“I don’t know. When players start making a name for themselves, and getting recognized by more than just diehard fans, they change. I wouldn’t put it past either of them to start bringing women home, plus with Damon there…”

  For the life of me, I have no idea why we’re talking about The Den when my articles will be about them as players.

  “Doubtful, but I guess you never know.” Coming from a girl with a father who was never satisfied with just one woman, I can’t really say it with finality.

  “Anyway, Shelly really wants to stay abreast of what you’re writing and what you’re learning in interviews, so I figure a weekly meeting. Just so when she returns, she’s not lost.”

  His reminder that this position is only temporary sits like spoiled milk in my stomach. I better prove myself here so I can get in with another national team.

  “Okay.” I don’t much like the idea of giving Shelly all my notes. The last thing I want is her dictating the tone of my articles and what I should explore.

  “Don’t think much of it. She’s just working on a more in-depth piece for the end of the season. You have complete say in your weekly articles.”

  I nod, jotting down notes on the players I’m watching and what they’re doing that I think will help the team this year. “Sure.”

  He claps when Damon and Miles are head-to-head on a ball Cooper throws to the end zone. Both of them miss it and it bounces out toward the stands. Miles jogs to get it and throws it to the coach. He shakes his head at himself.

  “Cavanaugh always that hard on himself?” Mr. Osterman asks me.

  “From what I’ve seen, he is. I think he’s kind of a perfectionist.”

  He blows out a breath and rears back. “You can’t be a perfectionist and a professional athlete. You’ll constantly feel like you’re a failure.”

  I agree with my boss. But before I can say that, Ronnie Michaels walks over, and I stare at his bare feet for a moment, thinking I’m seeing things, but nope. Khaki pants, an orange polo, and bare feet. Interesting look for the team’s general manager.

  “Billy Boy,” he says to Mr. Osterman, who sticks out his hand for a handshake and manly hug where they compete for who can pat the other’s back harder.

  “Ronnie, the team looks amazing. I was just telling Bryce here how we should do an article on you and your ability to put together winning teams.”

  Um… no, he wasn’t, but I smile and nod anyway. I hate lying, but this is my job, my livelihood. “He was.”

  “You’re too kind. But I did work hard. Grabbing Cavanaugh last year was just the start, then we got lucky with those draft picks.”

  “I was going to ask what you were thinking, taking a safety in the fifth round when you just got Miles.”

  Mr. Osterman stiffens beside me and gives me a side-eye. I guess they just want a pretty face to stand here and shove rainbows up their asses for them to shit out later.

  “Never mind—”

  “No, it’s a great question, but I’d like my answer to be off the record,” Ronnie says.

  I move my pen away from my notebook.

  “Our second string safety has a knee problem. I’m not sure he’ll make the season without surgery. He’s trying to delay it until the off-season, but we’re not sure what will happen. Plus, you know Cavanaugh.”

  I school my features. Miles is way better on his off days than that kid they drafted. In fact, the kid should really be a cornerback, not a safety, but I keep my opinion to myself because I like my job and don’t want to be fired on my first day covering the Grizzlies. “I guess that’s why you’re so brilliant.”

  “Now that stays between us, you hear me?” He laughs, a throaty, husky one that sounds like he’s a three-pack-a-day smoker.

  “I promise,” I say.

  “And don’t tempt my players, BB,” Ronnie says, looking right at me.

  “Of course not,” Mr. Osterman quickly responds.

  My eyebrows damn near hit my hairline. “Excuse me?”

  “You’re an attractive woman. Young. Sometimes the players… well, you know.”

  I want to say I don’t and force him to enlighten me, but I know exactly what he’s saying.

  “I gave the same warning to Shelly when she came onboard. Not sure she understood,” Ronnie says.

  “Well, Bryce here is the consummate professional.”

  My attention is momentarily drawn to the field where Miles schools Damon, picking the ball off right before it hits his hands. Damon falls to his knees and screams, then jogs back to do the play all over again.

