"Mr. Adams has nothing to say," Miranda, my agent who doubles as my PR rep, says loudly over the ungodly clamor of shouting voices and clicking cameras, beating me to the punch. My eyes are drawn to her. She's dressed sharply, as usual, in her red designer dress that fits her shapely frame like a glove, the epitome of a middle-aged professional woman who's still getting some mileage out of her body as well as her brains. "So, if you all would just excuse us. He has more important things to attend to."
"Hold up, Miranda," I interrupt her, maintaining my fake smile. I figure I can use my charm to defuse this situation and be on my merry way. I raise my voice and politely say, "I'm sure everyone's heard about my little incident, but I want to let you all know it was just an accident. And that's it."
"There was nothing little about it!" a female reporter shouts, and then giggles ensue. I ignore her and the rest.
"So, you don't have anything to say about the footage of you circulating on the internet?" asks one of the other reporters.
I scowl at him. That will teach you to stop for a photo op and try to smooth things over. "What footage?" I ask flatly, knowing exactly what he's talking about.
He smiles, his freckles spreading across the bridge of his nose. "The one of you dropping your towel in front of Sara Jameson on live TV."
I hold in a groan, irritation flaring. These people are acting like I whipped it out and gave Ms. Jameson a lap dance. All I did was bump into her in the men's locker room after a game. It wasn't ‘live TV', and she shouldn't have been back there in first damn place. It wasn't my fault the fucking towel fell off. But as soon as it did, I apologized to the wide-eyed Sara and put it back on.
I thought we were cool after that. She even told me the cameras hadn't caught my mistake and I had nothing to worry about. Until the cameraman with her, or someone at the network, decided to leak the unedited video dubbed Anaconda out to the internet. It's spreading like wildfire now along with my new nickname.
This whole thing has been a goddamn PR nightmare too. Miranda has spent a week of sleepless nights sending DMCAs to various websites to get the footage taken down. It's been an endless battle. When one goes down, another one pops up. Still, it's fewer of them than when this all started.
I just wish I hadn't been so careless.
"It's unfortunate," I say, keeping the smile on my face with massive effort, "but really, it was an accident. Now if you guys would please move out of our way, I have to get to-"
"What does your mother think about you flashing millions of people?" the same guy cuts in again, taking delight in my irritation.
Miranda winces next to me as I grit my teeth, no longer able to control my anger.
"Are you fucking deaf? I just said it was an accident!" I snap. Miranda is going to be pissed I lost my cool, but I can't stand any more of this shit. "Now, if none of you have a question that's actually related to my game, don't waste my fucking time!"
"Okay, that's enough! No more questions!" Miranda shouts, taking me by the arm and dragging me toward the exit. Miranda hisses out of the side of her mouth, "Dammit, Gavin, you know better than that! Now that little soundbite is gonna be all over the evening news."
She's right. I knew the second it left my lips. But I'm not going to admit that to her. I'm too fucking pissed right now.
We reach the door at the end of the hall and I practically kick it open, muttering, "Whatever. You try stepping in my shoes and tell me you wouldn't have reacted the same way."
Miranda wisely chooses not to answer.
Present Day
"What a shithole," I mutter as I gaze out the window. We're passing by rows of shops that look like they belong in some backwater town of a Midwest state. Fields, fields, a John Deere tractor, some barn that looks like it should be torn down, and a place called Stuckey's. The town's still up ahead, but for fuck's sake, I can see the water tower with the town name on the side. It looks like it came out of an old music video.
Then again, the place is clean. I can see kids playing in the front yards, and there isn't a hint of smog in the sky. And the streets aren't jammed with traffic.
Still . . . "They really want us to film here?" I ask.
Miranda nods. "It's the ideal location."
I would argue against that, but I decide not to. I just came from yet another press event teeming with hungry reporters and I'm drained from all the bullshit. "As long as I don't have to deal with any more paparazzi, I'll consider myself lucky."
"You shouldn't," Miranda says. "I've called ahead and made arrangements. No one should know that you're checking in."
"Good," I growl, rubbing at my eyes. "Because they bring up that fucking video every time." It's been two years. And still, this shit is all anyone ever wants to talk about. It takes everything inside me to not go off on them.
That's why I'm trying my hand at acting during the off season. Miranda thought it might go a long way in helping my image and getting people's minds off my . . .
"Please don't," Miranda begs. She's been through the wire these past couple of seasons, doing her best to temper my edge whenever I'm close to exploding. I have to admire her tenacity. If I were her, I would've quit on me ages ago. "I don't want any more surprises. We'll get you to the hotel and you can put your feet up until shooting starts tomorrow."
I relax back in my seat at her words. A shower and a soft bed sound nice. And maybe a kitten to share my bed with. I shift in my seat, not feeling the excitement that usually comes with such a thought. Normally, I'd be turned on by the thought of hooking up with a local honey, but now …
"Earth to Gavin," Miranda says, shaking me from my thoughts. "You all there?"
I turn back, tugging at my Italian designer t-shirt and blazer, nodding. "Yeah, just wishing I could wear something comfortable. What is it with Italians and skinny sleeves?"
"Makes your biceps look bigger," Miranda says with a cheeky smile, pulling her phone out of her purse. "Even with the blazer."
I shake my head as she gets on the line with the hotel. There's always an angle with her.
"Yes, this is Miranda Price, personal assistant for Gavin Adams. You don't . . . oh, for fuck's sake, check under Anaconda!" she snaps, a scowl that can shatter glass spreading across her face. "Yes, Mr. Adams will be coming in this afternoon, and I want to make sure that the room is perfect for him. Huh? What do you mean, why? He's the second-highest ranked star in the movie, that's why!"
I sigh, wishing that Miranda wouldn't play it up so much. I get it, she thinks that my going a little more ‘High Roller' will get me more endorsements, more media attention, more of everything. I mean, I don't play in New York or Los Angeles, so I'm not near the media centers. Then again, considering how terrible LA is football-wise, I think I'm glad I don't play for them.
But Miranda's taken that idea and run way over the top with it. "Yes, he's supposed to have the Egyptian cotton sheets on his bed that I sent ahead, the minibar is only to be stocked with the glacial water and the exact liquor list that I emailed you . . .?"
"Oh, for fuck's sake, I drink tap water," I mutter.
Miranda reaches over, slapping my knee. I let her get away with it, though she's testing me with her antics. After all, she's been in the publicity game for athletes for a long time. She got me some of the endorsement TV spots I've done, so she knows her job. I just think she's taking my plunge into Hollywood a bit too seriously.
"Fine, fine, that'll be acceptable in the short-term," Miranda says into her phone, grinning. She's getting off on this, I swear. "And yes, there are to be two Toblerone chocolates on the kitchen counter. No, not those, one's supposed to be fruit and nut, the other crunchy salted almond. Well, I suppose you'll just have to find one, won't you?"
"Cut them a break, Miranda," I growl, but she's going with it. I mean, I get it. Ever since I showed that I'm in that upper one half of a percent of football players, things have been thrown at me. Money. Cars. Contracts. And women? Hell, I've never had to ask for one. They always ask for me.
But there's a difference between being a cocky football player and being a dickhead. Miranda's pushing that line, and finally, I reach over, taking the phone from her. "This is Gavin Adams. The room's clean?"
"Why yes, of course it is, Mr. Adams," says a snobby voice that grates my teeth. "This is Mr. Vandenburgh. I was just telling Ms. Price that while we have the confectionaries you requested, we were unable to find the specific Toblerone that you-"