I head out of my Manhattan apartment with a green scarf wrapped about my face and sunglasses.

It's been several days since Brett's cock shot, and I have been bombarded every day with paparazzi outside my apartment. I've kept a low profile and EAN has instructed me not to do any after-practice interviews this week. They want to wait until things have settled before putting me back onscreen.

It's bullshit. I'm sick of the questions being asked and photos being taken of me as I walk down the street. Some of the most ridiculous headlines have been written in the tabloids. Most claiming that I had planned the cock shot for months to boost my career. It's lame. I'm already the top sportscaster in America and have been given several awards the past few years. I don't need Brett Brock's cock to make a name for myself. But day after day the headlines keep running, the Internet memes keep flying. This morning I found another on one of my social media newsfeeds. It was a picture of me with a mic in my hand—well almost. My mic was replaced with Brock's dick and my mouth wide open inches away from it. The words, 'Fight for every inch!' were written beneath.

Despite the heinous tabloid headlines, my publicist Anne seemed to think this whole fiasco will be a good thing for me.

"Don't bitch about it, Lexi," she says to me over lunch a day after the cock shot. "You know as well as I do that all publicity is good publicity. Your face constantly in the papers only makes people more curious about you."

"My face is plastered everywhere ... next to a huge cock," I say, my eyes bulging. "Don't think people are paying much attention to me as much as that cock."

"Yeah." Anne's cheeks go crimson. "He does have a gorgeous one. Thanks for capturing it." She pauses a moment, "But, you know, everyone thinks you owe him an apology."

I put my hands on my hips, "I don't owe Brett and apology."

She guffaws, "I knew you'd say that. That's why I've set up an interview with you and Jimmy Schnell."

"What?! You got me an interview on Jimmy Schnell's radio show? How? Why?" I ask, eating a fork full of salad.

"Actually, Jimmy called me. He thought his listeners would want to hear the story from you. He wants to know why you haven't apologized."

I crack up, nearly spitting my food out. "Jimmy is the most flamboyant gay guy in New York. I doubt he wants to talk about my side of the story. He wants to sit and talk about Brett's dong and make fun of me."

"Yeah, I know," she says, chuckling. "Your interview is live this Friday at one-thirty."

As I walk down the street headed for the radio station I hail a cab and hop inside. The driver looks curiously into his review mirror, noting my scarf and sunglasses. "Sun's not out today, sweetie," he says.

"No, it's not," I say shortly.

"Aw, how about a smile for me, sweetie. You look blue."

"Hey, pal, I don't owe you a smile. You aren't paying me. I'm paying you. Drive me to Radio Manhattan and put a smile on your face while you're at it."

He rolls his eyes before pulling into the street. He drives several blocks making several turns before we arrive. I quickly pay him and step out onto the sidewalk. I look up at the tall building with its huge glass windows and doors.

"HEY PREE!" a Jamaican fellow yells to me from his newsstand outside the radio station. "I got the biggest headlines right here!" He holds up a magazine with my face and Brett's nether regions on the cover. His schlong is censored by a big black strip that takes up half the page. The other half is my face. I can tell that the man doesn't recognize me as the woman on the cover. "I'm good, thanks." I walk up the steps toward the door. But then I stop, my mind flooding with an idea. I turn back around, "On second thoughts, you know what, I'll take one. How much?"

"For you, pretty miss? I'll drop it from five to two fif 'dee."

You should. That's my face on half that cover. I hand over the bills and change and shamelessly take the magazine with Brett's censored wang and toss it into my shoulder bag. I walk into the building. Its foyer has a huge desk with several assistants behind it and security surrounding the room. I walk up to a tall gentleman standing behind the desk. "Excuse me, I'm here to do an interview with Jimmy Schnell." I lower my sunglasses.

"Ah, yes. You must be Miss Driver. Take the elevator to the tenth floor and go to suite ten twenty-two."

"Thanks." I look down at his desk and notice a picture frame with two little children inside it. "Excuse me, could I buy that picture frame?" I ask, pointing to the kids.

"Sure. Twenty-five dollars."

My eyes narrow, "Wait a second. Is it yours? Are those your kids?"

"Nah. It's a stock photo. My ex-fiancée bought it for me, hoping I'd want to put our engagement photos—"

"Here you go," I say, handing him the twenty-five dollars.

He takes the bills and hands me the frame. I head to the nearby elevators and press the triangular button. As I wait, a crowd of people quickly surround the elevators and I pile in with several others. Once I'm inside, I begin to discreetly open the back of the frame.

"Oh, darling is that your family?" asks a sweet old lady next to me.

"Yes," I say, lying. "I'm updating the photo."

"Your son is so cute!" she gushes.

"Oh, yes. He's a little doll." I plaster on a smile.

It's better I tell her this lie than the truth. I doubt she wants to hear that I have no family and that my parents passed away when I was young. If I tell her I'm not married and have no kids she'll think that's devastating, too. But that's been my choice; I've had a few proposals, all which I refused. There's never been a man I could picture myself settling down with.

The little old lady continues to go on about her children and grandchildren. I find myself staring up at the elevator numbers changing and I hope she or myself will get off soon. She gets off at the seventh floor, blathering on enthusiastically as she exits.

When the doors shut, I'm alone. I toss the picture of the children to the floor and slip the frame in my bag. I pull out the magazine and slowly begin to tear out the picture of Brett's heavenly censored dick. I step off the elevator and toss the rest of the newspaper into a nearby waste bin and head down to suite number 1022.

