I wake up the next morning to a slew of drunken texts from Jackson. They read as follows:

I don’t want to have to sell my soul for the game.

I’d do anything to win. Anything except spout a bunch of lies about how I’m reformed and good.

I’m no good. That’s just who I am. Why can’t football fans just except it?

Alright, fine. Ignore me. But that doesn’t change anything. My stance is firm.

I give up. I want to play. I’ll do it.

I have to laugh when I see the series. It’s like listening to a convict talk to his lawyer about going with the plea deal. Only, this is definitely the easiest move in the world for a sports player. All he has to do is say the right words, comb his hair right, and smile. How difficult is that really?

I take a shower and get ready. Luckily, I never said anything to the show producers about cancelling. It’s been a long time since I’ve been around Jackson so much, but he’s essentially the same person. Stubborn as a mule, hard as a bull. He’s a bastard alright, but he tends to come through in the end.

I drive over to his house and half expect him to open his door naked with a stripper dangling from his arm, but he doesn’t. He’s dressed in a light grey suit with his hair slicked to the side. He looks proper and youthful. “Wow,” I smile. “You came through. I’m very surprised.”

“Yeah, well, I want to play this game,” he says, stepping outside. “More than anything.”

“Good. Let’s go. They’re waiting for you,” I tell him, walking back to my car. We hop in and I turn to him before leaving. “And the car?”

“What car?” he asks, looking wistfully off to the side.

“That means you sold it, right?” I eye him carefully to see if he’s lying.

“Yeah, dammit. I sold it.” He sighs. “You don’t have to rub it in my face.”

“Sorry.” I pat his thigh and he rolls his eyes. “You can get another one later, don’t worry so much.”

When we get to the station, they’re in a crunch to start. We run through the questions. “Lucky for you,” I whisper as they set up the cameras around us. “You have me to guarantee you a set of questions.”

“I could have freestyled it,” he winks.

“Hell no,” I laugh. “I don’t play that way. Here are the questions. Go over the talking points in your head. You’re done fighting, done drinking, and you’re over the eye catching headlines. All you want to do is to play ball—”

“I do,” he interrupts me.

“Fine, but keep listening,” I say, slapping his arm. He looks down at me with shock. “That’s right. All you want to do is to play ball for you mother. You want to make her proud. You don’t need to go into specifics about her situation.”

He looks down, almost regretfully, but it passes within a few seconds. “And I sold the most beautiful, pussy-getting car in the world,” he says. Yep, any sadness he showed about his mother goes right out the window.

“Alright, guys! We’re live in 30 seconds. You ready?” a cameraman shouts. Jackson nods and takes a deep breath.

“You’ll do great,” I whisper. “Stick to the answers!”

It’s not long before the cameras roll and the lights shine brightly. The host smiles through televisions across the world and I’m holding my damn breath. You better do this for me, Jackson. You better do this for yourself, I think to myself.

“We’ve got a very special day planned for all you football fans today,” the host cheerfully says into the camera. “Jackson Leeman, wide receiver and possible player of the century, stands before us today for an exclusive interview. Jackson, thanks for joining us. How are you doing since that last game?”

There’s a brief pause as the host sits there with a false smile on his face. I know the guy. His name is Steven Cornish. He used to play in New England before he messed up his leg forever. I’ve heard he’s been hard to work with ever since he left the sport to do television.

“I’m doing, good, Steve. Overall, last game was a giant success for our team. We’ve still only lost two games in the whole season and, correct me if I’m wrong, I think that’s a new record for the Black Wings,” Jackson says. So far so good.

“It is, indeed and congratulations on all your success,” Steve says. “However, we can’t forget the closing chaos that ensued that evening. It was something that doesn’t happen too often during games, an all-out brawl. The videos instantly went viral. Can you talk about that? Do you have any regrets?” On the TV screens around us, there is cell phone footage of the fight.

Jackson looks down for a second and then pivots back at the camera. His eyes are misty and it evokes a certain amount of emotion. He chokes up for a second and exhales heavily. It’s perfect.

“I regret it all,” he chokes up.

“But it was sort of a cheap shot, was it not? I mean, according to what I saw, the player knocked you from behind,” Steve says. I’m getting angry at him for pressing the issue. He said he regrets it. Stick to that, dammit. “Do you feel you were within your rights to hit him back?”

He takes a second to think about the question and I can feel my heart rocking my chest. “No,” he finally says, “I don’t. Violence is never the answer. Just because someone shoves me on the field, doesn’t mean I need to go crazy on the guy. I messed up during that game. I’m truly sorry.”

“That’s noble of you, Jackson. For a lot of true sports fans and lovers of the game, I’m sure they really appreciate that. It’s not about the theatrics, is it?” he asks. I swear, I’m going to sock this guy now. He needs to stop pressing him. My heart is going wild still.

