Page 1 of Big Balls
1
Ethan
I’ma man with a certain reputation. I’m known for the big risks I take—for never backing down from a challenge. I’m famous for both my fast hands and my killer instincts. Simply put, I’m the best at what I do.
Truthfully, I’m the best ateverythingI do.
As the leading wide receiver in the league, my plays should be the main focus of every interview I give. I love talking about the sport that I’ve devoted my life to, the second-best thing I’ve ever done in all my years.
Look, I’m not one of those guys who gets mad when we have to watch tapes. I live for it. Nothing makes me want to try harder and do better than seeing someone truly excel at what they’re doing. Like that guy inTed Lassosays, Football is life.
But it’s not myentirelife.
The rest of my life is currently upstairs in the owner’s suite, probably singing a little song to herself and maybe doing a few pirouettes, because she’s cute like that. And simply by picturing her, my lips flex up into an involuntary smile.
Unfortunately, the momentary lapse in my concentration gives the woman in front of me all the encouragement that I didn’t know she needed.
The reporter catches my smile and launches into her beauty pageant training, giving her hair a little toss and flashing her mouth full of veneers at me. “And how many followers do you have now on Instagram?”
I swear I can actually feel my soul shriveling up inside me. I can’t believe I’m stuck here answering questions like this. At least she’s referring to me as Mr. Alexander, instead of that nickname I’ve caught and can’t seem to shake.
Who am I kidding? It’s the perfect nickname for me. I go all out every single time, and I’m glad that my fans see that in me and celebrate it.
But right now, I’m sweaty and gross after playing with everything I’ve got to get us yet another win. All I want to do right now is hit the showers and then go snuggle with my best girl.
But Coach has made it clear that this is part of my job, too. “You can at least try to act like you’re human every once in a while. Sure, the fans love you for being The Fastest Hands in the League, but you could also try being more normal. You know, smile sometimes.”
That’s big talk from a man who spends more than half of his work hours screaming obscenities. But he’s the coach. That means I do what he tells me to do.
And that’s how I find myself giving this inane interview to this reporter, instead of getting the heck out of here as quickly as possible.
“Honestly, I have no idea.” I shrug, then force my face into a semblance of a smile. I can tell by the way her face goes still that I’m not doing all that great at faking nice.
Probably because I’m not actually nice. I don’t get paid because I’m charming. I got my multi-million dollar contract with the New Orleans Sinners because I’m unstoppable. And I’m not going to let anyone like this know anything about the real me.
We all know how fake social media is. Those photos and captions aren’t any more like the real me than that ridiculous billboard on I-10 with my face on it. It’s all for show, and people like her don’t mind a bit. You know why? Because she doesn’t care about who I really am.
For women like this, I’m nothing but another name they joke about having on their “list.” You know, a celebrity hall pass. Or worse—I’m a solid eight and a half inches of possible future child support payments.
Not going to happen.
I’ve already met the love of my life, and she’s waiting for me right now. Probably practicing her version of ballet in the owner’s suite. I know she’ll be looked after there. The wives and girlfriends are a tight-knit bunch and the beating heart behind the New Orleans Sinners.
The only group I trust more than our team’s WAGs is my very private poker group. The four of us met at a charity function way back when, and now we get together and make ridiculous bets on hands of Texas Hold’em every month. That’s how I got Sebastian, Tate, and Jackson to take a ballet class with me this month.
What? It’s good for my footwork and coordination. It’s not my fault that the rest of them actually believed me when I told them to show up wearing those pale pink leotards.
I’ve got the photos too. My favorite part was putting buttoned-up Jackson in a giant-sized tutu. It’s still hysterical, even all these weeks later.
All pranks aside, I trust my friends the most out of everybody in my life. There’s not one of them that wouldn’t take a bullet for me or for my daughter. Even Donovan Tate, who is by far the messiest of our group.
He’s certainly had his share of the limelight and then some. But he seemed to make it to the other side relatively unscathed and doing whatever he wants. Maybe he’s got a few pointers for me. Once he forgives me for the pink leotard episode, anyway.
I clear my throat and force myself to focus. I need to pay more attention to this interview before I end up saying something I shouldn’t and looking stupid. I hate looking stupid.
I suffer through another fifteen minutes of small talk about who I’m supposedly dating—sorry, Ariana Grande—and finally make my way to the showers with a heavy sigh. I know I’ll be in trouble with my girl by the time I make it upstairs.
Katy hates football. She doesn’t like how much of my life is taken up by my favorite sport. She doesn’t like it when Coach yells at me. She doesn’t like how my uniform stinks when I’ve been at a game or practice.
