Page 132 of Kiss Me Tonight

I’m. No. Hero.

Here’s what I am:

A two-time Super Bowl champion.

MVP winner—seven seasons.

Heisman Trophy winner.

An alleged football god. (I don’t regularly call myself this, but we’ll go with the approximately 10,241 searches that popped up with my name when I typed “football god” into Google).

A former host of a sports show.

Those are the facts—minus the football-god one—but they don’t make me infallible. I’m human, just like you. I make mistakes, just like you. I break hearts and do stupid shit and have regrets—Just. Like. You.

If you’ve been in the limelight for any amount of time, you start to learn certain things. When a magazine or a gossip rag drags your name through the mud, you’re told to take it at face value. They don’t know therealyou.When rumors catch fire and you’re standing in line at the grocery store, only to see your face staring back from a tabloid magazine, you’re told to feel grateful that you’re getting any attention at all.

Attention means money and money is always good.

I used to think so.

Hell, there wasn’t much I wouldn’t do for a paycheck.

Go on a dating TV show for a six-figure bonus from my job? Done.

Accept even more cash slipped under the table from said dating show, just so they could get a “celebrity” on the books and ramp up audience numbers? Check that shit off, I’m there.

I repeat: I’m no hero.

I’ve crossed so many lines that, ultimately, I got my ass kicked to the curb by a woman with a sweet heart who only wanted to find love. I deserved that rejection. Maybe I even deserve to have my name dragged through the mud all over again by sites likeCelebrity Tea Presentsand others.

Maybe I deserve that.

But innocent people don’t.

My girlfriend doesn’t.

Her teenage son doesn’t.

Savannah Rose—the sweetheart mentioned above—did not sign up to have her name thrown into the trash, right alongside mine, just because she went about an unorthodox way to find her other half.

When I contactedThe Athlete’s Reckoningabout my plans for this article, they advised me that I’m committing career suicide.

I told them I don’t care.

Maybe I’m in the minority for signing up to a dating show, but I amnotalone in having my privacy and the privacy of those around me ripped to shreds. I’m done keeping quiet. I’m done pretending I don’t give a shit.

And I’m certainly done with finding out that my best friend, my other half, was accosted in a parking lot by a pap looking to make a quick buck off what my name can buy him. Do this again and there’ll be hell to pay.

So, call this article career suicide. Call it whatever you want.

I’m a retired NFL player who coaches high school football.

I’m a guy in love with a girl, who wants to make sure nothing happens to her or her son.

But I’m no hero—and I don’t play a gentleman’s game when my loved ones are threatened.

These are the facts.

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