Page 21 of How to Prevent a Fumble

LEO

My brain hurts.

Everything hurts.

Rolling over slowly, I pry one eye open, immediately closing it as light fills my vision. My body is hot, my clothes sticking to my skin.

Fuck.

My phone rings from my bedside table, and I grab my extra pillow, placing it over my head. There’s no way in hell I’m going to talk to anyone this morning.

But it keeps ringing. And ringing.

Finally giving up, I reach out and snatch it from the table, answering it.

“Yes?”

“Why are there videos of you drunk off your ass online, Leo?”

Well, I was at a party. What else would I be?

“Well, that’s a good question. Why haven’t you killed the story yet?”

Though it’s hard work, I know they can bury it. They always have. It’s what I pay them a lot of money to do.

“I swear to God Leo, this needs to stop. We cannot do this every single week for you. At some point it’s going to be too much.”

I click my tongue. “Jack, I appreciate your concern, but it’s going to be fine. Deep breaths, okay?”

Instead, I hear an angry snarl. “Leo, I swear?—”

“Please just kill the story. Training camp starts next week. You’ll be free of my shenanigans for a couple of weeks.”

“That’s the thing, Leo, I won’t be. You know why? Do you know how many articles are coming out asking if you’re going to be capable of actually leading the team this year? Or if you’re just throwing away your career after one Super Bowl win?”

“That’s—”

“And it’s starting to make its way around podcasts.”

I groan.

“We can’t do shit about some of those podcasts, Leo. They start questioning you? Everyone is going to know. There’s no hiding anything.”

“Your job is to do damage control,” I grit.

“No, our job is to manage your PR. It’s not to constantly put out fires. It’s not to kill stories multiple times a week. It’s to make sure you’re looking good, and we can’t do that when you’re behaving like this.”

“Okay Jack. Thank you so much for the call. Really. I’m just going to—” But instead of finishing my sentence, I hang up, placing my phone on Do Not Disturb before throwing it to the other side of the bed.

And it’s then that the smell of coffee finally hits me. Rolling over, I find a cup on the side table closest to the door. It’s not hot, but warm enough.

Taking a sip, I instantly feel just the slightest bit better. My stomach grumbles, and I groan. I really need some shitty food. Potatoes. Cheese. Literally the grossest shit I can find to make my body feel a little better.

My joints hurt as I crawl out of bed, the motion making my head spin as I feel my stomach heave. I stop, taking a couple deep breaths before continuing on.

Pulling on a clean, non-sweaty pair of sweats and a hoodie, I grab my phone before heading out of my room and down the stairs to the kitchen.

And I’m immediately met with a short, fiery blonde.

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