Chapter 11 #2
“Proud of the guys,” I said, looking straight into the lens, my voice calm and even. “We stayed disciplined. Executed when it mattered. The offensive line gave me all the time I needed today, and defense stepped up big in the fourth quarter. It was a complete team effort.”
Nothing dramatic. No flashy soundbites. Just a clean, professional interview to cap off a hard-fought four quarters.
The second the reporter nodded and the red recording light on the camera blinked off, I turned toward the tunnel.
Moving down the steep concrete ramp, the roaring thunder of the stadium began to muffled behind me, replaced by the stark, echoey reality of the underbelly of the arena.
The air down here was thick and heavy, a familiar, comforting blend of damp grass, deep-heat rub, and stale sweat that signified the end of a battle.
My cleats clacked sharply against the grooved concrete as I pushed through the heavy double doors.
The locker room was an absolute wall of noise.
Bass-heavy music blasted from the massive speakers in the center of the room, vibrating right through the floorboards and into the soles of my feet.
Guys were shouting over the din, trading celebratory slaps on the shoulder pads, and laughing off the adrenaline of the final whistle.
Across the room, giant bags of ice were being tossed through the air like footballs, players already wrapping their shoulders and knees.
Steam was already billowing out from the shower area, carrying the scent of soap into the chaotic, victorious room.
It was beautiful chaos, the exact kind of high you only got after a grueling win, but even as my teammates celebrated around me, my mind was already drifting back up to the private suites.
I peeled off my gloves, then my helmet. Sat at my locker for a second and let my breathing settle.
Trainer came by to check my shoulder. Routine. Nothing serious.
Coach stepped into the center of the room a few minutes later. Quick breakdown.
“Enjoy this tonight. Watch the tape tomorrow. Short memory.”
Heads nodded. Clap. Dismissed.
Media started filing in not long after. They always do. Cameras. Boom mics. Phones recording from every angle.
I pulled on a clean team tee and sat on the stool at my locker.
First few questions were game related.
“Walk us through that third quarter adjustment.”
“Were you expecting man coverage on that final drive?”
I answered clean. Focused. Thoughtful. I broke down the safety rotation, credited the offensive line for picking up the blitz, and kept the spotlight firmly on the game film. For five minutes, it was a standard post-game press conference under the bright lights of the media room.
Then it shifted. It always does.
A reporter from the local station in the second row leaned forward, switching his notepad to a fresh page.
“Jalen, fans on social media noticed a pre-game kiss from a special someone at the railing. It seems to be the same woman seen leaving your estate earlier this week. Care to comment on the relationship?”
The locker room quieted just enough. The ambient noise of clicking camera shutters and rustling paper seemed to dim, the entire room waiting to see if I’d dodge the play or lean into it.
I didn’t rush it. I deliberately took my time, wiping my face with a towel to buy a beat of silence, then looked up, completely matching their intensity.
“The mystery girl,” another reporter added from the back, eager to bait a headline.
I gave a small smile, letting the tension drop just a fraction as I looked directly into the center camera lens.
“She’s no mystery in my life,” I said calmly.
Pens paused. Cameras leaned in. The collective intake of breath in the room was almost audible, the media completely hooked on the clean, intentional narrative we had just officially launched.
“Amara is the sister of my long-time friend, Cal Sinclair. We’ve known each other for years. Grew up in the same circles. Our relationship just grew stronger over time.”
It sounded steady. Intentional. The words cut through the microphone with an unshakeable gravity that left no room for doubt.
“We’ve kept it private,” I continued, my voice dropping just a fraction, anchoring it with a warmth that couldn't be faked. “But she’s important to me. Always has been.”
There it was. It was a tweaked version of the truth, exactly how Mars and I had practiced it over coffee at Oliver's.
We had designed the script to protect her, to weave a lie so close to reality that the seams wouldn't show.
But as the words left my mouth under the blinding press lights, a strange tightness twisted in my chest.
Saying she was important to me didn’t feel like strategy. Saying our relationship had grown stronger over time didn't feel like a rehearsed line to appease a PR firm. The lie fit altogether too well, slipping over the reality of the past few weeks like a glove.
A barrage of voices instantly erupted, reporters shouting over one another, eager to dismantle the boundary I had just set. How long have you been together? Does Cal approve? Was she the inspiration behind that fourth-quarter touchdown drive?
I didn’t give them much beyond that. I offered no timeline, no intimate details, no breadcrumbs for the gossip columns to track down. I simply let the silence of my refusal do the talking.
Eventually, the PR director stepped up to the podium, tapping his watch. “Last question, guys.”
Someone asked a generic follow-up about team chemistry and how the win affected our division standings. I answered it cleanly, shifting back into the safe, rehearsed cadence of a franchise player, and we wrapped.
As I stood up from that stool, the wall of noise flooding back in around me—the clicking of camera shutters, the murmurs of reporters filing their stories, the heavy bass vibrating from the locker room down the hall—I froze for a split second.
I looked down at the microphone on the table, my heart hammering against my ribs with a rhythm that had nothing to do with the four quarters I had just played.
I realized something.
We had built a fortress out of a fake relationship to keep the world out. But standing there in the middle of the chaos, I realized I wasn't acting anymore. I didn't want the story to end when the media storm blew over.
For the first time in a long time, football didn’t feel like the heaviest thing I was carrying.
I grabbed my phone from my locker.
The screen lit up against my palm, a beacon of quiet clarity amidst the post-game adrenaline still buzzing through the room. There was only one message notification waiting for me.
From her.
“Nice game.”
I smiled, a genuine, private expression that felt completely disconnected from the public mask I had worn at the press podium just minutes ago. It was brief. Low-key. Completely on-brand for Mars, who refused to give into the hyperbole of a stadium full of screaming fans.
But it was exactly what I needed to see.
I locked the screen, tossing the phone back onto the shelf of my locker as I reached for my towel to finally head toward the showers.
The roar of the stadium was gone, the reporters were writing their headlines, and the internet was undoubtedly exploding with the fictional history we had just handed them on a silver platter. None of it mattered.
As the hot steam of the showers began to clear the tension from my shoulders, all I could think about was seeing her tonight.