Super Big Game - An Enemies to Lovers Sports Romance

You might think I’m being over-dramatic.

But that just shows that you haven’t met Kirsten.

“Well, we’ll see about that,” I tell Monica. “Because I have a feeling that that honor is going to belong to me.”

I know I sound just like her right now. Or at least I hope to, because her confident nature is one I try to project at all times. I grew up in a culture of shame and blame, so I didn’t learn much about self-esteem or how to assert myself.

In fact, pretty much everything I’ve learned has come from watching and imitating Monica. I just wish I could really feel the way I try to be.

I guess it’s something that just comes with time, little by little, because I do feel myself getting stronger for real, not just fake. But at other times, kind of like now, I have no other choice than to go with what I feel, which is a mixture of winging it and believing in it.

She arches her highbrows at me, in what I assume is a mixture of respect and doubt.

“You aim high, Stacy,” she says, with that note of approval in her voice that I’ve come to crave. “I like your goals.”

“Thanks, Monica,” I tell her, taking a deep breath.

Then, I know it’s time to face my fate.

“I think I’m ready to go out there now and show the world that I’m the sports reporter they never thought I could be.”

“Who never thought you could be that?” Monica asks, sounding genuinely confused.

Oops. Good point.

I guess, when I really think about it, it’s only been me who has thought that. Sure, my mother always said not to trust men but just to marry rich so that I could be a stay at home mom to kids, which, as she always liked to remind me, are the purpose of life. She probably didn’t aspire for me to be single at this age, let alone a sports reporter.

But I’ve always told myself not to listen to her, because her worldview is just kind of bonkers, if you ask me. It’s why I went to school to become a reporter and why I always tell myself to believe that I can do it. Yet here I am doubting myself, all this time later.

“Kirsten,” I quickly tell Monica, since I obviously don’t want to go into some poor-me diatribe about how hard it was to grow up privileged with helicopter parents who didn’t let me experience the real world. “Kirsten doesn’t think I can be a better reporter than she can. Or any kind of good reporter at all, I don’t think.”

“Well, you go out there and prove her wrong,” she says, smiling happily at me. “And do our news outlet proud.”

“I’ll do that, Monica,” I tell her, trying to swallow down the lump of nervousness that has appeared, to my annoyance, right in the middle of my throat, at the worst time possible.

If you only knew how well I’m about to do that. Or, at least that I hope I can do that.

Chapter 8

Stacy

It’s time.

The press conference has started and now’s my moment.

Elias is up on the platform and cameras are flashing everywhere. People are all around – including Kirsten, who is right beside me, shouting out questions and flailing her arms all about so much that they’re hitting me in the face, no doubt on purpose – but I’m keeping my cool, and Elias is looking right at me from where he’s standing on the podium.

“Elias! Elias!” Kirsten is screeching.

She’s looking over at Monica, who is standing on the other side of me, and smiling smugly, as if she’s got this in the bag and she wants Monica to know it. She’s always been trying to compete with me and take my job away; she wants to work for Monica instead of at her low-level sports rag.

She’s an attractive woman and her boobs are bouncing around as she jumps up and down and I can tell she thinks she’s going to get Elias’ attention that way, and be the first to ask a question.

“You. Yes, you, right there,” Elias says, pointing in our direction.

“Me?” Kirsten nearly yells, batting her eyelashes and putting her hand on her chest as if she’s so surprised and flattered, even though it’s so obvious it’s all fake, since she clearly thought she was going to be chosen all along.

“No,” Elias answers, looking annoyed. “You.”

He’s pointing right at me.

Me.

I knew it was going to happen, but I still feel shocked. Monica grabs my lower arm and squeezes it. It’s the most physical gesture I’ve ever received from her; she is not the hugging or touchy feely type.

I think it was based on pure instinct and shock, because she quickly retracts her hand and stands up straight beside me, looking ahead at Elias instead of how she had been, which was a bit slack-jawed while she stared at me in amazement and happiness, as if she hadn’t just touched me, or as if I’m supposed to forget that she had.