Gunslinger: A Sports Romance (5 page)

"Stevenson!"

"Yes, coach."

"Meet the new guy. We're putting him in place of Wachowski."

That's just great. Ten minutes ago my tight end got trampled, and the backup is suspended because of a drug violation; so now after halftime, I'm going to be thrown in the middle of the goddamn game with a tight end I've never met before.
 

I realize that injuries and last minute replacement of players is part of the game, but I still hate that shit. I'm having a hard enough time establishing chemistry with the players that I already know.
 

"Pleasure, man," the new guy says eagerly.

I reluctantly shake hands with this big ass, grinning, muscle-head who appears to be my new tight end. I don't feel like meeting this kid right now, because we're losing and I'm pissed. Plus I don't feel like making pleasantries, or getting friendly with new players. He may not make the cut. Then I've gotten all attached for nothing. I learned that hard lesson my rookie year in the league. Nobody's job is safe. Everyone is expendable.

"What's up," is all I mange to say in response.
 

I'm not trying to have a full blown conversation with the new kid, when we only have a few minutes to figure out how the hell we're going to get the ball into the end zone next quarter.
 

"Followed you when you played for Capitol City, man. I'm a real fan."

"Thanks."

I don't really like talking about my time at my alma mater, Capital City College. Mainly because I was a winner there. A
phenom
as the papers often described me. And people often compare my performance there to my performance now. Which can be best described as
not
winning.

"Cooper's got the goods," Coach says with confidence. That's unusual for him to speak so highly of someone who's brand spanking new to the team, but I've been sold the same bullshit before. So I'm not going to even get my hopes up.

"Excellent," I respond with faux enthusiasm. "We need someone on this team besides myself who has
the goods
."

"Looking forward to helping out," Cooper says then he walks away towards the rest of the team who's waiting to hear our usual halftime strategy slash pep talk. I say
usual
because it seems like we're always losing after the second quarter, and therefore always getting these types of motivational speeches.
 

Yet that shit never seems to work.

I pause for a moment to myself, thinking that I may have come off as a bit of an arrogant asshole to the new guy, but he'll just have to understand. It's just my frustration talking. The press has been ripping me a new one over the last two seasons and it's been taking its toll.
 

I feel the weight of each and every season on my back and it's heavy like a motherfucker. When we lose, and we lose a lot, everyone looks at me as if this shit is not a team sport. As if it's all on me. They say I don't protect the ball. That my arm is not as powerful or accurate as it used to be. They say I don't play like I want to win. As if I don't want a championship ring when that's all I want. It's all I've ever wanted. It just seems so far out of my grasp right now. I can't seem to see a bright light at the end of this loserville tunnel.

"Stevenson!"
 

"Yes, Coach." I answer one of my other coaches - Coach B.

"We have plenty of time to turn this thing around. Stop trying to go for the damn touchdown every throw. Just get a first down for Christ's sake!"

"Somebody needs to catch or run the damn ball in order for me to do that, Coach B." I say loudly enough for all of my sloppy wide receivers to hear.

"
Somebody
will if you'd just throw it to the man you're supposed to. We've run these plays all week, but you seem to have forgotten every single one," Coach B replies icily.

The team's offensive coordinator, Coach Benny, is not my biggest fan. Rumor has it that he actually wanted to go with the number two quarterback in the draft the year I entered instead of me. As a matter of fact, I was told the owner didn't particularly want me that badly either, although he'd never admit to that publicly.
 

From what I can tell over the last three years that I've been with the Nighthawks, only our head coach, Coach Ryan, really wants me here. That's why I try my best to work my ass of for him, as well as for myself. I don't ever want his position to be in jeopardy because of me, but clearly I'm not doing such a good job of that, because after halftime, we lose by seven points.
 

A-fucking-gain.

SAINT

I don't even bother showering right after the end of the game, because I refuse to get cleaned up to go face the firing squad of reporters. So I just wipe the sweat off of my body with a towel, toss on one of my signature gold Nighthawk hoodies, lift the hood up to make sure it covers my entire head, and walk into the press room.
 

I really wish I could wear my shades, so they can't start making shit up about what my facial expressions say about my state of mind, but the team will probably try to fine me if I do that. So I compromise by only wearing the hoodie.
 

The questions start flying from all over the room, and like usual I answer only the ones I want. The way I want.
 

"Saint, what did you say to your teammates during halftime to try and get their heads back into the game?"

"Whatever I said didn't work, now did it?"

Next.

"Saint, how do you feel about Wachowski's injury?"

Fucking Annoyed. That jerk can't stay healthy to save his life.
 

"Disappointed."

Next.

"Saint, what do think about some of the official's questionable calls today?"

"They were bullshit."

Next.

"Saint, over here! Do you think you'll make the playoffs this year?"
 

A random reporter asks this stupid question. I've never seen him in the pit before. He's probably some sort of lame ass sports blogger. He looks all of eighteen years old. I guess the league gives anyone a press pass nowadays.

So Stupid.
 

"We gotta win at least one game first," I reply in a smart aleck voice.
 

Next.
 

"Saint, what do you think you need to do to turn things around this season?"