  “Is that right? Good for her then.” Ronnie puts out his hand. “Good to see you, Billy Boy, and BB, I’ll be seeing you around.”

  I wave.

  After Ronnie’s a good distance away, pretending to box a player with a few jabs to the abdomen, Mr. Osterman clears his throat. “You’ll have to go along with the BB thing the same as I do with Billy Boy.”

  “I know. Not the most unique, but I’ll be fine. I know who allows us access to the team. No worries, Mr. Osterman.”

  He nods like a proud dad. “That’s why I like you, Bryce. You get it. You’ll do great here.”

  “I hope so.”

  “Just make sure that whatever relationship you have with Miles and Cooper, you keep it out of your articles. Don’t let them off easy because they’re your friends.”

  I hold my notepad to my chest and turn to face him. “I’ve known Cooper since college, but I’m not friends with Miles. We were in the same social circle back in San Francisco, and I had no problem conveying the player I thought he was, so you have no worries there.”

  “I’m glad.” He glances at his old-school metal watch. “I’m gonna head back to the office. You’re fine here?”

  “I am.” I nod. “I’ll keep you updated on my article for this week.”

  “Perfect.” His eyes widen, and his arms reach toward me, but I’m plowed over by a large body, taken down to the grass. “Bryce, are you okay?”

  I look up from the grass, and the reflection off Mr. Osterman’s bald head blinds me. I put my hand over my eyes. “I think so.”

  “Shit, I’m sorry, Bryce.” Miles. Fucking Miles’s voice. “My bad. I didn’t see you standing there.”

  I accept his hand and stand, then look down at my grass-stained ivory pantsuit. “You really didn’t see me?”

  I don’t buy it at all.

  “I was so worried about getting the ball.” He spins the ball in the air. He doesn’t look apologetic in the least.

  “You okay?” Mr. Osterman asks.

  Even though my ankle is killing me, I nod. I must’ve twisted it or something when Miles ran into me. “I’m good. Please don’t let me hold you up.”

  The sports physician comes over with his first aid kit, not even glancing over at me. “Everyone okay here? Miles, did you hurt yourself?”

  “Um… he’s, like, two hundred thirty pounds of pure muscle. I’m five-three and mostly made of carbs.”

  Miles laughs.

  “Yes, ma’am.” He must be an intern or something because he looks so young. “Are you hurt at all?”

  “Honestly, my ankle hurts.”

  “Oh, that’s not good,” the kid says, staring down as though it should be turned the other way if it’s hurting. “I’ll take a look at it.”

  I’m not sure of this kid’s qualifications, but Miles must read my mind because he squats down in front of me.

  “What are you doing?” I ask.

  “I’m taking you into the sports med office. Dr. Calvin can help you.”

  “You want to give me a piggyback ride?”

  “Would you rather I pick you up bride style? I mean, if you want to pretend it’s our wedding night, I’m game.”

  The kid’s eyebrows furrow.

  “You should go get checked out,” Mr. Osterman says.

  I climb onto Miles’s back. “Keep your smartass comments to yourself,” I murmur so just he can hear.

  He laughs and stands to his full height, his arms hooking around my legs. After a quick goodbye to my boss, he heads off toward the tunnel.

  “If I kick you, will you go faster?” I ask.

  “If you kick me, I’ll buck you off.”

  “Duly noted. It’s on the record that you hit me at practice.”

  “I didn’t see you.” He’s so serious, it makes me laugh.

  Once we’re in the tunnel and alone, I inhale Miles’s scent. I can’t help myself. He’s sweaty but still smells fresh somehow. The ends of his dark hair are damp with sweat, and his back is hot beneath me. Memories of that night surface, my fingers feeling the dampness and sheen to his skin from the exertion of thrusting in and out of me or holding me against the wall as he drilled into me over and over again.

  “I’m just joking. Thanks for the ride.”

  When we reach the physician’s area, he sets me gently on an exam table. “Dr. Calvin, we have an injury.”

  A man with glasses resting on the tip of his nose and a head full of gray hair comes out of his office. He examines the situation and quickly figures out it’s me. “You hurt her on her first day?” He slips off my shoe.

