It was no surprise to Mark that this woman was as equally, if not more so, long winded as himself. He smirked inwardly as she spouted off statistics as if they had just been memorized, robotically spewing them from her lips. Her claims of stereotyping were rich to say the least, most people in his position weren't in his position, they were making it far better then he was at the current moment. It was true that he held records, set records, and was basically the best quarterback to ever play the game. There was a difference between doing research though and knowing a person, and she had asked about him as a person, still something inside of him prevented it. This reporter still had this air of confidence as if she was just going to magically get what she wanted, as if he had no way of getting her off of his boat.<br/><br/>There was apparently an upside to upsetting her though, she cleaned, she picked up his living room, dusted the dining room, kitchen, and living room, it was rather remarkable. He was not about to show any gratitude, he hadn't asked for it, was rather surprised that she had done it at all, and of course in his bitterness the apology would come across as weakness. It was clear she wanted something, she needed a good article, likely for a promotion, because for all she had said she still gave off the hint that she was simply not into sports. He still had his doubts that she knew a football from a basketball or soccer ball, he would be surprised if she even knew how many points a touchdown was worth. The whole time he sat at the table, the booth seats were rather comfortable, and waited until she finally sat back down with him.<br/><br/><span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"I promise nothing, and in fact if you want to get your story you are going to have to leave, <i>we</i> are going to have to leave.</span>" He looked into her eyes, his blue ones shining bright in the stale dull dark air.<span class="fixed-color" style="color:#b30000">"I still hate reporters, thus I hate you, but I admire your stubbornness. Still you look down on me as some project, a source of information, so if you want your story, and my permission to write it since I will sue your ass off without it, then you will answer questions I ask too. Like what is your name? What is your endgame? See missy I don't think you know jack shit about sports, so we are going to CenturyLink field, <i>you</i> are going to get us onto the football field, and then maybe I start talking."</span>It would be a test of her skills to see if she could swindle a way into the stadium. It wasn't like any Joe Schmo off the streets could just walk in, not even just pay, you had to have connections, and given that he doubted she had any in the sports world this would be interesting to say the least. He had effectively put the ball in her court, threatened her, and at the same time showed some mild form of cooperation. He was interested in how she would respond.