Felicity smiles and Derek carries her over to the concession stand. Steve emerges from the locker room a few minutes later.
"Where is everybody?" he asks.
"Derek took the baby so we could be alone for a few minutes," I explain.
"Good. A few minutes is all I have before I have to go give an interview," Steve says.
He pulls me into his arms for a deep and passionate kiss. I'm absolutely thrilled. I want to melt in his arms.
My heart has never felt this happy before. I hold him tightly as I kiss him back. Somebody takes a picture.
We both stop kissing and turn to laugh and smile at the camera. I have no doubt that this picture perfectly captures the moment of joy that we’re both feeling right now.
I can’t wait to marry him and spend the rest of our lives together, with lovely Felicity and whoever might come after her in our family.
The End
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Steamy Sneak Peek ofI Super Hate You
Chapter 1 – Stacy
“Excuse me, Mr. Carson, can I please ask you some questions?”
The running back ducks his head as he comes out of the locker room, his head turned away from me, as if he didn’t even hear me, but there’s a look on his face that lets me know that he has. It’s a look of pity. It’s almost the same look you give after someone asks you for change on your way into a gas station, but you don’t have any, so you pretend you didn’t hear them or don’t speak their language.
But instead of spare change, I’m asking for hand-outs of a different form. I need one of these football players to give me a statement about the upcoming Superbowl. Their team, the Leviathans, just won the play-offs and are headed there in two weeks.
As a rookie reporter trying to work the beat and make my way up on the sports reporting circuit, I have to take a lot of rejections like this until I get someone nice enough to bite and to throw me a little bit of a scoop. It’s rough out here, with players not liking to talk because they don’t want to spill the beans on what their predications are for the big game. Plus, this particular team’s coach, Coach Kramer, is known for being tight-lipped.
He probably told his players not to talk to me, or anyone, today, so as not to jinx their chances at the Superbowl or say something stupid that will make them look bad in the press, which is always his number one concern. I’m sure that’s why they all look particularly stand-offish as they rush out of here – even more so than normal.
I’ve been standing outside the locker room – because I hadn’t been invited in – all evening, and there are only a few stragglers left to come out. A couple hurry by me but one is going slow. I hate to bother him, but I also hate to come up dry on my assignments, and my current one is to get some sort of statement or story.
My boss, Monica, will have my head if I don’t.
She is averyinsistent boss.
“Mr. Mason. Lucky number 14. How’s your injury healing up?” I ask the next player who walks out of the locker room in a fake friendly voice, trying not to sound too desperate.
He just shrugs and walks by me with a slight limp. I suppose that that fact, combined with the one where he was the last one out of the locker room, could be a juicy tidbit – maybe a story in and of itself.
I take out the small notebook and pen I keep in my pocket and scribble down a note to myself for later.
Mason still injured and slow. Won’t be playing in two weeks? Speculation. But probably accurate. Based on eyewitness testimony of this reporter.
I put my notebook back in my pocket, wondering if it’ll be enough to satisfy my boss. Probably not, I decide, but beggars can’t be choosers.
“You know, you really should get a dictation machine,” someone says, and I spin around to see a player I don’t recognize, leaning against the entryway to the locker room.
He had come out of nowhere and I have no idea who he is.
Had the Leviathans traded a player so late in the season and gotten this guy instead?
Who would they have even given up, though?
That scenario didn’t seem likely, but then again, Coach Kramer is a very unorthodox coach known for doing things that leave even the most seasoned sports commentators scratching their heads and guessing as to the purpose or strategy behind his actions. It’s as if he takes special pleasure in keeping the press and everyone else in the dark.