“Anaconda! Anaconda!” the reporters yell in my face after a particularly rough game, jamming microphones and cameras at me. “Do you have anything to say about what happened?”

God, I hate that fucking nickname.

I blink several times as rapid flashes of lights go off in my eyes, fighting down the exasperation that flares inside me. They’re herding me like a fucking zoo animal, each one of them fighting one another to stick a mic in my face.

A fraudulent smile spreads across my chiseled jawline as I wink into the cameras and prepare to formulate an answer. I’m trying to appear unruffled by the question, though I want nothing more than to tell them all to get the fuck out of my way. I know how they’ll spin it if I do. And I can already see the headlines now.

Gavin Adams Flies into a Rage after a Bad Game Because of Scandal.

I know I should ignore the trolls, who are only looking for a rise out of me or a soundbite to try and get another five minutes of story out of what was a total mistake. But after dealing with the team, the league, and all the drama that ensued, I’m pissed off. Losing 20-0 against our biggest rival isn’t helping much either.

“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.

“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—”

“I don’t care about that,” I say, cutting him off. “Just make sure the room’s nice, and we can worry about the rest later. See you soon.”

I hang up the phone and toss it back to Miranda, who’s glaring at me now. “There,” I say. “Problem dealt with.”

Miranda shakes her head as she slips her phone back in her purse. “You know, you’re not letting me do my job, Anaconda,” she says half-jokingly.

“Your job is to make sure I look good in the press, not to bully hotel managers,” I growl. She knows I hate the name Anaconda. Sure, she’s tried to spin it as if it’s a good thing, that I always find a way to ‘snake through the defenses’. But everyone and their fucking grandmother knows why it’s my nickname. It’s been on the internet in 1080p for two years now.

“My job is to make sure you look the part,” Miranda says pointedly. She reaches into her bag, pulling out her iPad and turning it on. “By the way, you made the press again.” She tosses the iPad over into my lap.

I try not to groan as I look at the webpage she’s pulled up, another of those half tabloid, half sports page sites that she likes to track for mentions about me in the offseason.

Anaconda Snakes Another One! the headline blares, showing me walking with a girl. She’s got her knees splayed out and a pained look on her face, the caption reading, Anaconda Adams earns his nickname again with yet another young lady as the star running back and soon-to-be actor leaves a hotel in New York the night after appearing on a radio show.

I read a few more lines and sigh in disgust and turn the tablet off, throwing it back over to Miranda instead of chucking it out the window like I want to. “That site is a fucking disgrace. They’re saying I barebacked her with no lube.”

“You didn’t?” Miranda asks, her smile disappearing when I glare at her. “What, Gavin? You know your reputation says that you’ve got a groupie in all thirty-two cities you’ve played in. And it’s funny. I thought you’d laugh after the rest of the problems you’ve been dealing with.”

“Maybe that had a little truth to it in my rookie year, but that was then,” I grumble, shaking my head. Sure, I went out with the girl, but I didn’t fuck her. I just wasn’t feeling it. I have no fucking clue why she looks in pain in the photo. They probably snapped until they finally got one with a weird-looking expression on her face. Fucking scoundrels is what they are.

“Whatever the case may be, any press is good press,” Miranda says, putting her tablet away. “Just relax.”

“Relax, she says,” I mutter sullenly, watching as the limo hangs a right and a hotel that actually looks like it belongs in a ritzy section of Vegas comes into view down the street. Grand Waterways Hotel. “Relax for what?”

“Because you need to be calm, cool, and collected for your upcoming interviews,” Miranda says as the limo starts to slow down. “You can’t start getting annoyed and chewing out the reporters on camera just because they ask you about your anacon . . . umm, romance life.”

“The hell I can’t,” I growl. “My personal life is no one’s business.”

“These are different times, Gavin,” Miranda says softly. “The days where people only want to hear about your talent are over. They want to hear about what you’re wearing, who you’re dating, who you’re thinking about sleeping with. And considering that there’s a . . .” her words trail off, but I catch her meaning.

The video. It always comes back to that goddamn video.

“It’s bullshit.”

Miranda shrugs. “It’s just what it is.”

I sigh, leaning back and unbuttoning the blazer. “The next time a reporter asks me about my sex life or my dick, I’m walking off. I don’t care if it’s on the red carpet of the fucking Oscars. It’ll be better than giving them another sound bite. At least during football season, they ask about the game first sometimes.”

“You’d better not,” Miranda warns.

I clench my jaw, wanting to reprimand her for scolding me like a child, but I resist the urge.

“Tell me again why they picked this place?” I ask, changing the subject.

“Because it’s a little podunk city,” Miranda says. “Remember, you’re supposed to be this badass who plays around with the main heroine for some of the movie. You two have known each other since you were kids, and they’ve got to get some background scenes.”

“Oh yeah. The big dying scene,” I say with a grunt, remembering the script. At least my character goes out with a bang—literally. A hit squad rattling my car with machinegun fire before they blow it up with a rocket? Guess I’m tough to kill. Too bad I won’t do much for it. It’s all stuntmen. “When are they filming that?”

“Umm, I’m not exactly sure,” Miranda says. “But you’ll have time to practice and get your lines down at least.”

