Page 1 of Fumbled Into Love

CHAPTER 1

“It’s no surprise to me, I am my own worst enemy”

My Own Worst Enemy – Lit

Deon

“Deon!” Victoria's high-pitched voice slithers through the locker room and I slide behind Jack Walters, an offensive lineman, to hide. “You were supposed to be in the media room five minutes ago. Do not make me come in there where it’s smelly and gross to drag you out.”

The media coordinator’s words strike fear into my heart and I cower behind Jack, using his massive frame as a human shield.

“You can’t hide from her forever.” Jack chuckles, shifting to slide on his tennis shoes. I mimic his movement so Vicky doesn’t spot me.

“I’m your quarterback. It’s your job to protect me,” I hiss, keeping my voice low. Vicky has super-sonic hearing.

“Yeah, from rushing defenders.” He spins and cocks an eyebrow. “Not from middle-aged women.”

“Tomato. Potato. Same difference,” I scoff. “You make millions to keep me safe. I will pay you fifty dollars to stand here until she gives up and forces someone else to answer the media questions.”

Hell is a place on Earth formally named the media room. Vicky is my personal Charon, ferrying me to the Underworld. Week after week, I’m forced to sit in front of reporters and answer questions. Player interviews. Pre-game media access. Post-game press conferences. The type of media doesn’t matter; I amalwayschosen.

There are fifty-one other men on the roster. Are they ever chosen? No.

When I mustered up the courage to ask Vicky why I had to suffer every week, she informed me I was a ‘team leader’ and ‘well-liked’ and ‘I look good in front of the cameras’.

She doesn’t care that ‘I hate the media’ and ‘my leadership has nothing to do with news reporters’ or that ‘looking good in front of the camera is not a valid explanation’. I lost the battle when she kicked me out of her office, tail tucked between my legs, threatening to speak to Coach Barrett, our head coach, about my unwillingness to do my job.

Jack chuckles and saunters to the showers, leaving me with a target on my back.

“Traitor.”

His laughter echoes throughout the locker room as he disappears. I was a groomsman at his wedding last week and this is how he repays me. Stretching deeply, I keep my gaze lodged firmly on the floor.

Nothing to see here. Just a man stretching, not avoiding the media at all.

I lift my head to determine if Vicky left.Wrong choice.We lock eyes and the smile she returns could peel paint.

It’s her classicwe’ve already had this talklook and I resign myself to my fate. Some teams hire media personnel fresh out of college who make silly videos and pass out candy to the players. I would much prefer that tomfoolery than this torture. I could respect her years of experience if she didn’t terrify me and make me miserable.

My feet drag as I follow Vicky to what I consider the fires of Mordor. I am Frodo, except I have no Fellowship of the Ring to join me. This is an unwanted, solo adventure. Chatter travels down the hallway and my palms begin to sweat as we inch closer to the door.

Dozens of media personnel fill the space and my gaze snags on threeveryempty seats at the front of the room. Vicky’s eyes sparkle as she clocks my frown.

My fingers trail along the seam of the tablecloth as I wait for other players to arrive. The adrenaline pushes me through these chats post-game, but the pre-game media makes my skin crawl.

It’s all too revealing. Football-focused questions are tolerable, but when they veer toward more personal questions…well, my anxiety skyrockets. The majority of reporters are solid people who stick to the game, but a small percentage will tear you apart for their gain.

Those are the ones I’m worried about.

Henry Parker saunters in and chats with reporters, asking them about their lives like they’re old friends. Moments later, Declan Monroe—a tight end—enters, head high with his classic star-studded smile. He pauses to flirt with one of the socialmedia interns, who blushes a fire engine red when Declan purrs her name.

“Flirt,” I cough under my breath and Declan shoves my shoulder. If I have to be here, I might as well find joy somewhere. It happens to be in the form of teasing Declan.

“Trying to find my zing man,” he whispers, as he and Henry settle into the chairs beside me.

I groan at his mention of ‘zinging’. I heard too much in Michigan this summer when we had to share a room for Henry and his wife's joint bachelor-bachelorette party. He also gave me an in-depth analysis of each date he’s gone on in search of hiszing. There weremanyand I left the trip with a weird bond with Declan and the knowledge he’s a…playboy in search of love?

It’s an odd combination.

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