“You’re not going to put it in your pocket?” Bryce snipes.

  “I’ll leave it for the busboy to clean up with the table.” Seth stares at his daughter, but she never looks up.

  I raise my hand for the waitress and signal for the check. She brings it over, and I hand her my credit card.

  “Oh no, Miles, I was going to buy you dinner,” Seth says.

  “Happy to buy you both dinner.”

  “I’ll pay you back,” Bryce mumbles.

  “Not necessary.”

  “Excuse me, I’ll meet you guys by coat check. I’m going to go to the bathroom.” Seth stands and walks out of the room, Bryce’s eyes on his back the entire way.

  “You can go if you—”

  “Why?” Her angry gaze lands on me. “To stop him? I can’t control him. If he’s going to cheat, he is. He’ll just prove me right.”

  “I just meant—”

  She stands and tosses the napkin on her seat. “Just stay out of it, Miles. Stop treating me like some charity case. I’m fine. I’m capable of handling my own issues.”

  The waitress brings over the check as Bryce storms away. I leave a tip and sign it. So much for a nice dinner.

  Chapter 17

  Bryce

  I swear, the worst city to fly out of is Chicago. I’ve never in my life experienced more delays than when I’m in this airport. I’m stuck here with the entire Grizzlies team. Most of them sit with their headphones in, but Miles is chatting with Damon and Cooper. The three of them are like the Three Musketeers lately.

  At one point, Ronnie Michaels decides to sit down next to me. Again, he’s taken off his shoes and has his feet propped up on the seat across from him. His socks are funky ones with little beers, grills, and a number one foam finger.

  “I like your socks,” I say, because they look like something that needs to be commented on.

  “Thanks. My kids get them for me every holiday. Ever have something you say you like, and then that’s all you get from there on out? It’s socks for my kids. These are tailgating.” He wiggles his toes.

  I nod. “Aw, I see it now.”

  “I know you’re new to town. There’s this bar here that you should go to if you like martinis. They’ve got all different kinds. I’ve been there so many times and still haven’t had them all. Let me look it up.”

  Miles walks by and stops briefly when Ronnie says “bar,” but pretends he’s not eavesdropping. I kind of wish he would sit down. I had plans to work on this week’s article, but now I’m stuck talking about martinis when I’m not even a fan of them.

  Ronnie drones on about some spicy one he loves the most, but how his ex-wife preferred sweeter drinks. That they were always just too different. I nod because I’m not rude—especially to the man allowing me access to his team. Some general managers don’t let reporters travel with their team. They don’t want us to overhear certain conversations or see what their players are like off the field. They might think that if I see a married player taking another woman up in an elevator, it could change how I see him on the field. It would certainly change my personal opinion of them, but it wouldn’t affect my reporting. But other reporters would feel differently. Some are even looking for a juicy story that has nothing to do with the game.

  “Look who has his first ad!” Damon stands on a chair, holding up a magazine with a picture of Miles. He has a sports drink in his hand and is dressed in shorts and a T-shirt. It’s his first endorsement that came after his big play at the beginning of the season.

  The group of men all clap and cheer, but Miles grabs the magazine from Damon and tosses it on a chair, never one to enjoy any extra attention.

  “The kid’s having a great year.” Ronnie smiles at me.

  “He is.”

  “I hope he enjoys the highs since there are so many lows to the profession.”

  I glance over and see Damon pretending to box with Miles, and Miles is laughing. It’s good to see the stress that always lines his beautiful features lift a little.

  “I think he likes it here,” I say.

  Ronnie glances over his shoulder. “Good. We think he’s a great fit. I had to do some selling on him, but it all worked out.”

  Normally I might not believe Ronnie—a lot of GMs, scouts, and other people within organizations like to take credit for getting players on their teams—but from the hot and cold reception Miles got when he came here last year, I’d say he’s telling the truth.

  A voice comes across the intercom, announcing that they’re ready to start boarding our plane.

