“Fucking hundreds,” he said. “And they all said the same thing. Sean Donovan is great on the field, but a total train wreck off the field. All they wanna talk about is how much I drink and how many women I fuck and how many bar fights I get in.” He shook his head. “Shit, I’m the one doing all that stuff and it bores the fuck out me. Why would Playboy’s readers want to read a rehash of the same old shit they can see on TMZ or ESPN any night of the week?”
He glanced at me and closed his mouth to let me know it was my turn to speak.
“Well, I thought that…” I stopped speaking because I realized that he was right. Sean Donovan’s exploits were given more press time than Donald Trump’s hair. What was I thinking? There was no need to write an exposé on Sean Donovan because, as I’d contemplated in Walter’s office, there was nothing left to expose.
He spoked without looking at me. “You thought that I would let you follow me around for a few days to personally eyewitness what a train wreck my life is. Is that it?”
Jesus, I didn’t expect this guy to be so smart…
“Well, I…”
I heard him blow out along breath as he shook his head.
“You saw the train wreck last night, Katie Holmes. Fuck, you got to witness it first-hand. I go to clubs, I get fucked up, I try to screw beautiful women, then I get up the next day and do it all over again. And if I’m not too hungover, I run down the field and catch balls Matt Murphy throws at me. If you’re looking to write an exposé, knock yourself out, but you won’t be telling the world anything it doesn’t already know.”
“Does the world know that your drinking and partying is about to cost you your job?” I asked bluntly.
He frowned for a moment, then opened his mouth wide. “Ah, you talked to Monique.” He chuckled under his breath. “I saw her up there feeding number three. I guess she told you everything Leon told me.”
“She said the coach is going to play Denzel Lockett if you don’t sober up and get your life back on track.” I studied his handsome face for a moment. The muscles in his jaw twitched. “Is that true?”
He took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Is that the story you want to write?” he asked. “The rise and fall of Sean Donovan?”
I thought about it for a minute, then said, “I’d like to write the story of how Sean Donovan got his life back on track and took his team to the Super Bowl.”
His handsome forehead wrinkled as he stared out the windshield. Quietly, he said, “I’d like to write that story, too.”
“We could write it together,” I said. “If you’ll let me.”
He thought about it for a moment, then glanced at the side mirrors and cut across two lanes of traffic to take the next exit. I grabbed onto the dash to keep from sliding sideways into the door.
“Where are we going?” I asked.
“You want to write about the real Sean Donovan?” he asked. “The one that the public doesn’t care about because it’s not headline news?”
I blinked at him. “Yes, I would.”
“Okay, Katie Holmes,” he said. “But don’t say I didn’t warn you.”
Kate
I stood at the back of the room with one of the nurses who worked in the Children’s Cancer Center, watching Sean make his way around the dayroom, passing out hugs and little stuffed footballs to the sick children seated there.
The kids ranged in age from a few years old to early teens. They were all in pajamas and little bathrobes. Some didn’t have hair. Some wore knitted caps with the Kings gold crown logo sewn in. Some smiles, others didn’t seem to have the strength. They were all very sick little boys and girls.
Some of them knew who he was, but most didn’t. It didn’t seem to matter to Sean. He was clearly not there to stroke his own ego or have someone like me document how loving and kind he was. He was there because he wanted to be.
“How often does he come here?” I quietly asked the nurse.
“At least once a week,” she whispered back. “He always brings stuffed footballs or Kings t-shirts or caps to pass out to the kids. When he’s finished handing out goodies, he’ll either read them a story or play something on his guitar.”
“He plays guitar? I had no idea.”
“He plays beautifully,” she said, glancing at me from the corner of her eye. “Aren’t you his girlfriend?”
“No, I’m a journalist,” I said. I found it flattering that she thought someone like Sean D
onovan would be interested in someone like me. I tried to sound professional rather than enamored of Sean.