Page 42 of Bound By Lust (Sinful Seven #2)

I square my shoulders, smoothing down my press badge lanyard. The room is all glass and chrome, with bright lights, bottled water, and nerves bouncing off every polished surface.

I smooth my palms down the front of my skirt, heart thudding harder than it does before kickoff. Everyone keeps saying this isn’t a big deal, that it’s just press and questions. But I know better.

This isn’t just media.

This is the moment people decide who I am before they even hear me speak.

I pace the floor, wishing Frank was here, but I shake the thought away.

That will just make me sad, and I don’t want to cry on camera.

I turn on my heel and go still when the door swings open, and a woman walks in like she owns every inch of the floor.

Shit, from the confidence in her step, she might as well. Damn, get it biiigg!

When she struts over to me, I take the moment to look her over.

She’s small, barely past my shoulder in heels, but there’s nothing small about her presence.

Her hair is sleek and wrapped into a perfect low bun, her suit tailored like armor, her makeup is light but laid for the Gods, and her smile is big and bright with pearly white teeth.

But it’s her eyes that are the draw. They’re sharp, calculating, and focused.

There’s no doubt this woman deserves to be where she is, and I know she’s at the top.

A beautiful weapon disguised as grace.

“Jessica Hurts?” she says, offering her hand, and I take it.

“Y-yes,” I answer with a smile.

“I’m Amara Blanchard. I’ll be coaching you through today’s media blitz.” Her grip is firm and steady. Shit, she’s so on point that suddenly I want to sit up straighter.

“It’s good to meet you,” I say honestly.

She smiles before giving me a slow once over, not judgmental, just thorough. Like she’s checking for any cracks to lay cement over because she rooting for me to pass.

“Likewise. Would you like to have a seat while we discuss what this weekend is about?” she questions and I nod, going over to the nice wooden table in the far corner of the room near the window with fresh flowers and snacks, all my favorites.

They really spared no expense. “Great.” She takes a seat, then looks at her clipboard. “Then lets gets to work.”

“Let’s,” I nod ready as she lays the groundwork.

“Okay first, let’s keep it clean, confident, and concise. They’re going to ask about your stats, your game style, and a few will push for commentary on recent rumors. Ignore the noise. Speak to your strength.

You represent not just your talent, but the discipline behind it.

Highlight the team, but you also want to honor your work.

You’re here because you earned it. Do you understand?

” She looks up at me with warm, calculating eyes as if trying to discern if I’ll fold under pressure.

Ain’t shit folding me but my man. Everything else is cake.

“Understood,” I nod.

“Good. Now I put together a list of things that might help you when they’re rapid firing questions your way,” she informs me as she hands me a sheet of paper and I stare at it, impressed

Jessica Hurts Media Blitz Strategy

· I didn’t come to prove myself. I came to perform. The proof is already on the field.

·I’m not the exception. I’m the evolution.

· It’s not about being the only girl on the field. It’s about being the one no one can ignore.

· Let them talk. I’ll just keep showing up and making noise where it counts absorbing every word.

· Remember: every question is a chance to redirect. Don’t answer what they ask—answer what you want them to hear.”

·Speak in headlines. One-liners. Be quotable. Be clear.”

· Never apologize for being confident. Own the space like it’s already yours.

She walks me through a few questions. Her tone is flawless, like she’s trained senators, CEOs, and maybe a few presidents in secret. She is a real girl boss that in this short amount of time I have grown to respect.

As I get up to go, she stops me, lowers her clipboard, and looks me dead in the eyes.

“Off the record,” she speak, though her voice is quieter now.

“Yeah?”

“Don’t let them bully you!” She raises a brow and gives me a pointed look. “You’re a Black woman in football, Jess. That’s not a small thing. I know this isn’t fair of me to say and I know this is unprofessional, but I have to say it.

There are going to be little girls out there, little Black girls, watching this interview just to see someone who looks like them in that seat.

You don’t just represent the team today.

You represent possibility . So, while you’re showing up for yourself, don’t forget you’re showing up for them too. ”

I swallow hard, throat tightening. She touches my arm gently, and her voice softens again, but the words hit like a Kamehameha.

“And Jess… again, you’ve earned this. Own the room. You’re not just one of the players anymore.” She smirks, squeezing my arm. “You are the headline.”

Something locks into place inside me. Not fear, not pressure… its purpose. I nod, breathing steady now.

“Thank you. I needed that.” I shake my hands and crack my neck.

“I know you did. Now let’s go change your life.”

The room is packed like a mother fucker… they’re watching me like starved dogs, waiting for me to fuck up, but I don’t...