  Ronnie slips into his shoes and stretches. “About time. Sucks that there won’t be any practice today.”

  It’s getting dark outside when we board, so the team has missed their opportunity to practice before tomorrow’s game. I’m used to the team falling asleep on the plane, but the players are wired from all the caffeine they drank while waiting. A few play cards, some play video games, some just talk loudly.

  Ronnie asks me to sit next to him and talks with me the entire time about his vision of the team, while I try to appear relaxed and as though every little bump in the air isn’t causing me extreme anxiety. He discusses who he’s looking to draft, which he sternly tells me is just between us. I’m not sure why he’s trusting me—I’m a fill-in.

  “Shelly will be back by then,” I say.

  He stares at me for a second. “I’m not sure she will.”

  My eyebrows draw down. “Why?”

  “I’m not sure I want her back, and if Billy Boy won’t listen to me, I’ll just refuse to let her travel with the team.”

  My forehead wrinkles. “I thought everyone here loved her?” The pressure I feel to fill her shoes is unbearable.

  “Let’s just say there were times I think she was doing more than just reporting. She was always flirting with the players, and I don’t condone that. I was a player at one point too. I know what goes on in the hotels, and I’m clear with my players about what I expect, because if a reporter’s heart gets broken, guess what happens when they write about my players?” He arches an eyebrow.

  Ronnie is known for being the “fun guy.” The guy who makes the party better, more exciting. The guy who tells stories until you cry from laughter. But right now, he’s staring at me so intently I’m afraid he’ll see something in my eyes about Miles. My attraction to him, or maybe he knows we’ve slept together in the past. Oh my god, does he think I’m hard on Miles because I slept with him, and he assumes Miles tossed me aside?

  “I can’t say for sure, but Shelly always picked one player to focus on every season. This season was going to be Cavanaugh. Last year it was someone else. I plan on talking to Billy Boy when we get closer to her coming back.” He lifts his glass. “Don’t think you’re going anywhere anytime soon.”

  I raise my glass, and he clinks it as if we’re celebrating, when I really feel as though I’m stealing someone’s job out from under them. That, coupled with the fact that Ronnie made it abundantly clear I absolutely cannot act on these feelings for Miles, makes me feel more like mourning than celebrating.

  After the plane lands, we have to wait for a gate to open up before we can deplane, which means we’re really late by the time we take the shuttles to the hotel and get our keys. I head to the reception desk to check in since I don’t get the VIP treatment like the team does. They have someone from the hotel assigned to them who hands out the keys in the lobby to all the players.

  “Bryce Burns, checking in.”

  The friendly guy smiles, and his fingers fly across the keyboard.

  “You guys did an amazing job checking them all in,” I tell him and his coworker.

  “We knew they were coming. Got a call when they landed. It’s mostly just handing keys over since all the billing is the same.”

  Which isn’t the case for me since my billing is to Sportsverse. I take out my company credit card and tap it on the edge of the desk, waiting for the guy to pull up my reservation.

  His lips twist, and he side-eyes his coworker. “Um… I think there might have been a mix-up.”

  My stomach drops. “What?”

  Those are not the words you want to hear when you’ve been sitting at an airport all day, you’re tired, and it’s practically midnight.

  “You booked a king,” he says.

  “Oh, I’ll take whatever. Two doubles are fine.” I give him my best “work with me” smile.

  “Well, that’s not the problem, actually. The problem is that someone gave your room away when you didn’t show.”

  “Didn’t show? I had it reserved on a credit card,” I say.

  “We reserve the right to give away your booking if you’re a no-show and haven’t contacted us about a late check-in.” He cringes, knowing this isn’t what I want to hear.

  I open my mouth to respond, but before I can, there’s a voice beside me.

  “Is there a problem here?”

  I look to my right, and sure enough, it’s who I thought. “Nope. All handled. Go to bed.”