  “And he ruined my pantsuit.”

  The doctor shakes his head and looks at Miles. “Bull in a china shop, huh?”

  We all laugh, and Miles bites the inside of his lip. He shifts his weight from side to side.

  “Go, Miles, I’ll be fine,” I say.

  His forehead wrinkles.

  “Go back to practice. Dr. Calvin will take care of me. I’ll be fine.”

  “Are you sure? I can stay.”

  This is a part of Miles that I love, the kind and considerate side of him.

  “I’m fine.”

  He sighs. “I’ll see you after practice then.” He steps forward as though he might kiss me or something, but then turns and jogs out of the room.

  I’m lying down ten minutes later, icing my ankle, when the kid from the medical team comes in. He hands me a vanilla and chocolate swirl cone.

  “This is from Miles,” he says.

  I wish I could fight the smile on my face, but Miles is making me feel like a little kid. I got a boo-boo, so he got me an ice cream. Damn that man, sometimes he’s too hard to resist.

  “Smart man,” Dr. Calvin says.

  I lick the ice cream cone and nod.

  He sure is.

  Chapter 12

  Miles

  Our away game sucked. To clarify, we sucked. We were projected to win, but it all went to hell pretty quickly. The worst part about losing on the road is that we’re all stuck with one another and the pissed off coaches on the flight home.

  I open the book I brought with me. I’ve only just started it because I’ve had a hard time concentrating as of late. I read the first line as someone slides into the seat next to me. I glance over because whoever it is, didn’t hit my shoulder and smells pretty fucking fantastic. Sure enough, it’s Bryce.

  She huffs and glances at me as she bends over and digs into her bag. “Believe me, I’d rather be anywhere but here. I boarded late, and this was the last seat.”

  “Ask the captain. Maybe you can sit in the cockpit, or perhaps they can rig something up on the wing.”

  “Haha, aren’t you funny? Let’s remember, no one else wanted to sit next to you. That’s why the seat is open.” She gives me a look to suggest she just schooled me.

  “It’s because I’m a reader. I don’t sleep on planes. Everyone else will be out, and my light bothers them.” I hold up the book as proof.

  She glances up at the light and back down. Doesn’t say anything and grabs the notebook she’s always writing in out of her bag. “You know they have these cool things called e-readers with a backlight now?”

  “You don’t say. I’m an avid reader, and here I thought books only came in paperback.”

  “It was just a helpful hint, so you don’t have to sit by yourself.” She writes something in her notebook.

  “Thanks for the tip, but I enjoy sitting by myself.”

  She rocks her head back then nods. “You are kind of a loner.”

  “Being okay alone is not the same as being a loner.” I straighten my back, adjust my light, and open my book. Hopefully she understands that’s my nonverbal way of telling her the conversation is over.

  “You know what you did wrong tonight, right?” she says after a minute has passed.

  Here we go. “I’ll wait for you to pick me apart in your article, thanks.”

  “I’m serious. Porter juked you out, and it’s because you’re not watching his hips, you’re just watching his upper body. You assumed he was going right, but his hips gave him away.”

  “In case you missed it, I’ve been playing the position for years now.”

  “Well, I think you’re forgetting some of the basics.”

  I shut my book, take off my reading glasses, and turn my body toward her, crossing my arms. “Want to do drills with me sometime?”

  She mimics my body language. “I’d love to.”

  The worst part is she’s right. I knew the minute Porter got by. It’s 101 shit, and I didn’t do it.

  “You all had a bad game, so—”

  “So you’re excusing me for fucking the team over?” I relax my arms as the pilot announces we’re going to take off.

  She leans in close, and her long hair brushes my arm. “Did you miss Coop’s three interceptions? You’re hardly the one to be blamed for this loss.”

  “It doesn’t matter what other people do. It’s what I did, and I failed them.”

  She shakes her head and pushes back into her seat when the plane rushes down the runway. Then her hands grip the armrest, and she closes her eyes. I take the opportunity to watch her without her knowing.

