Page 7 of Fumble

“She’s my personal assistant for the next three months. Tell me how I stay away.”

“Use your tricks on her the same way you avoid a football fluffer after you sleep with her. Don’t be alone with her and be the asshole we all know and love.”

“Fuck off!”

“In all seriousness, you can’t go there, bro. You know it as well as I do. You can’t be nice to this girl. Promise me.”

“Yeah, yeah. I know. Dennis would murder me. He’s been like a father to me.”

“Exactly. Now stop whining like a little bitch. Go and do your interview, and I’m sure you’ll find someone else’s tasty assistant to keep you busy tonight.”

“Good idea. Thanks, man.”

I end the call and head inside, a newfound plan of attack. The only way I’m going to protect myself and my friendship with Coach is to put as much distance between Faith and me as I feasibly can. Cutting her slack and riding alone with her in my car has to stop. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not some feral jock who can’t control himself. I fuck who I want when I want because I choose to, but I’ve never had such a strong and immediate reaction to a woman who couldn’t be further from my type. I can’t think of a single woman I’ve slept with who remotely resembles any of this girl’s qualities. It’s a good thing. I just wish it was in response to someone ten years older and not related to anyone I know.

Malcolm walks me through the interview questions as if I haven’t done all of this a hundred times before. I spend the next hour with people fussing over me—hairstylists, makeup artists, and wardrobe assistants. How much can you do with a guy’s hair? I thought the suit I was wearing was sharp, but apparently, they want me in something less expensive. They don’t want me to come across as entitled. What the fuck is that about? I came from nothing and worked my ass off for a full ride to college. I gave one-hundred percent every single day of my career to earn my place in NFL history, and now they think I’m entitled? Money didn’t make the man, the man made the money.

By the time we’re live on the air, I’m in a foul mood, but I know I need to keep smiling for another hour. And ever the professional, I have the interviewer laughing and showering me with praise by the first commercial break. Brittany Dobbs is a notorious flirt—her career was built on the celebrities she’s slept with. Within seconds of the On Air light going out, she leans over, her snake-like tongue wetting her lips as she reaches out to grab my knee.

“Want to go for drinks after this?”

“Sure.” I have no intention of hooking up with her, but if I piss her off halfway through the show, she’ll have my nuts in a vice—her reputation precedes her. I’ve had teammates who’ve dipped their stick and just about had it ripped off when they didn’t call.

“I know a great little club we can go to. The VIP lounge is very private, and the staff is… discreet.” I try not to laugh at her attempt to come across as anything other than a black widow in the making.

“Why ever would we need discretion? We’re two single consenting adults, free to do… whomever we want.” A wry smile spreads across her face, but I don’t find it remotely sexy. She follows my eyes over to where Faith stands behind the camera.

“Yes, we’re consenting adults, not like that coffee girl you brought in. Is she on some high school summer placement?” She’s touched a nerve, and she knows it. I struggle to remain composed.

“She’s Dennis Fairchild’s daughter. Just graduated top of her class at Stanford. I said she could learn the ropes on this press tour.” She might be an opportunist jock hunter, but Coach garners respect from everyone who knows anything about football. And she knows that someone like him could sink her career if she got on his bad side.

“How nice of you. Taking her under your wing. She’ll soon see how cutthroat this business is.”

“Indeed.”

A studio assistant brings a welcome interruption.

“We’re back on in one minute, Mr. Vaughn.” Everyone returns to their positions, and in the blink of an eye, Brittany flips the switch on her persona. We all put on a front for the cameras, but there’s something about her, something that makes me uneasy.

We get through the rest of the interview without issue. My agreement to take her out after the show has definitely put some spring in her step. The compliments rain down like confetti, and I do my best to answer her questions, not to satisfy her but for my fans. They deserve the best of me.

When the interview is over, Faith appears at my side, a slight annoyance in her voice as she looks our host up and down. “Do you need me to do anything for you, Mr. Vaughn?” I’m aware of Brittany watching our interaction with bated breath. I hate to see the disappointment in Faith’s eyes, but if I want to keep my distance, it’s better that I live up to the stories she’s heard about me.

“I’m not here to hold your hand, Miss Fairchild. Do your job. Figure it out, or I’ll find someone who will.”

I turn my attention to Brittany. “You ready for that drink?”

“Let me grab my things and change.”

“I’ll wait in my car.” I brush past Faith, repeating my mantra in my head. I’m inundated with requests for autographs and photos as I make my way out of the building, signing as many as I can before ducking into the back seat. I make a few calls while I wait for Brittany.

Ten minutes later, she appears, her makeup and outfit understated. She looks normal, sexy even. She gives my driver directions before turning her attention to me.

“You survived being interviewed by The Viper. I know what people think of me, Mr. Vaughn, but they don’t know me.” I’m pleasantly surprised by the change in her demeanor.

“I know better than most that things aren’t always as they seem.” We move slowly through the New York traffic, our conversation flowing freely. Maybe I was wrong about her. A night out with a beautiful woman and some drinks are just what I need.

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