AllFreeNovel
Share Us
I blink, a little surprise, at his answer, which is quite wordy by Reed Maxwell’s standards. I don’t even focus on his less than friendly tone, since that’s the default tone of voice he speaks in. Instead, I find myself smiling as I arch a brow and somewhat jokingly ask, to keep the air light and natural, “All work and no play?”
When Vivian interviews the players, she’s strictly professional, with no air of joking commentary around. However, I’ve seen other reporters approach interviews with a lighter air, crack one or two jokes with the players, and while Vivian is my role model, her method of interviewing doesn’t completely line up with how I would do them. So, I’m taking a little bit from her, and a little bit from other interviewers I’ve watched.
Reed, unsurprisingly, doesn’t even crack a hint of a smile. “Exactly.”
His gaze flickers—lower on my face, just for a half of a second—but I catch the movement and it tightens my grip on the microphone. That moment is also when I realize how closely Reed and I are standing, the heat of his sweat-slicked body is radiating into me, and it spreads a newfound warmth through me that I force myself not to think about.
Professional. Be professional, Willow.
I push on. I ask Reed a couple more questions, all of which are answered robotically with little to no emotion and even fewer words. I don’t let him get under my skin and keep the professional tone, smiling and engaging despite Reed’s hard stare and tight jaw, his tanned skin glistening with perspiration, which he makes work annoyingly well.
When the interview ends and the camera cuts, I let my shoulders drop just a little and let out a quiet sigh of relief. Michael shoots me an encouraging smile and thumbs up, which I return, just as Reed’s voice speaks up. “This your first interview?”
I’m more than a little surprised at his question, looking over to see him already looking at me. Once again, his expression is unreadable. “Oh, yes,” I say after getting over my small shock. I tilt my head slightly and ask, “Why?”
Reed lets out a small scoff, the sound nearly drowned out by the noise around us. He’s already turning away, but his mouth downturns as he tells me, unimpressed, “You smile too much.”
I blink at him, bewildered and, frankly, offended by his remark. The way he says it, it’s likeI’mpersonally offendinghimsimply by smiling, when really, he’s the one who just decided to be a grade A jerk by making that comment in the first place. Honestly—whatis his issue?
Ismiletoo much? Said smile tightens a little as I respond, “Maybe I’m just happy to be here.”
Reed Maxwell gives me a blatant once over; his perusal starts at my toes and goes all the way up to my head, coming back down to meet my gaze as he scoffs once more. I barely hear it, this time my blood rushing in my ears in response to the way he looked at me. Did he just. . . Check me out? My body heats up, heart pounding at his attention—which he acts as though I’m oh-so lucky to be on the receiving end of it. I don’t know if the flush in my skin is from his stare or from indignation in the face of his audacity.
“Clearly,” comes another famous one-word response, but one that has me finally frowning, my smile slipping as Reed turns and walks off, people automatically parting to make way for him through the crowd.
And then he’s gone, most definitely ignoring the burn of my gaze on his back as he goes.
I inhale deeply, my breath rattling in my lungs as I square my shoulders once more.Shake it off, Willow, I tell myself, willing for the warmth in my skin to disappear. I won’t let Reed Maxwell set me off-kilter.
“You ready for the next one, Willow?” Michael asks, snagging my attention.
I shoot him a smile, tightening my grip on the microphone and nodding. My smile widens, letting my confidence return now that Reed has disappeared. “Let’s do this.”
Chapter 2
Reed
Thetrainingfacility’sgymis never silent, particularly during the team’s workout sessions. Music blares through the training room speakers, but the beats are somehow overpowered by my teammates’ constant chatter and laughter. If they’re not working out, they’re talking. If they’re not talking, they’re pulling pranks. Hell, sometimes it’s all three at once, and it makes for a loud, boisterous environment. If anything, the entertainment is never ending.
The Air Pods stuffed in my ears are blasting music from my personal playlist, but it does little to drown out the noise around me. But I don’t particularly care as a soft grunt escapes me while I do another rep with a set of weights. My gaze is locked with my reflection, feet planted firmly on the ground as I do my work out—until my gaze slides over and I catch sight of the TV in the corner playing an interview I recently did.
I grip the dumbbells at my sides, remaining where I stand as music blares in my ears while I watch the interview that plays. The captions are on, appearing at the bottom of the screen, but I don’t need to read them to know exactly what’s being said—because, for some goddamn reason, that exact interview has been playing in my head, repeatedly, on a loop since the minute it happened.
My eyes fixate on the strawberry blonde who had taken my interview, a woman who I hadn’t seen before and now that I have, I can’t seem to get the image of her face out of my mind. My teeth grit together as I pause my workout, watching the way she smiles at the camera, deepening the dimples that appear on her cheeks, and the sight of me next to her. I tower over her, and she doesn’t shrink back, doesn’t falter under the weight of my intense, hardened stare. Now that’s not a reaction I’m used to. I know I can be a real jerk sometimes, so it doesn’t surprise me when people cower in my presence; it surprises me when theydon’t.
It’s no secret that I hate interviews of any kind. All I want to do is play football and play it well; I couldn’t give a shit about talking to reporters about how I played, how the team played, or what we could do better. That’s all talk for the locker room when we debrief with Coach Scott. Being on camera, giving insights to journalists and reporters—I know all of that is part of the contract. It’s one of the things you just have to do, being a part of the NFL. But it’s never been a priority to me, even as I’m shoved in front of a camera and microphone. No matter how many times I give quick, short answers and ignore the camera, I’m still forced to do it. I hate everything about it.
And then this interview happened.
I look at the name that appears next to mine on the TV to go along with the segment, and my grip on the dumbbells tightens.Willow Burke. That’s the name of the woman who did my last interview. She seems younger than most of the reporters I’ve spoken to, all bright-eyed and bushy-tailed—and I told her as much after the interview. The look on her face read nothing but insult, and when I had walked away from her, a part of me was kicking myself in the damn head for saying that to her.
I didn’t understand why until my thoughts wouldn’t leave me alone, invaded byher.
She had smelled like apples. I fucking remember that; despite being on the field, surrounded by sweaty football players, her scent had been strong enough to be noticed. Apples and something else I couldn’t figure out—and it sure as hell won’t leave me alone.
Huffing in annoyance, I set the dumbbells back on the rack, just as Leo Mackenzie comes up to me. He grins, leaning back against the mirror wall with his arms crossed. His tattoos snake up his left arm, and the grin on his face has me letting out a sigh as I pause my music.
“What?” I demand, meeting his gaze.
