been trying to jump in and help out.
Now that he’d let her go and her hair is out of her face, I realize I do recognize her, though.
“You’re Stacy Allen,” I inform her, as if she hadn’t already known this. “I mean. Hello. I’m Elias.”
This was a dumb thing to say, too, since of course she knows who I am. Any journalist worth her salt would, and Stacy might be rather new to the scene, but she is already worth a lot of salt. But I am just so completely dumb founded that I’m not even making sense.
I hadn’t even realized I’d taken her into my arms. I had been operating merely on pure instinct and adrenaline by this point.
But, wow, Stacy Allen.
Talk about a journalist with balls, or, um, ovaries.
She is rather legendary around here.
Stacy doesn’t know it, but all the players are impressed with her, and not just because she has curves that would rival a supermodel’s, and a pretty face that is somehow a perfect cross between girl next door cute and make-up ad sexy.
No. Almost all the female sports journalists are attractive – it seems like some sort of requirement to be in her industry – and, while Stacy outshines them all, it isn’t that. It’s that even though we know she’s new to her job, fresh out of school and still in training by her infamous hard-as-nails boss, she’s tenacious as fuck.
No one seems capable of walking off the field or out of the locker room without giving Stacy at least a little something she can run with. And even when we try hard not to – like tonight, for example, since we’re under strict orders from the coach to keep our mouths shut, no matter what – she seems to observe what’s going on so well that she can make a story out of anything she sees happening around her.