“How has Mike Sampson’s return affected the wide receiver corps?”
Coach Smith’s fingers tightened around his arms as he tensed up. “Mike Sampson is a valued member of the New England Patriots and we’re happy that he decided to come join us on his current contract.”
“That’s a stock answer if I ever heard one, Coach.”
“You’re damn right it is.” He relaxed a little bit, and muttered under his breath, “I have no room or time for people who don’t want to be here.”
“Has Sampson’s performance on the field today been back up to par? He was promising these last couple seasons. A lot of national writers have been including in their ‘making the leap’ columns in the run-up to the season. They’re expecting big things from him this year!”
Coach Smith thought about it for a second, clearly deciding how much information to give out.
“How about otherwise? Off the field? Everything working out there?”
Coach Smith turned to me, giving me a weird look. “I don’t have any part in that. What he does when he’s not in the weight room, in my meeting room, or on the practice field doesn’t matter to me, as long as it doesn’t keep him from being where he needs to be on time and ready, without question.”
It felt like Coach Smith was talking directly to me, instead of to me about Drake Rollins. I shuddered - had they found out about him sneaking out of my room last week? Shit Shit Shit.
I was just opening my mouth to ask a follow up question when a commotion broke out near the entrance to the locker room. I turned to look, while Coach Smith ignored it.
More players gathering together like they had last week. Another contract holdout deciding to arrive at camp? I wracked my brain, but couldn’t remember any other holdouts beside Mike Sampson, and he was already here.
No, it had to be something else. I nodded to Coach Smith and walked over to where everyone was gathered, getting my notebook and pen back out almost like it was a reflex. If there was news going on, I wanted to be able to capture it for my daily column.
When I got to the crowd of players, I looked around for a way in and finally found one after making a half turn around the growing circle. I pushed my way in past the sweaty huge bodies to the center.
Oh. This was what all the fuss was about?
Standing in the center of the circle was a tall, statuesque blonde woman, impeccably dressed, million dollar smile blazing in the waning sun of the warm New England late afternoon.
It was Annie Ross. From ESPN.
“Well, hello boys,” she said, finally speaking, fluttering those giant eyelashes of hers at all of them at once. I wondered where she had picked up that southern accent. She was originally from like a hundred miles away from me. “I just wanted to stop by and tell y’all that I have been assigned to cover the Patriots for the entire season!”
A small cheer went through the crowd - Annie Ross was an ESPN favorite. Every man who liked sports daydreamed about flirting with her, taking her to bed. She was a couple years older than me, and in college one summer we had been part of the same summer journalism program.
Let’s just say we were not the best of friends.
Ugh. What was it I had told Drake a couple days ago? Same thing applied to me. Oh, yeah, it was ‘your job just got a lot harder.’
Shit.
CHAPTER 16 - DRAKE
The second week was only a little bit better than the first week. I knew the routes, but it still took me a couple days to get them into my head so I could run them at a moment’s notice.
The coaches didn’t stop giving me shit about it, and I fucking hated every second of it. The new offense wasn’t exactly playing to my strengths - the Patriots weren’t used to having a stretch-the-field distance receiver like me on their roster - for the last few years their offense had pretty much been defined by ‘dink and dunk.’
So it made sense that it would take a little while for the team to adjust to my skill set. I was starting to get a little scared, though. What if they didn’t?
The first preseason game came and went. I got only a few snaps on the field, and the first time Lance Parker threw the ball in my direction, I was wide on the route and just a second behind, the ball sailing off to one side, over my head, off the field.
I shook my head in disgust, entirely at myself, but I realized almost immediately that given my reputation, some people would think I was mad at Lance. Shit, that was no fucking good. I hoped no one noticed.
They must have, because Lance didn’t target me again that entire game. I was on the field, and a few times I was even open, but I got no love coming my way.
It was frustrating. After the game I went straight to Lance’s locker, before even the reporters were allowed in, and I apologized to him, explaining what was going through my head. I couldn’t get a read on whether he actually accepted my explanation, but he claimed we were all good.