“How about saving some of that juice for Sunday?” another player shouted.
He gripped the football in his hands. “Don’t worry, there’ll be plenty left for Sunday.”
Practice continued, and I lost track of time. He kept throwing balls, and on the rare occasions he would miss, he would shrug it off and sprint back to the middle. His teammates, however, let him know whenever he screwed up.
I scribbled notes in my notebook, reminding myself that I was here for work. I was observing him, which was totally normal, right?
Except every time he would drop back, flex his body, and throw the ball, my heart would do this annoying little flutter.
Eventually, the practice ended, the helmets came off, and they jogged toward the locker room.
Nate clapped someone on the back and broke away from the group.
He strode toward me, looking way too good for a man who was sweaty and breathing hard.
“I didn’t realize we were going to have an audience today,” he said, taking his gloves off.
“Do you always show off like that?”
He feigned innocence. “I was just doing my job. Ma’am.”
I rolled my eyes. “Did you seriously just ‘ma’am’ me?”
He wiped his hands on the towel, completely ignoring my question. “What did you think? How did we look out there?”
It was a good practice, and he knew it.
I shrugged. “Not bad.”
He chuckled. “Are you always this generous with praise?”
“I didn’t take you for someone who needed validation.”
There was a beat of silence, and I was suddenly aware of how close we were standing. He glanced around and then back at me. “I thought this was a closed practice today.”
I could smell his soap under his sweat, so I cleared my throat, hoping to get my brain to start working on business again. “It is. I just came from the front office. I got clearance to do the interview. They gave me permission to come down onto the field and talk to you.”
He tilted his head to the side and studied me. I was dressed the same way I always was—dark pants, a silk shirt with a blazer, and heels. I always tried to look professional because these players had a tendency to flirt with pretty young reporters. It was my way of establishing boundaries.
“What exactly am I signing up for? You mentioned a one-on-one.”
I gave him my biggest, most reassuring smile. “Just some in-depth conversation,” I said, hoping to reassure him that it would be a quick, easy assignment. I would ask a few questions, and then we would both go our separate ways.
He laughed quietly. “Are you going to grill me as usual?”
“I promise to give you a glowing write-up as long as you give me something good to work with.” I kept my tone light even though my pulse picked up.
Seeing how the last few interactions went, I was surprised he wasn’t asking me to beg. I was totally prepared for him to give me a hard time.
He studied me as if trying to decide if he could believe me or not. I could sense his apprehension. He was probably wondering how much control he would have over the article.
A group of his teammates jogged past us. They were loud, and a few were watching us.
He glanced at the field and back at me, motioning with his finger. “Follow me.”
He led me toward the building. His strides were quick, making it hard for me to keep up.
The tunnel to the locker rooms buzzed with staff and players. Nate didn’t slow until we reached the owner’s lounge overlooking the field. It was much quieter up here and tucked away from all the noise. He grabbed water from the fridge and led me to a small, round table.
