“How do you feel?”

“Do you believe you’re going to be this year’s MVP?”

“You think the Nailers will be this Super Bowl’s winner?”

The journalists surround me like a swarm of overly excited bees, firing question after question. “Alright, one at a time, folks,” I say, raising both hands up in the air and trying to calm them.

“How do you feel about the Nailers’ chances of winning this year’s Super Bowl?” A petite brunette with a fiery attitude asks right away in one single breath, shoving her red microphone just a few inches from my mouth.

“Pretty good, yeah. If we keep playing like this, it’s a sure thing,” I tell her without pausing to think. The media might think I’m a cocky bastard, but I’m usually right about these things. Besides, how can I not feel optimistic about our chances at a Super Bowl win? Did you see our last two games? We’re crushing everything and everyone.

“And about becoming MVP?” the brunette asks again, waving her microphone in front of me and pushing the other journalists to the side with her shoulders. For a girl as small as she is, she sure is determined.

“I don’t give a shit about becoming MVP,” I reply with a shrug. It’s the truth; I truly don’t care about getting patted on the back for being such a good boy. I care about winning, baby, and it’s all about the scoreboard. The only trophy I truly care about is the Super Bowl.

“But your performance these last few games have put you on the fast track toward it, according to the pundits,” she insists, and now the other journalists are trying to push her away. She holds her ground though, as if her heels are made of solid concrete.

“Maybe,” I tell her, “but you really shouldn’t be using my performance in the same sentence as ‘fast’.” That gets a laugh out of the swarm of journalists, and that makes her pause. She grows slightly flushed, her eyes widening as she looks at my lips. Yeah, I could take her for a spin if I wanted it to; unfortunately for her, there’s only one woman in my sight right now. Fuck, I can’t believe I just said that. What the hell’s happening to me?

“Danny, Danny,” an overweight guy calls out to me, pushing the brunette to the side and pushing his microphone toward me. “What’s your secret?”

“My secret? I’m Batman,” I tell him with a straight face, and that earns another round of laughs from everyone.

“You sure could be,” he continues without being taken aback, “your performance has been quite impressive. You’ve been one of the best players in the league since your debut, but this season you’ve taken things to a whole new level.”

“That’s true. I never settle, Oliver,” I tell him, reading the name on the press card he has hanging around his neck.

“What changed, though? This game in particular… The pundits say this might've been one of the best quarterback performances in decades, during regular season.”

I purse my lips, thinking about what he just said. I truly was on fire during the game, but what’s all this talk about being MVP, the Super Bowl, and my fucking performance? We’re just in the regular season, for fuck’s sake.

“Look, fellas,” I try to calm them down, but they’re having none of it. They keep waving their microphones at me as if they’re spears, and I start thinking that if I want to leave the stadium I might have to punch my way out. “Why don’t we talk about this after we win the Super Bowl?” I say, and that makes them go even crazier. Every single photographer starts snapping pictures of my million-dollar smile, and all the journalists start asking questions at the same time.

“Does your performance have any anything to do with the girl from the game against the MILFs?” The brunette pushes her way back into the inner circle, materializing out of nowhere and holding her mic as if it’s a sword. Calm the fuck down, girl.

“It does,” I tell her, knowing that’s going to make everyone even crazier. I really don’t want to throw Fiona at the wolves, but I figure they’ll never give up before finding out who she is; and, let me assure you, they will. These reporters are like cyborgs, hunting down whatever it is they want. And if they don’t get it, they might just make up whatever story they want. So, fuck it, I’ll give them the truth. “That woman’s the reason I won today. She has helped me keep my mind in the game.”

“And who is she, Danny? A girlfriend?” The brunette asks me, and I can tell that it pains her to say the world ‘girlfriend’. She probably thought I’d want to do a post-game ‘workout’ with her. And if it wasn’t for Fiona, I’d probably do it.

“She’s just a --” I trail off as I see a blonde head at the end of the large corridor, a woman in a short skirt, stilettos, and a red tight blouse walking toward us. Shit, what is she doing? If the press sees her here they’re going to eat her alive. “Alright, time to wrap this up,” I tell the journalists abruptly, somehow managing to walk past them. I nod at the security standing by the side, and they cordon off the angry mob before they can pull me back in.

I close the distance between Fiona and I as close as I can, and I can hear the wild shutter of the cameras behind me.

“How the hell did you get in here?” I ask her, placing one hand on her elbow and pulling her after me. I step inside the by now empty Nailers locker room, the first open door that I see, and close the door behind us.

“A friend of mine hooked me up,” she grins, dangling a press pass right in front of my nose. It reads Ashley, which I recognize as the wife of some big time New York billionaire.

“You’re trouble, Fiona,” I tell her.

“You have no idea.”