Page 25 of Force At Third

“Julie, you’re up,” I cut her off, calling on the next reporter.

“Are you currently in a relationship?”

“I’ve been in a relationship for years. I just haven’t had the opportunity to put that ring on my finger.” I shrug. “This may be the year.”

“Are you referencing marriage or base?—”

“Stockton, it’s all you,” I say over her.

“We heard that the stadium owners had their hands full tonight with a girl fight in a concession line; how are they going to keep folks safe here? Then add Frangula’s obvious attempt to take you out on third, not once but twice. Does that have anything to do with why Coach T isn’t out here tonight?”

“Let’s back it up to a fight.” I shake my head. “If the rumor is true, I’m sure it was dealt with swiftly. The security team is top-notch. The facility is wired with surveillance cameras; if you mess up, you’re out, not just for that game but for good. Anyone who enters the facility passes through a metal detector. You’re probably safer here than at your grandma’s house. Part two: Coach T’s good. He’s busy keeping his players in line.” I give a laugh for the viewers. “He reminded me that I was on for press tonight or I’d have missed all of you. Twenty-three Jags are not in this room, and I’m sure his absence is due to the fact he’s dealing with whoever needs his attention.”

“You skated the question about Frankie Fr?—”

I nod to another reporter. “Bertie, what’s on your mind?”

“Are you on the injured list for the next game?”

I look around, confused. “Why? Did something happen to me that I don’t know about? Was there something on the interweb that I missed?”

Half the room laughs.

A woman I have never seen asks, “Did your long-time relationship with Cody Vander’s have anything to do with the fight Monday night?”

“Vander and I have played for the Jags?—”

“I’m talking about your off-the-field adult team play, specifically with the ladies,” the little shit cuts me off, giving me a taste of my own medicine.

I scratch my head. “I mean, neither Vander nor I are what one would call Knights in shining armor, but we’ve never crossed a line or swords.”

The other half of the room laughs at this.

“It’s a tough crowd tonight,” I observe. “Speaking of the Knights, did you all know Roman Hart’s kid brother plays in the NFL for the Knights?”

Someone calls out, “Old news, Locke.”

“Well, damn, I thought I was giving you some insider info.”

From somewhere in the back of the room, I hear, “I heard you were adding yoga to your training regimen. How is that going?”

“The instructor was great.” I pause for effect. “He bent over backward for us.”

A handful of reporters actually get the joke.

“So, you’re not a yoga fan?” another asks.

“How can I not be a fan of yoga; it’s the reason yoga pants were created.”

Brisa enters the room and walks to the front. “Thank you all for coming in tonight. These three no doubt need to eat, get back to their families, get some sleep, and be back here tomorrow to win us a game.”

When I walk out, Ranger—aka Tarzan—stands there against the wall, eyes on his wife.

“She preg?—”

“Not a discussion to be had.”

Something about how his jaw tightens has me sensing not anger but pain, so I curb my need to keep up the verbal sparring that he and I have had since we met and shut my mouth.

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