“Hey, what’s wrong?” I’ve just got home and I can already tell that something’s not quite right. She’s usually on me before I take two steps inside of the apartment, and by the time I take off my shoes I usually have already made her cum twice. But now she’s sitting on the couch, wearing yoga pants with a blanket over her head and a giant bowl of ice cream on her lap. Sigh, this again.

“Look at that,” she points at the television without even looking at me, waving the spoon she has in her fingers at the guy on the TV. “He’s saying that I’m a bad role model for young girls.”

Without saying a word I just go around the couch, grab the remote, and turn off the TV. “Hey!” she protests, but I’m not even listening now.

“Why are you watching that crap, Fiona?” I ask her, sitting down by her side and taking the bowl of ice cream out of her lap. She’s gorgeous even in her old yoga pants, so I pull her into me, propping her up on my knees and pressing my mouth on hers.

Her face lightens up with a smile and she turns around, opening her legs and straddling me.

“I missed you,” she whispers, pressing her forehead against mine. She’s happy to see me, that much I can tell, but there’s a sadness in her voice that I’m not really into.

“Don’t tell me you’ve been watching that bullshit on TV since you got here,” I say, and the look on her face gives away the answer. I gave her my spare key, and told the doorman she could come up anytime because I wanted her around, not because I wanted her to be gorging on the news.

“What was it today?” I ask her, vaguely aware that the media has been raising a shit storm since that last game. That’s all I know, though, I don’t give a fuck about what some asshole on the TV says about me. As far as I’m concerned they could be saying I’m a fucking alien from Mars hell bent on dominating the human race, and I wouldn’t care any more than I do right now.

Of course, now that I’m with Fiona, maybe I should start caring. This bullshit has started to take a toll on her. Even though she’s a natural in front of the camera, she’s too green to handle the ugly media beast. And I guess she’s slowly starting to realize it.

“Oh, the usual. They’re still being hard asses about that loss,” she whispers, sliding her hand down my chest and guiding her fingers to my crotch. By now I already have a massive hard-on, and I’m only half-listening to what she’s saying. Hey, don’t look at me like that; when it comes to sex, I’m a one-track kind of man.

“Fuck ‘em,” I whisper, running my fingers through her hair and yanking on it. She throws her head back and I press my lips against her neck, slowly kissing her skin in a downward line that leads straight to her breasts.

“They’ll come around,” she says, placing both her hands on my neck and sighing heavily. Somehow, I don’t like the way that sounds. They’ll come around; what does that even mean? Does she care that much about what these assholes think?

“Fiona, fuck, forget about them,” I say, looking her straight in the eye. “Who cares if they come around, or if they hate us for all eternity?”

“I care,” she tells me, and I just blink my eyes, staring at her in disbelief.

“Why?” Really, why? Why would a normal person worry about bullshit like this? Sure, I get it that having your name dragged through the mud isn’t that much fun, but it shouldn’t be that important.

“Why? Because it matters, Danny!” She cries out, rolling to the side and sitting up on the couch. Folding her arms, she purses her lips and looks at me with exasperation. “I don’t like being accused of… of everything that’s wrong with the world!”

“I don’t like saying this… But I told you so.”

“Well, you’re used to it! You have all the attention, and people love you! You lost that game, and I’m the one being blamed for it!” Okay, fuck, what is this? Are we actually fighting? We've never had a fight before, and I can’t believe that our first fight is about the fucking media. Jesus fucking Christ.

“Okay, Fiona, I don’t know what's got into you, but you have to forget about --”

“Forget, forget! That’s all you know how to say. I can’t forget; I can’t walk around as if this isn’t happening. No matter what they say about you, you still have your career, your contract… Everything! And what do I have? I’m just another overworked twenty-something being massacred by the news because I dare to exist!”

Well, fuck, I don’t even know what to say. I try and reach for her, but she swats my hand away. Before I think of anything to say, she gets up, tears welling up in her eyes and walks upstairs to the bedroom. I go after her, but by the time I’m walking up the stairs, she’s already coming down, her purse against her chest.

“Fiona, I--” Without allowing me to say a fucking thing, she walks past me and goes straight for the door. She bolts out, slamming the door on her way out and leaving me alone in the apartment.

I stand there, looking around completely dumbfounded. I just got home, for fuck’s sake. I drove here as fast as I could, anxious to be with her, to feel her naked body against mine… And now this! I feel angry, but I don’t even know to whom I should direct that anger—if to her, to me, or to the media. Forget about money, fame, or even the Super Bowl. I just want things to work out with Fiona.

Is that too much to ask?