* * *

"Good afternoon, New York! You are now listening to Jimmy Schnell, and if you don't like that you can go to hell!"

I roll my eyes. If there were ever an annoying catchphrase, Jimmy just uttered it into the airwaves. Jimmy gazes at me, the corners of his mouth turned up. "Today, I have here with me the most sought-after woman in New York to finally weigh in her opinion of Brett Brock's ... cockgate." He sniggers. Here it comes, Jimmy's infamous sarcasm and disgusting mind. Can't wait for the insults. I brace myself, shifting in my chair. "It's all over the headlines, Lexi! Your face and his dong! Is it true? Was this an elaborate scheme to get yourself back into the game?"

"Sorry? Get myself back into the game?" I ask, perplexed.

"Lexi, it's written all over your face. You are getting older; I'm sure EAN is already looking for a younger version of you. Jade Stolt comes to mind."

My fingers clench into a fist, but I snicker. "I may be in my later twenties, but no one can do my job as well as I can. They can go ahead and hire some younger version of me, Jimmy. But to have this job you need thick skin. Few women could handle the bullshit I got this week. This cockgate or whatever you want to call it was not a publicity stunt to try to get my name in the papers."

"But didn't you say, 'ding dong?'"

"Who wouldn't? I didn't see that thing coming."

"An answer I expected." He scowls at me. "But it was clearly preplanned. I mean come on, Lexi, Brett could use more time on the field, and you need to keep your status as the best live sportscaster in the biz. This is too coincidental to not be a publicity stunt. Is it a desperate last attempt by both of you to keep yourselves in the limelight?"

I can't believe this asshole. I politely come down to do this interview and within the first minute he has insinuated that I'm too old for my job, and that I'm so desperate for the limelight I'm willing to pull some insane media stunt. "Jimmy," I say drily, "if I actually did come up with some stunt to keep myself in the limelight, I wouldn't have myself in the papers next to a giant cock for a week. I'd go out to some fabulous party with one of those cute athletes and stage a fake relationship for several months. That usually gets celebrities in the papers. Or better yet, I'd marry and divorce an athlete within a year."

He sits stumped. I know he was hoping to bash me a little more, but I make a valid point. He quickly regains his composure, "What about Tristan Huckle of the Seattle Crusaders? You dated that lovely boy for a short time while he was with the Blazers. Was that a publicity stunt?"

I hold back from cringing. I hate Tristan Huckle. He's a dirty liar and a cheat. I wished I had never met him, and I imagine Jimmy knows this. But I keep it together, "That was no publicity stunt. Who hasn't dated Tristan Huckle for a short time? Unfortunately, Tristan has no redeeming qualities for any discerning woman to stick around."

"Well, then." He shuffles his cue cards, knowing that his plan to make fun of me has been obliterated. He's wondering what he will fill the time in with now, his show is a half hour long. He puts the cards down. "What are your thoughts on Brett's dong, anyway?"

"How do you mean?" I ask, pretending not to know.

"I'd say he's a pretty big boy." He grins widely.

"In comparison to who? You?" I say, teasing.

The radio producers and assistants erupt in laughter on the other side of the studio glass. One of the producers gives me a thumbs-up, beaming.

"I'm sure you've seen lots of cock, Lexi." Jimmy smirks.

"Probably more than you, Jimmy," I say, bragging. "I do walk in and out of locker rooms to do interviews."

"I doubt you've seen more than myself." Jimmy waves his hand. "I'm the sexiest, most charming gay in New York."

"No doubt about it." I tap my finger on the table in front of me, my lips curving. "But most weekends I walk into locker rooms full of naked men. Are you saying you see more than twenty dicks a week?"

Everyone was in stitches, even Jimmy.

"Oh my, I think I want your job, Lexi," Jimmy says into his mic.

"Many do." Every friend I have has expressed their jealousy.

"Then give us the deets, doll. Which guys in the NFL have the biggest ones?"

Jesus, he's unbelievable. I knew he'd ask this question. Why did I come? "Christ, you think I have them all visually memorized and ranked?" I ask in disgust. I do have all their body parts memorized and ranked, but that's beside the point.

"Well, I know if I were you, I would," Jimmy says.

"You should go into the locker rooms and take a few photos. It would last longer."

"Could you help me with that? Could you get me a pass in?" he asks jokingly.

"Well, I don't want to be unprofessional."

"So, if cockgate was an accident, as you say, do you have any regrets? Do you think you should apologize for your lack of professionalism in journalism?"

I sit and think a moment and wonder how the exposure of Brett Brock's penis ever became my fault. It seems public media wishes to hold me responsible. "I have no regrets. I'm not sorry for what I saw. I know you don't regret it either, Jimmy. You liked what I saw, too."

"I certainly did!" He giggles in excitement, like a child on Christmas morning.

"I got something for you Jimmy." I reach into my bag. "Since I know you'll never be able to walk in and out of locker rooms. This is as close as you'll ever get to Brett Brock's wet cock."

"OH MY GOD!" Jimmy screeches, "BRETT BROCK, WET COCK! How has no one thought of that headline yet!"

I hand him the frame with the picture of my face and the big black censored rectangle next to me. Jimmy gives me a look of confusion. "This isn't a dick pic, Lexi, it's your face next to a huge black rectangle."

"Yah, I know," I say, teasingly. "You're going to have to live through me, Jimmy boy. 'Cause that is as close as you're ever going to get to Brett."