My anxiety increased the entire walk to my car. I didn't trust my stomach enough to check in with Ted. I shut my car door and stared at the gray wall in front of me. What the hell was I going to do? I was so nervous and maybe I wasn't ready for the big break I dreamed of. Meeting Miller's eyes and those of his secretary was physically painful. Without thinking, I reached for my latte and downed a healthy dose of cold coffee. Yuck! Why me? There was no way anyone could look at me and see a sports reporter. Hell, any kind of reporter, but assuredly not sports.

I pulled the large envelope from my bag and turned on the overhead light. After opening the clasp, several sheets of paper with my schedule, boarding pass, and a credit card slipped out. I checked the itinerary first. My plane left at eight forty-five the following morning. The name of my hotel was listed next, followed by a seven a.m. appointment the following day with Van Stelson, one of the team's owner/managers. My daily schedule or I should say the team's schedule, followed. Glancing farther down the list, I noticed I would be riding the team bus the second Saturday after my arrival. Absolutely no escaping them. My forehead hit the steering wheel several times. I had trouble considering this entire fiasco the big break I'd prayed for. Mixing my libido with jocks was a recipe for disaster. I was completely screwed.

In a daze, I drove to my apartment. I sat outside in my parking spot for a few minutes wondering how I got there. After entering my small one-bedroom, three-hundred-square foot home, I opened my laptop, which sat on the corner desk in the living area that doubled as my home office. I grabbed a yogurt from the fridge to help soothe my digestion before sitting down and staring at a dark computer screen. I inched my glasses up, pressed the "on" button, and stared at the colorful desktop icons in front of me. After taking several slow bites of yogurt, my computer screen saver popped up. I absorbed the familiar words scrolling across the monitor.

News is what someone wants suppressed. Everything else is advertising. ~ Katharine Graham

Advertising. That's what I worked on every day. It was safe and kept me in a perfect, closed box. Yes, I had dreams. I knew that one day I would lift my head and be ready to tackle the world again. Nowhere in those dreams was there room for a jock, or multiple jocks. To me, sports were a lower rung on my dream ladder than classifieds. Professional athletes were a waste of good air and they were the reason I lived the way I did. No, scratch that. I was the reason. I was a self-diagnosed male muscle nymphomaniac. The scientific world should study me and write books about my affliction.

I started laughing and it felt good. I should have majored in drama because the woe-is-me mental breakdown I was bringing on myself was entirely over the top. If my best friend, Tyson- okay, only friend, were here, he would stuff me in the trunk of my car and throw away the key. I really should research nymphomania and see if you could even have the disorder after more than two years of celibacy.

I took a deep breath. Now that I had myself past the onset of a melodramatic panic attack, I realized I was stuck writing a series of articles on athletes while children around the world starved. This was supposed to be a make-it-or-break-it moment for my career. Could I bring a positive light to something entirely useless in humanity's struggles? I didn't know. If athletes switched pay with teachers and police officers, our world would be a better place.

I didn't think I could fake my mental dislike of jocks or my body's lust for them. I could see myself salivating at their muscles with a sneer on my face. I'd sat brooding for so long, my screensaver popped up. I hit the "enter" key and clicked on Google. Two hours later, I was more confused than ever. The terminology alone had my head achingscrum, maul, ruckwhere did they come up with this shit? My frustration had me Googling Van Stelson because nowhere on my documentation was his brother's name mentioned.

"Great," I muttered aloud when Van's face flashed on the screen.

Gorgeous and a playboy. His father, a retired movie mogul, helped buy the team for his sons and supported their wild bad boy escapades. At least Van's. The other brother, Joel Stelson, stayed out of the limelight, but I couldn't imagine him being any better than his brother. The most surprising thing I discovered was that both sons were key players for the team. The Slam, the team's name wasn't a surprise; it was exactly what I suspectedviolence, dirt, and sweat. A dumb jock's wet dream.

Several pictures of Van showed his great body, blue puppy dog eyes, and cocky grin. God, he even had a square jaw and dimples. Ugh, how stereotypical can you get? Oh, shocker- Van was named as a leading magazine's most eligible bachelor. Vomit rose in my throat. I ate a spoonful of warm yogurt to hold it back.

If I didn't have bad luck, I'd have no luck at all. It was the most apt cliché I could think of. All at once I was terribly homesick. Taking out my older model cell phone, the monthly bill paid by my parents, I called my mom.

She answered on the second ring. "Hi, dear, we're headed out for a board of supervisors' meeting. Is everything okay?"

"Yeah great, I just wanted to hear your voice. I got my first break at the Journal and I'm flying to a small town here in state tomorrow morning."

"Frank, Frank, she got her first break," my mom yelled, making me move the phone from my ear and smile.

"Congratulations, baby," my dad said after picking up the extension.

"Thanks, Dad. You too, Mom. I love you both. Drive carefully and I'll call once I'm settled. I might be there for several weeks. Love you."

"We love you too, baby. Make us proud."

"Frank, you know we're already proud."

"She knows that, Patty, it's an expression."

"Drive safely, love you." I clicked off my phone smiling at their bickering. There weren't two people alive who loved each other more. Someday, I'd find someone who would love me like that. I would never settle for less.

My dad retired from the Forestry Service and my mom from the school district after thirty years as the principal's secretary. I spent my entire childhood in Downieville, Ohio, a very small town in the southern part of the state. The population remained just under three hundred. I received a full-ride academic scholarship to Ohio State and only went back to Downieville for holidays. I took part-time jobs to help with my expenses not covered by the scholarship and made a life away from my parents. I loved them and missed them, but, as an only child, they smothered me with worry. By living away from them, I could hide my idiosyncrasies and lessen their concern.

When I was a child, I didn't attend the local schools where we lived. My mom worked out of town at a large county school. She took me with her each day because she felt the county school district had more to offer an extremely bright, precocious child. Our modest home in Downieville was located on a barely drivable winding dirt road five miles off the main road. This left me with no friends in my area and little to do but read and watch TV for entertainment. I became increasingly addicted to news programs as I grew older, though romance novels remained my favorite light reading.

At school, I was horribly shy, gangly, and kept my face buried in a book whenever possible. I had a few girlfriends that were on the Academic Decathlon Team with me. We won state all four of my high school years.

I went to a few football and basketball games and dreamed about the popular guys who never looked twice at me. I was a late bloomer, and it wasn't until the summer before my junior year that my breasts decided to explode into a solid D cup. For the first time in my life, I had the attention of the school's elite jock club. While I walked through school the year before with my head down, now I watched as the boys took notice of my chest. I knew I was pretty. Not gorgeous or stunning, but pretty. My long blondish-brown hair was thick and naturally wavy. My facial features nice, with a small nose and large eyes. With a newfound sense of power, I traded my glasses for contacts, changed my loose-fitting wardrobe for tighter, skimpier clothing, and the biggest differenceI lifted my head. I don't think my poor parents knew what hit them.