Playing the Field

Genius or Stupidity

"Brad Malcolm," I breathe, trying to understand how I got into this situation.

"We can totally leave, girl, if you want," Nia says, looking ready to ditch the studio right then and there.

I shake my head. I can't leave. Not only did I already sign a contract, but I spent some of the money they've given me for this interview. I can't leave without facing some type of backlash. Not only is it inappropriate, but I could build a name for being hard to work with and I don't need that negativity surrounding my name. As if there isn't enough.

So flat out leaving is out of the picture. I have to stay here and be interviewed by a man who is known for treating women horribly. And I'm a woman, playing what some call 'Malcolm's game' because he was literally that good. How twisted is that? A rapist talking to a college student. Get comfy folks!

"What're you gonna do?" Nia asks, eyes looking into the screen on the cam recorder.

I look into the lenses, and shrug, "Honestly this could go so many ways. I could be aggressive with him, call him out on ESPN live. Or I could play the stupid, flirty blonde but oh God he's admitted to raping girls! That one's out," I bring my arm up and rest my elbow on the glass counter top. I sigh then lift my hand to prop up my chin.

"Avery, you know how you two sitting hip to hip and smiling would look," Nia says, letting it hang in the air.

And boy do I.

I have always been an advocate about women's rights, I stick up for victims or rape, and I do not tolerate white men thinking they run shit. So me, the darling starlet of ESPN and football, loved by most of the world, hated by the bigots, sitting next to Brad Malcolm, the NFL bad boy, may be misconstrued as supportive.

I have yet to share my opinions on Brad and the cases and accusations and bad light about him, but in no way do I think he's a good guy simply being targeted. I don't talk about Brad on social media because the need has never come up. I mean, why tear the man down even more? But still, me not dragging him on Twitter doesn't mean I can stomach the man.

I am for women, he is for himself. With everything that man has done, it's shocking how he still has such a successful career. Then again maybe not.

I peer at Nia then at the camera she has aimed at me,"Okay, listen. I do not like Brad Malcolm. I think he's utter scum and only gets away with shit because of what a great player he was; the millions in his account don't hurt either. My point is, had I known Brad was the one to interview me, I wouldn't be sitting here. But I am. So I gotta do this the Avery Skinner way and fucking wing it."

Nia laughs, "Best of luck!"

A woman talking loudly catches our attention, "Okay guys, Brad Malcolm is on set! We're live in sixty seconds!"

There he is.

Brad Malcolm, a five foot nine dream. Handsome, rugged and sophisticated to the unknowing. His hair perfectly gelled to the side, and inch long. His skin, light but tanned from time on a yacht in Fiji. His smile, thin lips with a nice pink color. His teeth, pearly and perfect. His figure is muscular and lean, from years of football and keeping his shape with his personal trainer. He's like the Brad Pitt of sports. A face in which God modeled after His angels.

I used to swoon when I would see him on T.V as a girl, back when I only knew him for what he did on the field. Now I grit my teeth. It doesn't escape me how intensely Nia is recording me.

Brad swaggers up to me, wearing a simple white button shirt, dark green blazer, and causal black jeans. His dress shoes shined to the max and the solid gold watch in his wrist catching your attention all made him look official, clean even. It made me feel like prey.