Beth, my newspaper’s feature editor said she’d kill to take my place. Right now, I’d happily let her kill me. I can think of at least a hundred things I’d rather be doing tonight. The hotel is fancy; I must admit. And Panther Sports have laid out a good spread, with a finger buffet and more champagne than the journalists could ever hope to drink in one night. The cynical side of me suggests that the organizers believe drunk journalists will write about the evening more favorably. Rolling my eyes, I accept a glass from a roaming waiter. It’s only T-shirts and baseball caps, I think to myself, as I sip the slightly warm liquid.If I’m honest, it’s not just the nature of the assignment that’s put me in such a bad mood, although that’s definitely part of it; after all, this is hardly Pulitzer prize-winning fodder. But no, what makes this the true evening in hell is the familiar face who is now making his way onto the makeshift elevated stage. Chris Hays is wearing a tight pair of dark jeans, a blue T-shirt with the red Atlanta Eagles logo stretched across his broad chest, and the blindingly white pair of sneakers that Panther Sports have asked him to model.At a little over six and a half feet, Chris towers above the emcee, who’s just announced him.
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