Page 2 of Scoring Truth
Despite the traffic from the game, we arrived at the restaurant quickly. More paparazzi are waiting out front, the flashes blinding as we pull up. Francesca goes straight into PR mode.
“You can wave and say hello, but we’re not stopping to chat. They can rewatch the press conference or read my statement tomorrow. Everyone, out and move quickly into the restaurant.” She pulls out her phone, then shoots me a dirty look. “And no dancing.”
“Spoilsport.”
She shakes her head, typing on her phone. “I’m letting the maître D know we’re here. They’ll meet us at the door and take us right upstairs.”
“God, you’re hot as fuck when you bark orders.”
“Jackson! Knock that shit off,” Dash yells at me because, well, because he’s Dash and he’s a grouch.
“It's fine, Dad. I’ve heard worse from this guy.”
Dash cuts me a glare.
“And that guy,” I reply, throwing my thumb towards Mark.
“We can argue this point inside the restaurant. Now go.”
Chess knocks on the window, and the driver opens the door. We pile out quickly and move at a steady pace inside.
“Jameson!”
“Great game today, QB!”
“How are you feeling for next week's game?”
“Is that Jackson Gage?”
“Coach Gage!”
“Are you interviewing as Coach, Jackson?”
“Jameson! Where’s your girlfriend?”
2
JAMESON
The questions are fired quickly, but we don’t stop. The door is opened and shut rapidly behind us, and we’re ushered through the restaurant to an upstairs private room. I find I’m holding my breath the entire time.
I hate this part of football. I just want to play the game. I want to be on the field with my team, winning and getting better each day. Press conferences, black tie events, and not being able to walk down the sidewalk without having my picture taken just sucks.
Francesca warned me of all this, but I didn’t really think it’d be this bad. I thought I could handle it, but it’s just becoming harder to do anything or go anywhere.
And asking if I have a girlfriend? Yeah, right. It’s becoming harder to meet anyone and know whether they’re genuine. So, I’ve avoided it all. I play ball. I go home.The suits in the front office both like and dislike that. They portray me as the wholesome boy next door, and I know having a girl on my arm would complete that picture.
My family also pushes, slightly, because they don’t want me to be alone. But I’m fine—mostly. I’m young, and I just want to win at my game.
“Come on, relax. Let’s eat before we have to get back to the airport.” We gather around the table, and I’m just waiting for the questions.
“Are you coming back to Candy Cane Key for the Winter Ball?” Summer asks.
“I wasn’t planning on it. I’m sure I’ll have a game.”
Plus, I don’t have a date, but I won’t tell them that. I refuse to be set up on any more blind dates. And definitely no pity dates.
“It’s the weekend before Christmas. You’ll have clinched the division by then,” Jackson says nonchalantly, and the table erupts.
