25
Wes
I smiled in front of the cameras. My cheeks hurt from smiling so damn much. I was tired and cranky. This was supposed to be the best week of my life, but all I could do was countdown to Friday.
Coach Howell sat next to me while the press fired questions, and Sam Hickson was on my right. I’d give Stubbs a hard time when I saw him for bowing out of this one.
A reporter in the front row raised his hand. “How are you feeling about going up against the best scoring team in the league?”
Howell fielded the question. It wasn’t like it hadn’t been asked fifty times this week. “Our defense has studied. They’re trained. We’re ready for what they have. We don’t plan on letting them be the highest-scoring team on Sunday.”
Everyone in the room chuckled. It was easy to get a laugh out of the press.
A nerdy type next to him asked the next question. “Wes, what has been your training regimen this week?”
I pulled the mic closer to my chin. “I work with the trainers on my diet and I try to get a workout in in between press events. Standard stuff we do on the road. Nothing special this week.”
“Wes, Wes!” I pointed to the man in the back row. “Do you think Jenny Nichols is going to get any traction on her story?”
“Jenny Nichols? Is she here?” I’d never heard of her.
“The reporter who posted that your injury a few weeks ago may have been more than a severe sprain.”
I chuckled. “You boys know people are always trying to dig up exposés before the big game. This is the Super Bowl. It should be about the players. The teams. The men who worked their butts off to get here. Next question.” I passed over him and moved to another reporter, hoping he had something for Hickson or Coach, but I could feel it. The fear that Jenny fucking Nichols might know something.
It wasn’t a good feeling.
We left the press conference and rode back to the hotel. Sam was on his phone the entire time, texting who the hell knows, and Coach was answering calls from ownership. That one damn question at the press conference had made the headline. Nothing else mattered right now. There was a firestorm of emails and texts blowing up my phone.
I looked down when I saw Lennon’s number pop up.
“Hey, Doc. Can’t talk right now.”
“Wes, what’s happening? There are reporters downstairs in the lobby.”
“What?” I sat forward in the backseat.
“I got home from work and they were there like they were waiting for me. The only way I got up to the penthouse was because the concierge blocked them while I ran into the elevator.”
“Shit,” I whispered. “What did they ask? Did you answer anything?”
“They wanted to know if I had any comments on your injury. They wanted to know what medications I gave you.”
“Did you say anything?”
“Of course not.” She sounded pissed. “But this is insane. I can’t leave. They’re stalking me.”
The car pulled up to the curb and Coach and Sam slid out, leaving me in the car alone.
“I can get you out of there.” I tried to think what security team I trusted to escort her from the building, but I’d pay whatever I had to in order to keep her away from those vultures.
“I’m supposed to fly to San Diego tomorrow.”
“I know. I know.” It was all happening so fast. It was starting to crash down, and they had barely scratched the surface of this story. If I could make it through the weekend, and walk out of here with a Super Bowl ring, there would be a way to handle the press.
“This is exactly what I talked to you about,” she seethed. “You’ve risked it. Everything, Wes.”
“No one knows anything. The only story that’s out there right now is that I might have had more than a sprain.”