There are cameras everywhere, and microphones hanging from every fucking angle, but I don’t flinch. I just do what I’m meant to do… shine.

Amara was right. The woman deserves a raise. They asked me about everything, from the ongoing season to my team and how I fit in it as a woman, even my goals.

I’ve answered like a pro, using some of Amara’s answer when I couldn’t think of a better response, but I made sure to answer as openly and honestly as I could. I was born for this! They can’t faze me.

“Last question?” The time facilitator calls out and a man in a tailored blazer, barely hiding his smirk, holds up his hand.

“Yes?”

“Jessica, you’ve faced a lot of noise this week, rumors , and backlash, drawing attention on your personal life. What do you have to say about that? And how do you stay focused through it all?”

My heart stops beating like it’s been ripped out of me.

Of all times for that shit to happen, it had to be this week!

What about all the time I spent being chaste and good?

What about all the time I skipped parties and hanging out with friends to just sit at home to keep a good image? ! What about that shit, huh?!

My obvious and honest answer is I don’t… but I swallow, ignore the sweat creeping down my neck, and lean forward just slightly, lips curled in a calm, killer smile.

“It’s simple, actually. I don’t think about it. I keep my head in the game and remember I don’t have time for rumors. I’m too busy making history.”

A beat of silence.

Then the room erupts with flashes, applause, laughter, and murmurs of approval.

I rise from the seat, thank the panel, and walk out of the room on jelly legs, though them bastards would never know. I strut out like Amara hunny, because I’m her!

When I finally step outside the doors, I go to take a deep breath, but I realize I’m shaking. Not only that, but my face aches from smiling, my palms are dry from too many handshakes, and my spine is tight from sitting perfectly poised for so damn long. But I held it down.

I made it out with grace! Hell yeah! Go me! When I shut the door, that I see Amara is waiting on the other side.

“Well done,” she beams “That last line will be a headliner for sure.”

“Thank you,” I nod, smiling a bit, cheeks still hurting as Amara watches me like she’s reading something deeper.

“You hungry?” she asks casually before stepping into the elevator with me.

“Starving,” I answer immediately because I am.

I haven’t had the nerves to eat much, sitting between Tweedle dee and Tweedle dumb on the plane, let alone from all the nervousness and the excepted yet unexpected rush of the day.

I’m tired and hungry, but I’m glad the hard part is over.

Tomorrow, all I need to do is show them what the fuck I can do on the field.

“Good. Then would you like to grab a quick bite with me?”

“I’d love to,” I answer, following her. We end up in a quiet lounge at the far end of the hotel. I can tell by the ambiance that it’s too fancy for most of the players, and too tucked away for the press.

It gives quiet conversation rather than let’s turn up, which I’m sure is what most of the players are doing right now.

She orders for both of us without asking. Not bossy, just efficient, as if she’s always had to lead or be ignored, and I get it. I felt that way until I met Frank. He’s the one who gave me the freedom to be soft.

When the food comes, she doesn’t touch hers. She just stares down at her drink for a moment, then looks up at me, sagging.

“You remind me so much of me,” she smiles, but it’s tired and I blink, grabbing a fork because I can tell this is going to get deep, but babe, I’ma need me some calories. I think I burned more on that panel than I did being three way’d by my man horn, tail and dick… I’m lying, but still!

“Is that a good thing?”

“I always loved football… I used to think I would play and go pro. I did little league and was bullied. I played in middle school and was benched, same in high school.” She rolls her eyes bitterly.

“I feel you on that one.”

“I’m sure you do… I broke records. I could run my ass off, catching was nothing, and talk about reading a field like it was a book written for me,” she boasts and I cut my steak, humming.

“So what happened?”

“Same thing that happens to a lot of us. No space. No funding. No league. No patience for girls who didn’t smile enough. I didn’t fade… I got angry, and that anger turned me into a strategist.”

“Damn… bad ass.” Her eyes lift to mine, burning with excitement.

“I couldn’t be the headline, Jess. So I became the one who builds them.” Whoa…

She leans in, taking up her own fork…

“You’re not just good, Jess. You are rare, and that makes you a target and a torch. You will carry shit you didn’t ask for. Be criticized for shit you didn’t earn, and their praise will come to feel conditional.

But you had better not flinch. Don’t you shrink yourself.

And no matter what, keep your head in the fucking game, because every time you walk out on that field, you’re building a path none of us had.

You’re making it easier for the girl who comes next,” she throws my way and I look down at my steak, nodding.

I am her… but to that little Black girl watching me, I’m the Jessica Hurts… the one who made history. I swear I’ll make sure never to forget this.

Never.