In fact, he was usually the one who would sock the other players in the arm to make them pay attention to me if my soft request for them to follow me didn’t work. He spoke on camera like he was a thirty-two-year-old professional rather than a nineteen-year-old student athlete, and he was nice to me - respectful, attentive.

He was a natural, goofy and charismatic, and yet somehow eloquent and refined in his responses. I smiled when I saw a request for Clay Johnson on my list, one of the easiest players to coach in the art of media relations. I’d earned my spot here, just like these players would fight for their spots on the team this season.Ĭonfidence, I hoped, would come with time. I only blushed three times, and I managed to speak just above mouse-level and keep eye contact with all of them. My caramel curls bounced as I swept across the field, tapping shoulders of the players I needed and directing them where to go. This was my team, my year to shine, and my time to step out of the shadows. But now, I at least had the mediocre confidence of having an internship under my belt, of being hired on part time as the team’s Public Relations Assistant Coordinator. This time last year, I had been an anxious mess - not that I didn’t still shake like a leaf any time I tried to order a six-foot-three football player around.

Fall was whispering on the cool breeze, the faint scent of apples and fresh turf promising another exciting year for the NBU Rebels. The summer sun was high and bright in the sky, warm on my skin as I bounced across the North Boston University football field with my iPad in tow, checking off the list of players I needed to pull over for interviews after the first day of fall camp. It was on the most beautiful day that I fell victim to Clay Johnson’s post-breakup meltdown. Blind Side is now live and in Kindle Unlimited.

Blindside kandi steiner