I grunt noncommittally and then ask, “How detailed are these love scenes supposed to be?” I know I’m supposed to have at least one bedroom scene with the leading lady of the movie, Leslie Hart.

“It’ll be shot in darkness with blue light, according to what I saw from the studio,” Miranda says. “Don’t worry, the Anaconda isn’t going to be making his big screen debut. Who knows? They might use body doubles for a lot of it.”

I shake my head in disgust as we come up on the hotel. “Fuck,” I mutter, seeing the paparazzi parked outside, irritation causing me to clench my jaw. “Figures. I can’t go anywhere without these vultures showing up.”

“Pull around the side!” I yell to the limo driver, who’s kept his mouth shut the whole time we’ve been bickering. The guy’s a pro. I’d have jumped out several stop lights ago if I had to sit there and listen to us.

He just nods and waves, pulling around the corner and driving a bit farther before pulling over. I grab a hooded coat, pull it on, and throw the hood over my head. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Miranda,” I tell her, flashing a wink.

I slam the limo door and slap the roof before Miranda can reply, and I walk away, ignoring the people on the sidewalk. I’m through a side entrance within two minutes, easily evading the vultures with cameras waiting at the entrance.

I head up to the front desk, keeping my sunglasses and hat on. Thankfully, the manager’s on duty, and while he trips over his tongue a few times, probably still worried about the chocolates, I slip off to the elevators and up to the top floor. Room 603.

I unlock the door and head inside, yanking my coat off before throwing it at the sofa. I don’t even pause to take in the opulence of the room or the breathtaking view of the skyline through the floor to ceiling windows. It’s nice and all, but I’ve stayed in plenty of five-star penthouse suites and I’m used to luxury.

There are several bags waiting for me on the floor. Miranda must have sent them ahead.

I pick up one of them to see what’s so important inside, and when I do, I see a dress and some stilettos. Someone sent up the wrong bag.

Annoyed, I sling the bag at the table and into one of the chairs, not caring when the chair falls over onto the floor.

I check one of the other bags. This one has my clothes. I set an outfit out on the bed, dark slacks and a white dress shirt. I’m supposed to be having dinner in a few hours with Miranda and a big movie exec to go over a few things before shooting. And I can’t go to the meeting if I smell like cigarettes and musk.

After I’ve made sure I’ve picked my most dapper attire, I walk into the bathroom, slide out of my clothes, and enter the shower stall for a quick rinse. As the cool water hits me, my mind wanders to the possibility of picking up some ass tonight. I could see myself easily picking up some chick from the event I’m heading to. Hell, maybe even someone from the hotel lobby. But once again, I’m unable to get excited at the prospect of sharing my bed.

I shake my head as water runs down my forehead and into my eyes. What the fuck is wrong with me? There was a time where I’d been happy to share my bed with one or even two. But the thought just doesn’t excite me anymore.

I guess I’m getting tired of sex that doesn’t mean a damn thing.

My mood sour, I finish rinsing off and step out of the stall. I’m in the middle of drying off when I realize I left my pants on the bed. I walk into the room while rubbing the towel against my head.

“Anaconda,” I swear I hear a sweet voice say as I’m about to pull the towel from my eyes.

Goddamn, I think, seeing the sight in front of me, then my inner voice groans. Oh, no. Not again.

The towel slips from my fingers as I see a woman dressed in a maid uniform, her eyes as wide as a doe’s as she gazes at me. Fuck. She’s beautiful. Rich brown hair frames big, brown, soulful eyes, a slightly upturned button nose, and ruby pink lips that are soft and plump. The sort of lips that I’d love to have wrapped around my cock.

My dick twitches as I look over the rest of her. Her uniform has a French maid vibe to it, showcasing her figure and legs that stretch on for days.

I’m used to seeing beautiful women, but there’s something about this girl that makes my blood heat in a way it hasn’t in a long time.

“Hi, I’m Gavin,” I say, stepping forward and then stopping. I feel stupid as fuck introducing myself while I’m butt naked. But it can’t be helped. The snake is already out of the bag. There’s no use covering him up now.

The girl doesn’t reply, her eyes as wide as saucers, her legs trembling. Jesus, she looks like she’ll need a respirator, her chest heaving as her eyes flit to my face, back between my legs, and then back to my face again.

Her mouth works for a moment as her eyes play ping pong, and I can’t help but grin at the effect I’m having on her. I don’t know why I’m enjoying this, but I am.

I boldly take a step forward, though I know I shouldn’t. She’s fucking petrified. “You all right?”

Her cheeks burning red, I hear her mumble, “I’m sorry,” before she turns and runs from the room without looking back.

For a moment, I’m tempted to go after her, but I don’t. After all, I am naked, and I don’t know where the fucking bathrobe is. But I’m pissed I didn’t get her name. She was gorgeous. And I could see the way she looked at me. I know that look.

And the image of her looking up at me with those eyes while I push into her body is going to be in my dreams until I make it a reality.

But she ran from me. I clench my jaw as I think about her plump, pouty lips and her wide eyes as she took in my naked body. My cock twitches again as I remember the lust that flashed in her eyes.

I decide right then and there that I’m gonna find her. And when I do, I’ll have those sweet lips wrapped around my cock in no time.

If it’s the last thing I do.