  Miles gives me that expression that says, “I’m not going anywhere.”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Burns. I can call our sister hotel for you, but it’s about an hour outside the city. I think you’ll have trouble finding any vacant rooms anywhere nearby because of the game tomorrow.”

  “You have nothing? I’ll take anything. I’m not picky.” I wish Miles would walk away right now. Why is he even down here?

  “I’m sorry. Usually, we’d call first to check before we gave the room away. I’m not sure how it happened.”

  “You’ll stay with me,” Miles says as if that’s that and turns to the guy. “Can I have another key for my room?”

  I spin to face him. “Absolutely not. What do you do, just wait around looking for a damsel in distress or something?”

  He laughs. “Yeah, I have nothing better to do with my life than save you.”

  I turn back to the receptionist. “I’m desperate. Please…”

  Both guys behind the counter shake their heads.

  “Okay.” I take my suitcase and walk away, pushing back my tears of frustration. I pull up my Uber app and figure if I can get a little out of the city, I’ll be able to find a room somewhere.

  A large figure looms over me.

  I don’t look up but hold up my hand. “No, Miles. I’m good. I’ll figure something out.”

  “You’re being ridiculous. Just come to my room. It’s a king. I’ll put a divider up between us. We’re adults.”

  I bore my eyes into his. “This isn’t some cute little mishap like in a rom-com movie. This is real life, and I have to be a professional here, which means I cannot sleep in your hotel room. It’s a conflict of interest.”

  He steps even closer to me, and I step back, glancing around the lobby. “These are extenuating circumstances.”

  “I’ll stay with Cooper,” I blurt, not sure why I didn’t think about that earlier.

  “He’s probably already in bed. Come on, Bryce. I promise to keep my hands to myself.”

  “That’s not what I’m worried about. I’m worried about… it’s…” I scour the lobby for any eavesdroppers and lean forward. “The rafting thing.”

  His eyes light up with mischief. “Oh, you’re worried you won’t resist me. Valid concern, but I promise not to walk around in a towel or my boxers, except for when I’m in bed.”

  “Exactly!” I say way too loudly, and the people behind the front desk look over.

  He laughs. “Let’s go. We can figure out the logistics to avoid turning the other one on once we’re in the room.”

  He walks over to the elevator, and I stay in place. He turns around and stares at me.

  I really, really just want a comfortable bed and some sleep. I do not want to have to travel an hour outside the city and then have to make the trek back in here tomorrow morning. It’s already so late. Plus, I’ve managed to avoid sleeping with the man for two years. Surely, I can handle one night.

  I walk over to the elevator, and he presses the up arrow button. Thankfully, the doors open right away, and we’re able to get to his room without anyone catching us except for the workers downstairs. I wonder if they have to sign some non-disclosure when the team is staying here.

  The minute the door opens, and we’re both staring at the king-size bed, fear wraps around me like the arms of an octopus. This was a mistake.

  “I gotta get to bed, so you change in the bathroom, and I’ll change out here.” Miles sounds so calm. Maybe he doesn’t have the same sexual energy coursing through him that I do.

  I grab my overnight bag and shut the bathroom door behind me, completely aware that he’s on the other side of the door, stripping down, probably only in his boxers. I reach into my bag to grab my pajamas, and when the coolness of silk touches my hands, I groan. Holy shit, I forgot what I packed. My silk bottoms and tank set.

  There’s nothing I can do about it now, so I change, brush my teeth, wash my face, and put on my face cream. I crack open the door and announce that I’m coming out.

  He laughs. “You can come out.”

  I tiptoe out of the bathroom, round the corner to the bed, and all breath whooshes out of me.

  Miles is propped up on the bed, his chest bare, wearing a pair of glasses, with a book in his hands. He looks up from his book and smiles at me, then motions to the roll of blankets dividing our space on the bed. “See, it’s fine.”

  For a split second, I think maybe we can do this. That is, until his attention shifts back to me, and my skin heats from his gaze roaming up and down my body. I rush over to the bed and slide under the covers.

