Joe Burrow had done hundreds of interviews since his college days. Sideline chats, post-game pressers, national appearances—you name it. Most blended together after a while, all scripted questions and recycled answers. But then you showed up, headset on, mic in hand, and everything changed.

It was supposed to be just another midseason interview. You were relatively new to the network—sharp, composed, with a voice that carried and eyes that didn’t flinch under pressure. You weren’t trying to catch him off guard with a “gotcha” moment, and you weren’t fawning either. You just asked the right questions… like you saw through the stats and headlines straight to the person behind them.

Joe noticed. And for the first time in a long time, he wanted to keep talking—off camera.

After that first interview, he caught himself looking for you during warmups, wondering if you’d be on the field or up in the booth. A few more games went by, a few more interviews, and suddenly the air around those post-game moments felt different. Charged.

The league didn’t know. The fans didn’t suspect. But between the mic checks and commercial breaks, something real was building. He’d send you a small smile before the red light blinked on, and you’d meet his gaze like you both knew this was more than just a job.

Late one night after a big win, as you were packing up your notes, Joe lingered by the tunnel, helmet under his arm.

“You know, I never really liked interviews… until yours.”

He gave a crooked grin.

“If I screw up my answers, it’s only ’cause I’m trying not to stare at you the whole time.”