Demi’s shoulder dips, and I watch her body nearly slouch as she hears what I’m saying.
“You’re staying late to sign things for the guys?”
“Despite you calling me a hotshot quarterback, I do have a heart you know, and am happy to do things for people.”
“I never assumed you didn’t have a heart,” she says, her voice barely above a whisper. “I’m just…” The pause in her reply has me taking a step toward her.
“Just what?”
“I’m constantly surprised by you, Liam.”
My eyes can’t focus long enough on one thing as my mind jumps back and forth between the signed items, the spare chair, the grin on Liam’s face, and his massive hand making the Sharpie look like something Santa’s tiny elves would use.
“Happy to keep you on your toes.” He smiles again before he turns back to what he was doing.
“Yeah.” I let out a soft chuckle. “Okay, well, sorry to bother you,” I say, ushering myself out.
“Never a bother, Dem.”
I quickly dart down the hall and as far from the locker room as possible. In looking for the athletic trainer, I stumbled upon Liam doing another kind thing that resulted in butterflies in my stomach. A man being a generous, decent human shouldn’t turn me into a pile of mush—but lately that’s how every interaction with Liam is ending.
He seriously stays late to sign things for his teammates? Disbelief wants to cloud my mind, but I saw it firsthand. He had a pile—a large one—of things with his quick signature.
I’ve learned over the years that Liam is a team player, but there’s absolutelynothingthat says the athletes have to sign autographs. In fact, there are often cases where the players have to be mindful of what they’re signing. Sometimes if they have contractual obligations—that often limits their ability.
With every step I take, the pain in my hip intensifies. Who knows what the hell happened, but that was my reason for needing to see Kelsea today. I just got back from a quick forty-eight-hour trip to Los Angeles, and when I woke up this morning—insanely jetlagged, might I add—it was killing me. The internet was helpful in some remedies, but I figured chatting with an actual professional, rather than just people on the internet, might be best.
Plus, I try to limit my time online anyway. I understand it’s part of life now and it isn’t going anywhere, but I still hate that it can take up so much of our time.
Blocking out the noise and comments from strangers online is easier said than done. The comments that make me laugh the most, though, are those that come from men bitching about the game recaps I do. Little do they know, I’m just repeating—word for word, usually—what the coach has told me.
One of my favorite comments I’ve ever seen was about how terrible my broadcast was, but my outfit was “pretty good.” Cheryl and I had a laugh about that one.
Being in reporting can be hard. Being a woman in reporting is even harder. But being a woman in sports reporting? I might as well have a sign on my chest that saysplease question everything I say.
I love my job and I always have. My team is incredible, and every single player and coach I work with are wonderful. Butyou’ll always have the people on the outside who hate everything you do, especially when you do it well. And to those people, I raise my perfectly polished middle finger.
I watch the final play of the game as Mason Baker drills a forty-one-yard field goal to break the tie and secure the first win of the season for the Knights.
Holy shit, what a game that was. Talk about a season-opener.
The time winds down, and I make sure I’m prepped and ready to grab Liam on the field for a quick postgame report. I spot him as he’s walking away from the sidelines, hands clapping together before pointing at his kicker and smiling.
His pads make him look so much bulkier than he truly is. He doesn’t seem that tall from a distance, but when he gets closer, his six-foot-two frame starts to show. He has a towel in one hand that he wipes his brow with once he approaches me.
We have a minute before we’re live, and instead of standing in silence, I opt for a quick compliment. Because, honestly? His finesse on the field today was damn near magical. He’s got to be feeling good after those stats.
“Feeling good today, Twelve?” A smile passes over my face as I ask.
Liam closes some of the professional distance between us with an easy step forward, leaning down just the slightest bit toward my ear. “Always good with you, baby.”
Baby?I swivel my head in his direction and notice he’s already back to his three-feet buffer stance.
Why’d he call me baby? And why’d I kind of enjoy it?
It wouldn’t be my first pick as a term of endearment, but rolling off his lips it actually makes me like it.
But it’s adrenaline. That has to be it. Full-fledged, great win kind of adrenaline that’s coursing through his veins. Because in no universe would Liam call me baby on a football field, moments before I need to conduct an interview. I’m thankful he didn’t do it while we were live—I can only imagine the color my cheeks turned after that exchange.