  Her long dark hair is curled into ringlets. Her makeup only makes her natural beauty shine a little brighter. The pink of her lipstick makes it look like she just licked her lips. She’s not the girl next door type. She’s sexy and confident and appealing. The minute I saw her all those years ago, put a face to the woman who was calling me out in the Chronicle, I almost couldn’t believe it.

  Since Bryce can be either a man or woman’s name, I’d assumed she was a cranky old man with teeth stained yellow from drinking coffee from sunup to sundown. Someone who liked old-school players and ate meat and potatoes every night. Thought someone like me, a healthy eater with his green smoothies and a sometimes-vegetarian diet, wasn’t a real man and only real men should play football.

  Then she came to the Kingsmen, and I saw her in real life on the sidelines. It was all over for me.

  She exhales a long breath, tearing me out of my memory. Her knuckles are white, and her chest rises with a big inhale.

  “Are you scared to fly?” I whisper.

  “No,” she snaps.

  “Then why are you gripping the armrest like you’re hanging off the edge of a cliff?”

  She peeks one eye open. “Maybe a little. I don’t like takeoff and turbulence.”

  “You know it’s a control thing, right?”

  She peeks one eye open again and shuts it. “Just go about what you’re doing. I’ve done this enough times to get through it.”

  “Do you want to hold my hand?” I hold out my palm.

  “No.” She opens her eyes and shoos me away before locking her hand back on the armrest.

  “Are you sure? It might make you feel better.”

  She moves her hand again, but the plane dips, and her eyes squeeze shut. Her hand falls in mine, or I hijack it, I’m not sure which, but the result is the same. I grab a hold of her, and she squeezes it, reminding me of Shelly when she was giving birth.

  “Give me a little circulation,” I whisper, but a quick glance around the plane cabin shows me everyone is falling asleep. There are no other lights on.

  I turn off my light with my free hand and tuck my book in the pocket of the seat in front of me. The pilot comes on and says it’s going to be a choppy flight, and that he’ll be keeping the seatbelt sign on for the duration of the flight. The plane dips a few more times, and she continues to squeeze my hand.

  I admire our hands linked together. Her small one encased in my big calloused one. It’s silly, but it makes me wonder what might have happened if she’d acted differently after our night together two years ago. What if we were a couple? We wouldn’t be sitting here. She wouldn’t be writing about me because that’d be a clear conflict of interest. Hell, maybe she’d still be in San Francisco at her old job and wouldn’t have followed me here.

  The option of our relationship one day turning romantic has passed. There’s too much at stake now. Her career being the biggest one. I know how important it is to her, and she’d never want to be known for messing around with an athlete she’s reporting on, and I would never ask her to do that. It was different in San Francisco. Now she’s at a national level sports magazine. You can’t just snap your fingers and go find another job like that.

  Her head falls against my shoulder and the flowery scent of her shampoo floats up to my nose. My brain understands what’s at stake. Now I just need my dick to as well.

  The plane’s tires land on the runway, and Bryce jolts awake. She looks over at me and swallows audibly. Then her vision shifts around the plane, where most players are just waking up as well. She was so peaceful as she slept with her head on my shoulder, I couldn’t wake her.

  “Oh my god,” she whispers to herself, staring at the wet spot on my shirt from her drool. “Why did you let me sleep? On you?” Her eyes widen, and I’m not sure she wants my real answer, so I play it off.

  “Next time, should I refuse to let my shoulder be your pillow?” I unbuckle my seat belt and grab my book, shoving it in my backpack while I turn my phone off Airplane Mode. She does the same, but hers dings a bunch of times, whereas mine is silent.

  “It’s surprisingly comfortable.”

  “Good to know. I’ll make sure to put that on my dating profile. ‘Shoulder is surprisingly comfortable for naps on planes.’”

  She giggles, and my ego boosts a bit because I brought that out of her.

  “You’re not on a dating site, are you?” I’m not sure of the expression I give, but she chuckles. “I just meant—”

 

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