Salt Lake City Athlete Nyt Novels & Stories

"But the NFL owners are my friends, Atlas. If you align yourself against me to protect that little charity case, I will make sure you never see a Sunday kickoff. I will ruin you." "I'd like to see you try," I challenged. "Because if you touch my draft stock, or if you ever send another email to the Chicago Financial Aid office, I am going to call ESPN. I will sit down for a live interview, and I will tell the entire world exactly what Richard Thorpe does to his athletes behind closed doors. Let's see how your corporate shareholders feel about that." I didn't wait for a response. I ended the call and blocked his number. I took a deep breath of the freezing Boston air. The bridge was officiall

Mostly. Elias Weston, twenty-six, center, two-time MVP. The face on the screen had stopped her for a moment. That was him—the man from the escalator, composed and certain in a championship photo, looking nothing like someone who spent his spare time helping strangers with broken suitcase wheels. She closed the tab. Opened it again. Closed it. So he was one of hers. Or she was one of his, depending on how you looked at it. She closes the laptop. She is a sports medicine professional. She is here to do a job, and the job happens to involve treating athletes—one of whom she apparently met today without knowing it. It is simply coincidence, and geography, and nothing worth examining further.

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.

Oh no. Jake was scrutinizing my blanched expression with entirely too much satisfaction. "That's not all," he continued in a tone dripping pseudo innocence. "Apparently her big literary debut dished scalding details over steaming up the sheets with some mysterious celebrity athlete ex who has to remain unnamed due to privacy protections..." His eyes bored into mine, grin stretching into a full-throated leer. "So much so, they're straight calling this a case we love t hear more about the two lovebirds."

“We’re expanding our sports section. Real stories. Not stats and scores — heart, resilience, grit. The stuff that keeps readers hooked.” My pen hovered. “You mean profiles?” “Exactly. A new series: The Heart of the Game. I want you to lead it.” I blinked. “Me?” “You connect with people. You make athletes sound human, not heroic. That’s rare.” My throat tightened. “Who’s first?” Dana smiled — that knowing, slightly wicked smile that usually meant trouble. “Ethan Cole.” The pen slipped from my fingers. “Sorry — who?” “Cole. Charlotte Monarchs’ new forward. His comeback story’s gold. He’s in town for a youth charity event this weekend — Spectrum Center. You’ll get an exclusive.”

Chase said. “I’m asking a professional question.” “You shouldn’t waste your time talking to a backstabbing bitch.” “Chase.” My voice came out sharp and level in equal measure. “I can answer for myself.” He stopped. Brittany watched me with the focused, patient expression of someone who already knew the ending and was curious about the journey. “I’ve pitched to three editors at The Athletic,” I said. “One at ESPN. Two freelance pieces for TSN digital that went through. Nothing regular yet.” I picked up my chopsticks. “I’m building the portfolio.”

“You and your athletes.” “I’m serious,” she said, eyes glued to the screen. “I’ve been stalking this one guy on I*******m...” “Oh, yeah?” I teased. But it didn’t get to Nora at all. “Yeah! Plays for Oceandale Rockets, can you believe it?” “Good for him,” I said absentmindedly. “Look at him,” she said, shoving her phone in my face. I glanced briefly. He was handsome, no doubt. But my mind was somewhere else entirely.

I step out of the car and gently close the door, being careful not to make too much noise. I glance up and down the street, finding it deserted at this time of night. Only the streetlights illuminate the area, and the one directly above me flickers and buzzes as the lightbulb struggles to stay lit. As I walk towards Dale's bookstore, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I swipe the green dot on my smartwatch. "Speak," I answer. "We have a problem at the club, Alpha," Gelo informs me. "The guy you fought with earlier brought some rogue friends tonight. It seems like they want revenge."

Natalie "So, Natalie. Can I call you Natalie? What I'm really curious about is whether you're single, because I've been thinking we could grab dinner and discuss my...athletic performance in more detail." Oh brother. I mentally roll my eyes while keeping my expression professionally neutral. Believe it or not, out of all the players I've interviewed so far, Jake Morrison has been the most entertaining and the goofiest. It’s odd for a guy who's a Dallas Titans wide receiver with enormous pressure on his shoulders.