Now this guy I know. Jim Mathers. He's practically a relic. An old, balding guy from The Football Network, and he always asks the same irritating questions. Every single game.

"Score," I deadpan.

Next.

"Saint, unlike you, your brother seems to be having a fantastic start to his season in Seattle. How do you feel about that?"

And that question comes from a reporter named Myra Kitch. Rhymes with bitch. She's the worst out of the bunch. She's had it in for me since the day the Nighthawks signed me. She probably would play football herself if they allowed women to play in the pros. She's bigger and rougher than half of my offensive line, but because she's a woman, I have to be
extra careful
with how I handle her.
 

The team's PR people have repeatedly warned me that I need to be careful and make sure to keep my statements politically appropriate. That shit infuriates me though. Where's the equality in that? I should be able to rip her a new one like I do any male reporter when they ask me something asinine.
 

"That's a stupid question, Myra," I respond. Because it is.

"Is it? The way I heard it you Stevensons are highly competitive, and that you might not be so happy about your brother's success."

What the fuck is she talking about?

"You heard wrong." Myra Kitch the She-bitch.

No one has ever dared pit the two Stevenson brothers against each other like she's doing. We're America's football family. Hell, they had my mother on Good Morning America teaching Robin Roberts how to bake the perfect apple turnover and dancing to a live performance by Brad Paisley.
 

No one but this woman, this very evil woman, with a wider neck than my great-grandmother Stevenson (and that was one big woman), would make it seem as if me and Mikey are jealous of each other's success when that could be the furthest thing from the truth.

My dad's probably cringing right now as he watches me lose some of my composure on national television. He always taught me to be humble and smile when on camera, but I'm not in the mood for either of those things. I can't stand this part of the game. Whoever the hell came up with the idea to interview players ten minutes after they've put their asses on the line for four quarters and come up short was either an idiot or a sadistic genius. No player or coach wants to talk to the press after a loss. No one wants salt poured into their wounds when they've just been sliced and diced for the nation to see.

I can't wait for the day when I get to silence these jerks. The day that I finally get my championship ring. They'll all be kissing my ass when that day comes, because that's all you really have to do to shut reporters up. To shut everyone up.

Is win.

***

After wasting thirty minutes of my life in a press conference, I try scrubbing the layer of "loser" off of me in the shower, and when I'm finished I'm not surprised to see that I have a visitor waiting for me at the entrance of the locker room.
 

I always do.
 

This one is dressed in very little clothing, has the best tits her money can buy, legs for days, and is staring at me like I'm the answer to all of her problems. I'm not even going to bother asking security how she got all the way through to the player's locker room. A supposedly secure area.
 

All I have to do is take a look at how her huge
National Geographic
looking nipples are practically poking through her clingy Red Bull tank top to know. She's one of
those
girls. The kind that would step over just about anybody to get what she wants, and today what she wants seems to be me.

Typically a visit from a woman like this would be just the kind of escape I'm looking for after an abysmal game like today and a press conference like the one I just had.
 

They basically line up for us after the games. Cleat chasers. Ball groupies. Normally one will give me a blow job in the car, and if she knocks that out of the park, then maybe I give her a quick fifteen minutes of banging her from behind back at her place. That's all I usually want from girls like her, but I'm guessing by her body language that is what she wants too.
 

It's what they all want
 

Quick and dirty. Something to brag to their girlfriends about. Sex with the Gunslinger. Sex that their delusional asses are hoping will spoil it for all the other women after them, so that I'll come back specifically to them for more. But what this woman doesn't understand, just like all the women before her, is that there is no pussy in the world that will make me give up all the others. Forget all the others? That's never going to happen. I'm not built like that. Not anymore.

I've been getting pussy thrown at me since I was damn near fourteen years old. I guess because playing football is like catnip for certain women, case in point, this one standing in front of me licking her lips is a prime example.
 

Yet for some reason I can't explain my dick isn't jumping at her blatant offer. All I can seem to think about is the straight-laced, uppity woman, wearing the tight pencil skirt and bad attitude, with curves for miles from the restaurant the other night.
 

The girl who has no idea who I am.
 

Who doesn't remember me at all.
 

Twenty-four hours before I met her that first time, I had just been dumped by my fiancée Adrianna. Even though I trashed one of the rooms of the hotel, management was understanding. First of all the wedding was paid for, all my childhood friends and family were in town, and I'm kind of a celebrity. So we decided to stay and we spent the rest of my wedding weekend getting fucked up.

I noticed her the minute I walked into the bar that night. She was throwing back tequila shots and wobbling around on her stool with little grace but boundless beauty.

I listened to her sob story about liking some loser at her job, and then I gallantly tucked her into her hotel room bed without even as much as a peck on the cheek.
 

It's been a few days since our second meeting, but I still have her business card lying in the center console of my car, and I have no explanation for why I haven't tossed it or used it. In fact, all I've been doing is reading it over and over, and adjusting the hard-on between my legs every time I do.

Sabrina White.
 

Junior Account Manager, Carson Financial.
 

Midtown Manhattan.

212-555-5484

"You need a
ride
somewhere, Gunslinger?"