‘That’s enough.’ Head Coach Ted DeMaio pushes his way through the crowd. ‘Give the kid a break. Hell, he’s been averaging over two-hundred yards a game since he was a freshman, ain’t he entitled to one bad game?’

‘Coach DeMaio—’

‘I said out! Security, get these leeches outta my locker room.’

Four taser-armed security officers push the crowd of reporters toward the exit.

Sam hangs his head.

Diane Tanner lingers behind, moving close enough for Sam to catch a whiff of her perfume, a new aphrodisiac offering a hint of lilac and strawberries.

‘Yes, Diane?’

‘Aren’t you forgetting something? You promised me a private interview after the Penn State game. You blew me off.’

‘I, uh … sorry, I’ve been busy.’

‘Sports is a business, Sam. You guys get paid from revenues we help generate. The head of the network’s pissed, he wants a live studio interview by Monday or we’ll cancel global coverage of the FAU game in three weeks.’

‘Okay, okay. How ’bout tomorrow afternoon? I can meet you in the Press Room about three.’

‘Tomorrow’s good, but tonight’s better. I thought we could do it in my hotel suite.’

Yeah, I bet you did …‘I, uh … really can’t.’

Diane leans closer. Whispers into his ear. ‘Yes you can. In fact, I bet you can do it all night long.’

She pulls away as the ’Canes’ starting offensive line assembles in front of Sam’s cubicle. The grungy, orange-stained underclassmen are wearing nothing but skimpy towels.

K. C. Renner steps forward. ‘Hey, ESPY-ho, check out this exclusive!’

‘Trust me, Renner, there’s nothing you’ve got under those towels I haven’t seen already.’

The six football players ceremoniously drop their towels, revealing pubic hair but no penises.

Sam hides his grin as K. C. strikes a pose. ‘It was a team decision. Saves wear and tear on jockstraps and cups.’

Ignoring Renner, she turns back to Sam. ‘Tomorrow at three. Don’t blow me off again.’ She whispers. ‘Call me later, and I’ll help you forget all about today’s game.’

She pushes past K. C. and heads for the exit as Sam’s teammates, laughing hysterically, untuck their male organs from between their legs.

K. C. watches Dave Goldsborough, Miami’s 402-pound all-American left tackle struggle to free himself. ‘Yo, Moose, you oughta think about trimming that thing for real, man. Probably help you to move a lot faster.’

As if considering it, the lineman looks down, unable to see past his massive belly.

Sam looks up as his best friend slaps him on the shoulder. ‘Thanks, K. C. Lauren would kick my ass six ways to Sunday if she caught me hangin’ with the ESPY-ho.’