Save Me, Sinners

“I knew it!” he exclaims.

“How?”

“Gut feeling,” he winks. “Shall we head off? I’ve got nothing else to do here.” He looks around, suddenly pensive.

“How’s the article coming along?” He asks as we’re being driven out of the training facility.

“Wouldn’t you like to know?” I love being mischievous around him, if only because I want to hear that sexy laugh of his. “Well, it’s going okay, I guess. I don’t know,” I admit.

“You don’t seem like the gossip mag types to me,” he suddenly says, surprising me.

“Why do you say so?”

“Because I've given enough interviews to know one when I see one and you, ma’am, ain’t one.”

“You're right,” I say after a pause. “I'm not. A year ago, I was reading and reviewing literary works and poems and all that but ambition got the better of me and I moved to Coyote. Except, Coyote took a different direction since then and because I have to pay my bills, here I am. Long story short,” I sigh. “I'm stuck here, writing for a publication that is largely a gossip magazine now with all the dreams of being a great writer fading away.”

“Sometimes it feels like the world is against you,” he says softly. That is exactly how I’ve been feeling of late. He put it so succinctly. The man has a far deeper sense of perception than people give him credit for.

“When I was nineteen,” David begins, “I got a very bad knee injury. Any sportsperson will tell you how they dread knee problems. I was advised to give up football completely and find another vocation while I was young. The coaches, my uncles, and even my brother Jon…they all cautioned me to take the safe path. It was very disappointing but like you, I had a passion inside of me. So I fought through the injury and now here I am.”

“Wow, that’s incredible.”

“And I'm not just telling you this story because you're writing about me. I'm also hoping that perhaps it will motivate you too, not to give up on your dreams.” A caring smile spreads on his face. David’s words hit a nerve.

“Thanks for the encouragement, David.” I answer, thoughtfully. Maybe he’s right.

“You look like you needed some cheering up. Now what’s bothering you about this article that you're supposed to write?” He asks.

How the hell does he know it’s the article? I wonder if I should tell him that everyone—from Max to Shauna to Scott—want me to paint a unabashedly positive picture of him. Thankfully I don’t have to.

“Let me guess. You're not sure about what angle to take, how much to reveal, what not to reveal and so on. Am I right?”

“More or less.”

“Since this whole article is about me, might I make a suggestion?”

I nod.

“Write from your heart. Write what you feel is the truth. To hell with what everyone is saying or expecting. As a responsible journalist, It's your job to paint a honest picture,” David concludes in a very assured manner.

“And what if the end result is not to your liking? What if parts of it are critical of your lifestyle?” I chime in.

“As long as that is the truth, so be it. I'm done playing this media game. I am what I am,” he shrugs. It’s unnerving to see him not bothered by what anyone else thinks of him and yet it’s intriguing, too.

“Besides, you’re new. Everyone expects you to cock it up anyway.” His teasing brings a smile to my face.

“Cripes, by the time I'm done with you, I’ll probably know a ton of British slang by heart!” I shake my head in mock disdain. “But tell me something, David? Why does your brother call you ‘Dazza?’” I ask.

“Oh dear God! That is too embarrassing.”

“Come on, now, tell me.” I put my hand over his as I egg him on to reveal the secret. The warmth of his body channels into mine, and by the time I realize it, it’s too awkward to pull it back.

“Okay, if you get to ask a question, then I get to ask one too?” Ah ha. I quickly cross my arms, using this chance to pull my hand away and eye him suspiciously. What could he possibly ask me?

His laugh makes my nervousness evaporate.

“Bloody hell, you look you're in a grand jury investigation!” He chuckles again.