Call It What You Want- Joe Burrow

4

The sun shining through a pair of purple curtains wakes me. The bed I'm in is empty, and so it the majority of the room. It had decorations, sure, but none like the rest of his house.

Music is playing from somewhere in the house so I get up to investigate.

It takes me a minute to find it, but the kitchen is the source, along with the smell of bacon and toast.

"Good morning," Joe gives me a small smile.

"Morning," I smile back, and remember that I'm literally standing here, in his house, in his clothes, while he's cooking breakfast. If I was an outsider looking in, I'd say we hooked up.

But we didn't. I think.

My attentions goes from my outfit to Joes. He has on sweatpants and a compression shirt, which shows off his muscular top half, with wet hair.

"When did you wake up?" I asked him.

"Five," he says it like it's nothing, "we have workouts at 6 until 8:30 every morning. Then we'll go actually have practice at 11 for a few hours, and usually after that I like to lift more."

"You're insane," I say, but on the inside I say, "You're so hot."

"I've worked hard my whole life, now isn't the time to stop," he nods, feeling proud of himself.

"You should write a motivational book," I say, sitting down on a stool, and he chuckles, "I'm serious. It would be good business."

"I think I'll pass," he plates some bacon and a couple pieces of toast with butter. He sits it in front of me and I give him a warm smile, "Thank you."

"You're welcome," he dusts off his hands and pulls out a premade meal from the fridge.

"Something I didn't expect," I swallow the bit of food in my mouth, "you being a good cook. Maybe if football and motivational speaking doesn't work, you could go to culinary school."

"You are so dead set on me not playing football," he sticks the mean in the microwave and starts it.

"It's a dangerous profession. What if you get brain damage? Then your cooking and your inspirational side go bye bye."

He shakes his head, "That isn't going to happen."

"Sometimes your O-line doesn't protect you," I shrug, and look away, waiting for the rant that was about to ensue.

"Hey," he points at me, "don't hate on my O-line. I've already got the media doing it, no need for you to as well."

"Sorry," I nod, "sometimes I talk without thinking about what I'm saying."

"You do, do that" he chuckles, "but it's what makes you Camden."

"Aw thanks," I give him a cheeky smile.

After we're done eating, I gather my clothes and he walks me to the door.

"Thanks for coming, I know you didn't really want to, but I'm a persuasive guy," he puts a hand on his chest.

"I did want to," I nod, and start opening the door. On the other side, two vans with their doors open are sitting in the street, a woman sits on the edge of one and a man on the other.

"Shit," I slam the door and look out the window.

"What?" Joe comes to my side and looks out it with me, hovering extremely close if you ask me.

"Reporters," I groan, "they're gonna start up those rumors again."

"So?" He says, and my heart skips a beat, "They already know your here. Your car isn't very discrete."