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interactions good rapport.”
    Mr. CUM waved a dismissive hand. “Next week, invite him for a sit-down with Phil. We want him on Sixty with Stapleton .”
    It was a widely known fact that Brody Easton did not do more than required TV locker room interviews and news conferences. Newspaper articles were even limited to those where he had final approval of the words. He’d declined every in-depth, one-on-one televised interview since he’d earned himself a spot back on the team. “He doesn’t do sit-down interviews.”
    “It would be a big score for us. We’re lagging in ratings this year, you know.”
    I gritted my teeth. I knew what he was insinuating. Although the truth of the matter was, we were behind in ratings because of irrelevant content. Many of the old-timers stuck to interviews of the players they were friendly with and reported mostly on notable past sporting events. Viewers wanted fresh stories. “I’ll see what I can do.”
    I sat through another hour of the wasteful meeting and then headed back to my office. Indie was sitting in my chair, tossing a football in the air. The I’d really like to fuck you football. And she was smiling from ear to ear.
    “Anything you want to talk about?”
    “Shut up.”
    “Guess the cleanse is about to end. Or did it already?”
    “I don’t think so.”
    “Why? He’s ridiculously hot, and he’s obviously into you.”
    “That man isn’t into me. He wants in to me.”
    “Same thing.”
    “No. There’s a major difference.”
    “You know, it’s the new millennium. You can have sex without love and commitment.”
    “Yes. I know. I’ve dated.”
    “You date guys for a few months, find something wrong with them and then take a six-month hiatus from penises. Wouldn’t it be easier to just have sex and not date? Then you wouldn’t need the six-month celibacy recovery period. You could just fuck your brains out year-round.”
    “That logic made a lot more sense in your head before it came out your mouth, didn’t it?” I pulled a file from my cabinet and began to thumb through it.
    “So you’re going to sleep with Easton?”
    “Did you really miss the sarcasm in my voice? The guy only wants to get laid. He’d be gone the morning after I gave in.”
    “Did he ask you out?”
    “I suppose. He asked me out to dinner before delivering that eloquent invitation on the ball.”
    “See, he’s into you.”
    As much as I hated to admit it, I sort of wanted him to be. There was no denying that I was attracted to him physically. What woman in her right mind wouldn’t be? But I just wasn’t a one-night-stand type of person. I imagined the day after—going from feeling wanted to being forgotten—was a little bit like bungee jumping and slipping loose from the rope. An exhilarating high as you took the plunge, only to free-fall when you realized nothing was holding you any longer. It was just you—all alone. And you couldn’t even remember what made you jump in the first place.
    That night, exhausted from travel, I climbed into bed early. Although my body was drained, my mind seemed to be spinning. Thoughts of Brody Easton and the way he looked at me gave me a feeling of excitement I had forgotten existed—a visceral reaction that was pointless to try to tame. Not once since Drew did I have that flutter.
    Drew.
    I reached over to my bedside nightstand and picked up the small, oval-framed picture taken in middle school. Even though it was always there, I hadn’t really looked at it in years. Drew was wearing his football uniform, and the eye black under his sweet brown eyes was smeared from wiping sweat during the game. I smiled, thinking back to how a look from those eyes gave me butterflies growing up.
    Lying in bed in the dark, I tried to make sense of my fascination with Brody. But in the end, I decided maybe I simply had a thing for football players. After all, my father was a football player. I’m sure Freud would have had a thing or two to say about