“It’s not, Steve,” Jackson says.

“You just said something important. You used the word crazy,” Steve says. Fuck. I’m praying he doesn’t go there, but I already know he’s going to. I hold my breath and look away. “Isn’t going crazy your thing?”

“I’m sorry?” Jackson asks. “I’m not sure what you’re implying.” Oh shit. No. Come on, Jackson. Don’t do it. Don’t get angry.

“Let me put it this way,” he says. “You’re sort of a loose cannon, right? I mean, with all the flipping off the fans, the fighting, and the drinking. You’d think it was sort of your thing.”

Jackson takes a deep breath and looks at me, as if to say, ‘I swear to God, I’m going to destroy this guy.’ But, remarkably, he doesn’t. He takes a few more deep breaths and a tear rolls down from his eye. Yes, a fucking tear clings to his cheek. I’m so happy I could kiss him right now.

I immediately get a text from Joseph. Thank God, it reads. I smile and nod at Jackson, motioning for him to continue.

“I, uh.” He clears his throat. “I don’t want to be that kind of guy anymore. I love the game, you know? I live for it. And for some reason, I thought I had to keep up this image of being a badass or something. Because, growing up, I didn’t have much of a father figure to look up to, you know? So I took to drinking and I took to fighting, and I bought insane cars and lived a fast life. This fight was a huge mistake, but I’m glad it happened. Not because of the hurt I caused, but because it made me grow.”

“How did it make you grow?” Steve asks in a calm and caring voice. “I want to hear more about that. I think your fans want to as well, Jackson.”

“Well, I went home and immediately sold my sports car. I’m actually selling a lot of my things right now. I don’t need them. They don’t make me any more of a man. I’ve cut down on the alcohol too,” he says. “And I’ve just really devoted myself to training and focusing on the game itself. That’s what I really care about.”

Steve smiles and nods, understanding. “Do you think they’ll suspend you during the Arizona game? I know you grew up there. It would be a sight to watch you step onto that field,” he says.

Jackson shrugs his shoulders and exhales sharply. “Man, I don’t really know. I would imagine they’re not too happy with me right now,” he says. “I would love to play in my home state. My mother still lives there, you know? She watches every game. She used to take me to all my practices. I think she’s probably watching this interview right now. I’d like to make her proud of me. I’d like to play and win that game, but if they need to suspend me for my actions, I’ll understand one hundred percent.”

“Well, alright,” Steve smiles. “Jackson Leeman, everyone. Football’s biggest star. Thank you for coming onto the show.”

“It’s been a true honor and pleasure,” Jackson says, shaking Steve’s hands. The lights dim and the cameras pull back.

“That’s a wrap!” a crew member yells.

“Nice job,” Steve says. “That was a good fucking interview. You nailed it. The whole crying thing… shit, man. You’re good.”

Jackson shrugs. “You do what you have to do.”

I grab him before he says anything else further, and I pull him into the green room and lock the door. “You did it, I can’t believe you did it. Holy shit, you almost gave me a heart attack.”

“What?” He laughs. “You didn’t think I had it in me, did you?”

“Hell no, I didn’t.” I rest my hand against his chest and suddenly feel his ripped muscles. I have to take a step back and analyze things for a second. I try to pretend it didn’t happen. He just smiles and looks at me confused.

“I’m good,” he says. “At everything I do.” The energy in the room is palpable. My face goes bright red and I turn away.

“So what’s next?” he asks. “Think I’ll get to play?”

I take a deep breath and turn back around. “I don’t know,’ I say. “The networks will press the league to let you stay in. They technically shouldn’t let you play, but the ratings will skyrocket if you do. My guess is they will, but they’ll hold you accountable. You’ll have to sign a contract specifying that you’ll act like a good boy.”

He laughs. “I am a good boy.”

I roll my eyes at him. “Well, you definitely nailed it today. My boss is very happy with me,” I say.

And then something weird happens. He leans forward until I feel his hot breath tickle the hairs at my temple when he speaks. “I couldn’t have done it without you.” There’s a few seconds of pause between us and then I just do it. I kiss him.

His lips mesh with mine and suddenly his tongue slides against mine. I feel an excitement surge throughout my body, but it’s tinged with a guilty feeling of NO! I push back, feeling my heart race and I look at him wide-eyed.

“Um.” I gulp down, unable to look him in the eyes. “I have to go.”

I quickly walk out of the room and head to my car. I cannot believe that just happened. Jackson Leeman? No, just no! I can’t do this.

But then why did I just get a rush from that? And why the fuck am I wet? I speed home, nearly running every single red light. This is not good. This is horribly wrong.