“Because Brooks doesn’t need to see your legs.” There’s a bite behind his words.
“Possessive much?”
He twists his lips and runs his hand over his stubble. “Let’s call it protective.”
“Whatever you say, Coach.”
“Not your coach.”
I skim my fingers over his cheeks. “What would you call last night?” I want to make sure he remembers how good we feel together and doesn’t start reconsidering our fake-but-not-so-fake dating. “Pretty sure you were coaching me.”
He raises a crooked brow, places his hand on my back, and leads me out of the hotel room.
At the facility, New Orleans is already roaring. Rookies swarm like bees, coaches clap, and whistles slice the heat. I’m back in my reporter skin—hair up, mic in hand, questions ready. I can do this. I can hold last night like a secret undermy ribs and still ask questions. Today, I hope to find a story to work on and pitch to my producers, something other than, “How do you feel?” or “Is it harder than you expected?”
After interviewing one of the rookie linebackers, I have a story—a real one. A tearjerker. I’m pitching it to my producer when Brooks pops up like a bad memory. Helmet off, sweat beading at his temples, his smile turned to maximum wattage.
“Hey, stranger,” he says, his voice pitched for me and the nearest camera. “Are you highlighting me tonight? I was surprised you gave the kicker all that airtime last night.”
“It’s about stories, not just stats. And after nearly two years together, I can’t think of anything interesting to say about you.” I keep my reporter smile in place.
He chuckles, knowing he’s getting to me. “Late night?” His gaze flicks down and back up, a move I used to miss. But it reminds me of all the times he looked at other women in the exact same way.
“I slept.” The lie tastes like chalk because I would rather scream,“Matt gave me multiple orgasms, which you never did.”
He leans closer, too close, like we’re sharing a joke. “Or did you?” His grin sharpens. He knows how I look without sleep, but for many different reasons. Parties that lingered into the wee morning hours or traveling on a bus from an away game. “Did you have to wait for the old man to take his little blue pill?”
I step back. “Don’t,” I warn, my eyes pinching in the sun, but I wobble. Something’s not right.
He shrugs, catching my arm. “Relax. I’m kidding.” Then he cocks his head like he’s the lead role in his own movie. “Unless you’re…knocked up with your old man’s baby?”
The air evaporates. I’m certain the ground tilts. One time with Brooks. I see a calendar flipped open in my head with a big red circle around a date I’ve been pretending isn’t important. I hate that my hand flies, traitor, to my stomach.
No.
Brooks sees it. Of course, he does. He smirks like he’s scored.
“Back off, Brooks,” I bite out. “I’m here to work. And you’re here to learn how not to be a liability.”
“Liability, huh? That’s hilarious. I’m going to save New Orleans, and you know it.”
His eyebrows shoot up; the smirk slides. A coach’s whistle blasts nearby. The special teams assistant sprints over. “You okay?” he asks, already scanning my face like it’s his job. “Take five. Get some shade.”
“I’m fine,” I say, since that’s the script I memorized in childhood. If you say you’re fine or okay, people quit asking questions.
When Mom died, I was asked,“Honey, are you okay? Honey, can I get you anything?”a dozen times a day. I’m well versed in the art of getting people to believe me.
He ignores me and scans Brooks’s face. I’m sure he knows we were college sweethearts. “Take five,” he repeats, firmer. Then to another staffer, “Grab her water.” To me, lower, “Want me to call Stricker?”
“No,” I say, too fast.
My producer says, “We’ve got enough film and spotlights. Let’s talk more about that story later.”
A cautious smile spreads across my face. “Okay.” Then I tell the assistant coach, “I’ll call Coach Stricker. Just give me a few minutes and I’ll be okay.”
He nods once and peels away. Brooks opens his mouthlike he’s going to say something else, and I slice him with a look I learned from my mother when she meant business—put your toys in their place when you’re finished playing.
“Go,” I say again, and this time he listens.