  God, his scent surrounds me now. This is like a torture chamber.

  “Miles,” I say softly.

  “Uh-huh?”

  “Thanks.”

  “Don’t thank me. Seeing you in that pajama set was enough of a thank you.”

  I pick up my pillow and hit him with it.

  He laughs and holds up his hands. “You’re welcome, okay? You’re welcome.”

  I put the pillow under my head and shut my eyes, but sleep refuses to come with him so close.

  Again, I’ve put myself in an impossible situation because the truth is, I want Miles Cavanaugh probably as badly as he wants to win the championship this year. I can think of nothing else but him.

  Chapter 18

  Bryce

  After tossing and turning for a while, I lie on my back and stare at the ceiling. Miles turned off the light ten minutes ago, but I don’t even hear him breathing next to me.

  “You okay over there?” he asks, his voice sounding way too close.

  “I’m just a little wired, I think.”

  “Want to count sheep?”

  I chuckle. “No, Miles, I don’t.”

  “When I was younger, I had a hard time calming my brain down at bedtime. I’d get out of bed and go downstairs to my parents… my mom tried everything. She had me count sheep, drink warm milk, and try meditation.”

  “Did it work?”

  “No.”

  “What did?” I ask.

  “Reading. Although not if I’m really into the book. Sometimes I read nonfiction at night because of that.”

  I smile, thankful he can’t see me, because the vision in my head of a young Miles falling asleep with a book on his chest is endearing.

  “I’ve read the comments, you know.” There’s something in his tone I can’t pick out, and given the sudden change of subject, I’m not even sure what he’s talking about.

  “What do you mean?” I turn on my side and tuck my hands under the pillow, staring at his profile in the dark.

  “Reading isn’t very macho for a football player. I’m supposed to have this whole alpha persona where I bang on my chest and pound beers.”

  A laugh bubbles up out of me. “Why on Earth do you think that?”

  “Because that’s what women say. On those pictures people snap of me at the park with a book, they’ll say I should be running with my shirt off or lifting weights, picking up women. Don’t get me wrong, there are those who say they love it, but it doesn’t go with the image of a football player most people have. Like Damon.”

  “Do you want to be like Damon?”

  “Hell no.”

  My laughter bounces off the walls of the quiet room from how emphatic he is. The bed shifts, and I watch his outline move with ease to the same position I am, facing me.

  “In all seriousness, though, I love the guy. He’s a loyal friend. Sucks at being a boyfriend, but…”

  “One day I think he’ll grow up.”

  “I don’t know, he might be Peter Pan.”

  “And The Den is Neverland?”

  “Pretty much.”

  We both laugh. Our humor lifts the oppressive cloud that’s been over us most of the night—or ever since we slept together, to be more accurate.

  “Can I ask you a question, and you don’t have to tell me?” I ask.

  “On or off the record?”

  “Off.”

  “Okay.” There’s still a hint of trepidation in his voice, but I decide to go ahead and ask anyway, crossing my fingers that I’m not ruining the moment.

  “Why the chip on your shoulder?”

  “Ahhh…” He grows quiet, but I hear his breathing now. “Are you sure you want to know? It might make you sympathetic and change what you write about me.”

  “Not a chance. I’m a professional.”

  Another deep inhale and release of breath. My hands itch to reach over the blankets between our bodies and hold his hand like he did mine on the airplane. This is something big he’s trusting me with, I can tell. Especially since I’m a reporter.

  “I was the small kid growing up. Didn’t hit puberty until my sophomore year of high school maybe. So I already felt like I had something to prove. Junior year, I became the quarterback. A lot of us in the pros played quarterback in high school. But when I got to Michigan, they moved me to wide receiver.”

  “A great position.”

  “I loved it. But when I got drafted, I was moved to safety. My first defensive position, and it took me a while to adjust.”

 

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