Disclaimer: Most major characters/events/settings are taken from the Disney movie, The Game Plan and are not mine. I have described the characters/events/settings to best fit my story. I know that some of the characters would probably never act as they do in my story, but depending on the circumstances, they have to for my story.
This is just a fan fiction on "The Game Plan"!!
Tip for better reading: To get the best visual of Joe Kingman, he is played by Dwayne 'the Rock' Johnson in "The Game Plan", and that's how I envisioned Joe to look.
Please, give me constructive criticism! No flames!!
Preface
"How did I get stuck with the sports column again?" I shouted at my best friend, Lindsey. We were seated on my comfy couch in my cozy apartment, watching a new episode of "What Not to Wear". It was a Friday night and we ate pizza and popcorn as we watched. "I mean, I've been writing for the Boston Press for almost a year and I still get the jobs that nobody wants," I complained.
"What happened to the normal sports journalist?" Lindsey asked, taking a sip of Coke.
"He just got fired and they're looking for a new journalist. Until then, it's my job," I explained.
"I thought you were only supposed to cover things like the war in Iraq, if J.K. Rowling has a new book out or the crowd at the latest Twilight movie. How come you have to fill in for this guy too? Don't they have interns for stuff like that?" She asked.
"Unfortunately, we have no interns at the moment and everyone else is up to their eyeballs in work. I am too but I guess it doesn't matter," I mumbled.
Just then, "What not to Wear" came back on and we both got quiet except for random comments about outfits the woman was wearing. Sometimes the outfits that these people wear are absolutely astounding. As the commercial came on again, Lindsey got back on the subject of my latest assignment. "So what do you have to write about for the sports column?" she asked.
"Oh you'll just love this. It's an interview with Joe Kingman." I growled.
"No way!" She gasped.
"Yeah."
"Well, maybe he isn't too bad," she tried to comfort me.
"Yeah, and maybe the war in Iraq will end soon," I scoffed, "I watched an interview with him on ESPN the other day, just to get some background information. Lindsey – the man has no life. You should have heard him, going on and on about how football is his life and outside the field nothing else matters. It was ridiculous! Besides, you've seen how he acts on TV, he never passes the ball to his teammates, he's exceedingly arrogant, his head is so swollen I'm surprised they found a helmet big enough to fit. He's an absolute jerk, and I have to interview him," I told her.
"Sounds like a nice guy," she remarked sarcastically, "well, it's only for a short amount of time. Maybe it won't be so bad. Where are you interviewing him anyway?"
"Arrangements were already made for us to have dinner at his restaurant next Friday," I replied.
"Oh, well that's just fantastic," Lindsey moaned, "Couldn't you arrange lunch instead? Dinner is when they get drunk and stupid," she remarked.
"I have no say in where we go or what we do, I just have to write the column," I told her.
"You have my sympathy," she muttered and our conversation ended as the hair and makeup portion of "What not to Wear" came on.
After a long "What not to Wear" marathon, Lindsey wearily left and I went to bed, in a pretty good mood until I remembered our conversation about the interview. I really didn't want to have to do this, but my career depended on it, and I loved my job. I'd have to just suck it up and get it over with. Maybe he wouldn't be so bad after all, like Lindsey said. Maybe he was actually really nice. Who was I kidding? It was going to be a nightmare. My worst nightmare. I've hated football players for my entire life and Joe Kingman was the most football player-ish person to walk the face of the earth! How did I get stuck with this job again? I wondered as I fell into a deep sleep and had dream after dream about having dinner with obnoxious football players. I was not looking forward to Friday.
