“Name,” the burly guard-dog-looking man asked. This dude looked like his spirit animal was a cross between a German shepherd and a sloth. His movements were slow, but his teeth looked impossibly sharp.

“Amanda Matthews, I’m Oakley Davis’s publicist.”

He didn’t even look down at his clipboard. “Not on the list.”

I knew for a fucking fact that Coach Howard put me on the list. “Check again,” I said, annoyed, feeling my inner Karen dying to come out and ask for the manager.

He looked at me like my spirit animal was a shrew. “I don’t have to. Oakley Davis doesn’t have a publicist,” he emphasized.

It took all of my self-control to not roll my eyes at Sid the Sloth, and I forced my face into a smile. I started to explain that I had been hired a few weeks earlier and that Coach Howard had asked me to come along to keep Oakley squeaky clean. Oakley’s ears must have been burning or he just heard me trying not to screech, because he walked up and put his arm around my shoulders.

“It’s okay, she’s with me,” he told Sid. He squeezed my shoulder and started to guide me into the locker room as Sid scowled at me.

I looked over my shoulder and smiled sweetly at the guard while calling out in a sing-song voice, “Thanks so much for your help!” Something told me I would not be seeing Sid pop up as a friend request later.

“Making friends?” Oakley asked with a grin.

“Winning games?” I replied with a wink. I absolutely refused to acknowledge the fact that he was shirtless and only wearing his football pants. I couldn’t tell if it was the strategically placed padding beneath the spandex or just his overall physique that had his ass looking the way it did, but either way, it was distracting.

“I scored the winning touchdown!” he said, poking me in the side.

“Yay!” I replied enthusiastically. As his publicist, I was excited. As a girl that seriously needed to learn more about the game, I was barely enthusiastic.

Around the locker room, half-naked guys were chatting excitedly and talking to reporters. It smelled like sweaty socks and middle school body spray. “Oakley, can I ask you a few questions?” a reporter called. I turned to look at the man and the microphone he held in Oakley’s face. Damn, dude. Personal space much?

Oakley smiled and nodded. “Sure, Mike. You know I always have time for the school newspaper.”

Mike beamed at him. He was a tall dude with long black hair that curled at the ends.

“I haven’t heard much about your extracurricular activities these days, Oakley,” Mike said with an exaggerated wink. “What have you been up to?”