"Does your performance have any anything to do with the girl from the game against the MILFs?" The brunette pushes her way back into the inner circle, materializing out of nowhere and holding her mic as if it's a sword. Calm the fuck down, girl.
"It does," I tell her, knowing that's going to make everyone even crazier. I really don't want to throw Fiona at the wolves, but I figure they'll never give up before finding out who she is; and, let me assure you, they will. These reporters are like cyborgs, hunting down whatever it is they want. And if they don't get it, they might just make up whatever story they want. So, fuck it, I'll give them the truth. "That woman's the reason I won today. She has helped me keep my mind in the game."
"And who is she, Danny? A girlfriend?" The brunette asks me, and I can tell that it pains her to say the world ‘girlfriend'. She probably thought I'd want to do a post-game ‘workout' with her. And if it wasn't for Fiona, I'd probably do it.
"She's just a --" I trail off as I see a blonde head at the end of the large corridor, a woman in a short skirt, stilettos, and a red tight blouse walking toward us. Shit, what is she doing? If the press sees her here they're going to eat her alive. "Alright, time to wrap this up," I tell the journalists abruptly, somehow managing to walk past them. I nod at the security standing by the side, and they cordon off the angry mob before they can pull me back in.
I close the distance between Fiona and I as close as I can, and I can hear the wild shutter of the cameras behind me.
"How the hell did you get in here?" I ask her, placing one hand on her elbow and pulling her after me. I step inside the by now empty Nailers locker room, the first open door that I see, and close the door behind us.
"A friend of mine hooked me up," she grins, dangling a press pass right in front of my nose. It reads Ashley, which I recognize as the wife of some big time New York billionaire.
"You're trouble, Fiona," I tell her.
"You have no idea."
132
Fiona
There's another one over there, I point out the window at a photographer.
"You shouldn't point," Danny says to me. "It's rude."
I stick my tongue out at him.
I know! I just stuck my tongue out at Danny Manning! Of the New York Nailers!
And as I did so, there were like 40 flashbulbs that just went off, capturing the act. My sticking my tongue out has now been immortalized in the annals of Western culture. I'll probably show up on the Sports pages of the New York Daily Journal. As the woman behind the quarterback.
Yeah, I know I'm getting a bit ahead of myself here but can you blame me?
I'm sitting with a handsome hunk of man at Il Bolina, in Midtown on 53rd and 7th. The restaurant sat us next to the window - I think they knew this was going to happen, but to be completely honest, I didn't mind. I didn't really know the crush of reporters that was going to materialize out of nowhere on the edges of Times Square, but then again, I'm new to this world, ya know?
"I think you should wave and smile," Danny whispers in my ear.
Boom. Another fifty flashbulbs that captured him whispering in my ear. Maybe they'll have a tagline that says "Secret, Sexy Whispers" as they put us on the pages of the newspaper.
Oh my God, this is so awesome!
I raise my hand and wave at the press. A few of them wave back but a lot more snap pictures. The flashbulbs are stronger for me waving that Danny whispering, that's for sure. Again, I can picture the headline. "Beauty! And Modesty!"
Can you tell yet that it's gone a bit to my head? I mean just a lil' bit? No? Well, then this should probably help.
I lean over and take Danny's hand in mine and whisper into his ear. "I'm having a great night tonight, Danny," I tell him. "Thanks for taking me out."
I've never been so forward with a guy before! But then again, I need to find something to tell Danny, because the simple fact that I'm leaning over and whispering into his ear is making the photographers crazy. It's like 200 flashbulbs go off, snapping away pictures of me whispering sweet nothings into his ear.
He looks at me and smirks. "You're not shy, are you?" he asks me.
Another fifty flashbulbs.
I shake my head and bite my lip, coming closer to him. Do I really want to kiss him with an audience? What's that going to be? 300 flashbulbs?
"I'm not kissing you on camera, Fiona," Danny says to me, shaking his head slightly. "I'm not one of those athletes that looks to make bigger headlines off the field than on the field," he finishes.
That's okay. I can understand.
"But I've never even been on the field," I tell him. "So this is all new to me."
"And you're completely playing those guys," Danny says, gesturing briefly to the window. "Like a violin. You sure you've never done this before?"
I shake my head. Have I ever been in a situation where I've had to pretend that a gaggle of photographers outside the window didn't exist?
Uhm, that would be a no.
But have I ever crushed on a guy real hard that within the first ten minutes of sitting down to dinner I knew I was going to fuck him?
That's a big affirmative. And no, I'm not thinking of giving it up to him just because he's famous and has his own travelling press corps. I'm thinking of giving it up to him because he's cute and hot and looks like he has a giant cock.
Those are the normal reasons why girls should give it up to guys, right?
I lean over and pull Danny's face towards mine.
"Hey," I say to him. He looks at me and smiles.
I kiss him.
800 million flashbulbs.
So not why I was doing it.
But I'll take it!
That's it.
I've decided.
Life with Danny Manning is going to be a fucking blast.
133
Fiona
I can't believe that I actually pulled this off.
The security at the Nailers' stadium is pretty tight, but I somehow managed to sneak inside the private areas just by waving Ashley's press card as fast as I can and pretending that I was some big shot press officer.
I strolled down the corridors in awe as I passed by some of the players, tall muscled men just getting out of the shower. Who do I talk to about living down here? I can bring a tent.
Finding Danny wasn't hard; I just needed to follow the noise. He was right in front of the conference room, hounded by a legion of journalists that wanted more than just his short post-game comments. I figure that tomorrow people will be talking about his performance for hours on end.
The moment Danny sees me walking down the corridor, he pushes his way out from the circle of journalists and heads toward me in a hurried pace. I stand in place, looking at him come as if I've never seen him before. God, he looks so deliciously handsome. How in the world have I slept in his bed? I should buy a lottery ticket, you know, just in case my luck keeps being this good.
Grabbing me by the arm, he pushes me inside a room, stunned by the fact that I somehow managed to pass security. I just take Ashley's press credentials and wave them in front of his face. Oh, yeah, I'm a resourceful woman.
"You're trouble, Fiona," he tells me, his words sending a shiver down my spine. I don't think I'll ever get tired of his deep rumbling voice.
"You have no idea," I say, going up on my tiptoes and pressing my lips against his. When I pull back, my heart is racing at a thousand miles per hour. "Where are we?" I ask him, looking around the place we're in. There are wide polished benches lining the walls, and there are numbered Nailers jerseys hanging in front of tall lockers over the benches. To my right, the room opens up into a large showering area without any stalls. For a moment, I imagine dozens of naked gorgeous men standing under the running water, and that pleasant warmness spreads to my pussy.
"Welcome to the Nailers' locker room," he smiles, and I can hear a note of pride in the way he says it.
"Lock the door," I whisper at him, placing both my hands on his chest. What? I want to know how it feels to fuck in one of the most famous locker rooms in the US.
"You're completely insane, did you know that?" he tells me, but turns the lock on the door all the same. Walking back to me, he places his hands on my hips and pushes my body until my back is against the tiled wall of the locker room.
"It's your fault," I purr, wasting no time and taking my hands to his crisp white shirt. With my eyes glued on his, I untuck his shirt and then start unbuttoning it. "You won the game, and you said yourself … You like a girl who keeps her promises."
"That's right," he says, grabbing the hem of my blouse and pulling it over my head. His eyes become hungry as he glances at the upper curve of my breasts, and I just close my eyes as he leans into me and lays a kiss between my tits. Moving his lips up, he follows the contour of my chin and then presses his mouth against mine, parting my lips with his tongue.