Maybe Coach Kramer is trying to keep this new guy under wraps. He might have even told him to stay in the locker room until after all of us reporters had left. And he either hadn’t known I was still out there, or he was a hothead who didn’t like having to follow rules – if so, he certainly wouldn’t be the first Leviathan like that.
I’m secretly hoping he’s such a rebel that he’ll spill a ton of the team’s secrets to me. But so far, he’s only slowly and nonchalantly opening a locker and rifling through whatever’s inside it.
“So, I’m sure you’re excited for the big game coming up,” I mention.
This question is definitely not one of my finest. I won’t be winning any journalism awards for it, that’s for sure.
But it’s hard to think fast about what kind of questions I can ask him that don’t reveal how very little I know about him. It’s more like I know nothing about him at all, and I don’t want that fact to be glaringly obvious.
“Sure,” he says, shrugging. “Aren’t we all?”
This guy’s a tough nut to crack.
What’s his deal, anyway? I start to wonder.
He just likes inviting reporters into the locker room and not talking to them about anything of import?
“I know you’re not a Leviathan.”
I finally decide to just cut to the chase and get to the point. I don’t want to be standing here all night if it’s not going to lead to a good story or at least a quote from whoever this player is.
He stands up straighter when I say that, as if I’m accusing him of something.
“I mean, I know that you weren’t,” I quickly correct myself.
Shit. I’m off on the wrong food already.
“You’re a new player,” I continue. “But what’s the deal? Why are they bringing you into the game so late in the season? Is someone big out with an injury?”
I’ve been racking my brain trying to think of who might have needed replaced, but I can’t think of anyone. Perhaps because Coach Kramer is trying to keep it a secret.
“Maybe,” he says, smirking.
“So, what’s your name, anyway?” I ask him.
“Come here and I’ll tell you.”
Suddenly, I’m not feeling so safe. I tell myself there’s no way he could be up to no good, not here, in his own team’s locker room.
But what if this isn’t his own team’s locker room? I wonder.
Is he common riff raff who snuck in here while everyone else had left?
My stomach drops.
No.
That can’t be right.
He had a key to get into the locker room.
And another key to that locker.
I let out a tense sigh, telling myself it’s fine. He probably just wants to flirt with me. It’s not a tactic I’m beneath engaging in, to get a good story. Obviously, I don’t want to do anything with him, but if I flatter his ego a bit, he might give me something I can work with.
“Not until you tell me something about yourself,” I tell him, trying to prod for the information I need. “Like your name, maybe?”
“It’s Bob,” he says, grinning. “You gonna write that down in your little notebook? B-o-b. Make sure to spell it right.”
Damn, what an absolute ass this guy is.
Almost all athletes I’ve met in this job have had some degree of cockiness, but this one really takes the cake. Plus, it’s not even cockiness, but downright rudeness that he’s exuding.
Just who does he think he is?
If I wasn’t chasing a story – and being the one to break the name of the new player on the Leviathans who showed up just before the Superbowl would be quite the story – I wouldn’t even bother talking to him.
And it’s obvious to me now that he’s not going to give me anything of substance.
Three letters, one first name, Bob, is all he’s giving up.
Hrmph.
Is his name even Bob?
There’s no way to be sure and he clearly had no desire to follow it up with a last name.
“Well, ‘B-o-b, Bob,’ thanks for letting me know that much,” I tell him. “Pretty sure I can remember it. I’ll just be on my way now, since you don’t seem to want to talk to me after all. I’ll be sure to put out the story that the Leviathans have a new player named Bob, roaming free around their locker room.”
I don’t know why I said it this way.
As if I’m onto him, when I don’t even know what I’m onto.
I’m mostly convinced he belongs here, for whatever crazy reason, and that he’s just an asshole, not that that he’s dangerous. But throwing out a veiled threat seems to do the trick. He leans back against the locker and glares at me.
“Look, there’s no need to get all bitchy,” he says. “I was only asking you to come over here so I could show you my jersey. Then you’ll know the things that really matter: my name and jersey number. You’ll be the first to get the scoop.”