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They all are already dressed in their uniforms, big and bulky and looking ready to beat Texas in their own state. “Alright, thanks, JJ,” I smile at the running back once our interview comes to an end.
“No problem,” he grins, his eyes as bright as his smile. I swear, the guy might as well be sunshine incarnate; no wonder the internet goes crazy for him. Handsome, athletic, and sweet to boot. “I’ll see you after the game.”
I nod, chuckling. “Good luck.” When JJ walks off with a two fingered salute, I turn to Michael and say, “Alright, let’s head out.”
Just as I say those words, my gaze snags on Reed, about ten feet away in front of a locker as he gets dressed. Unable to help it, the air gets stuck in my throat at the sight of him, taking in the view of his bare upper half, his muscles on full display.Holy hell. I knew, of course, the guy is built and in shape, but seeing it in person is a whole other story. Clearly, he doesn’t take his time at the gym lightly, with all those tight muscles and sinewed arms, and I swear I can feel my blood pumping through my veins as my pulse quickens without warning.
He’s got his uniform bottoms on, and my throat dries at how tightly the compression shorts hug his muscled thighs, eyeing the trail of hair that starts at his belly button and disappears into the band of his pants.Fuck.What am Idoing?
I look away before he can catch me staring, and I’m mortified beyond belief then follow Michael towards the locker room doors.
We don’t make it five steps when one of the players, Jordan Buchanan, steps out in front of me and asks with a grin, “Leaving so soon, Willow?”
I arch a brow at him, chuckling slightly at his obvious flirtatious tone. The guy is handsome, no doubt, but getting involved with football players is a no-go. Especially when I’m just starting out as head reporter. I need to make a good impression on the higher ups if I want this to be a permanent thing, and that means keeping my distance from the players other than when I’m interviewing them for work.
“You guys have a game to play so, yeah, I’m heading out,” I tell him with a chuckle. Michael looks at me from behind Jordan, and I know he’s silently asking permission to go on, since I know he wants to store the camera until he has to use it for the post-game interviews. The guy doesn’t talk much, but he’s a great cameraman and companion to have during the interviews, so I like him enough to give him a nod.
When I look back at Jordan, he’s still grinning. “Should I be offended that you haven’t interviewed me yet?”
“Don’t worry. You’re on the schedule for the next pre-game interview,” I say, shaking my head in amusement.
“I don’t know if I can wait that long.”
Just as I let out a somewhat startled laugh at his bold flirting, another voice suddenly interrupts our conversation with a sharp, “Buchanan—stop flirting and finish getting ready.”
My heart stops for a brief moment at the sound of Reed’s deep, rough voice. My back straightens as I look to where he is standing, and my stomach does a somersault at the sight of the scowl that darkens his handsome features. His sharp tone cuts through the air but, fortunately, it doesn’t silence the constant chatter of the locker room—except, I do see a number of men glance our way for a moment.
Heat rises to my cheeks. Reed doesn’t even glance my way, instead his glare is fixed on Jordan, who seems to have straightened up almost immediately upon hearing Reed’s demand. Is he serious? I get that he’s one of the captains of the team and he wants all of the players to be focused as they head into the game, but embarrassment still courses through my veins, as if he calledmeout.
I mean, he might as well have, the way he snapped at Jordan forflirting.
The back of my neck heats up, feeling some of the other players’ gazes on us, and I see annoyance subtly flicker across Jordan’s face. He lifts his chin and says, “Sure thing, Cap,” before glancing down at me. He gives me a quick smile and quips, “Until next time.”
He walks away, and I don’t hesitate in continuing toward the door, refusing to stand still and let my embarrassment take over. As I go, I find myself glancing to where Reed stands, and I nearly trip on my feet when my eyes connect with his. His expression is unreadable, although I can see the tightness of his sharp jaw like he is clenching it, and his scowl from before has lightened up a little, but a furrow remains on his dark eyebrows as he watches me.
My skin burns as he looks at me, and I swallow the lump in my throat as I practically bolt out of the locker room, feeling like I can finally breathe only when I’m a good twenty feet away.
The last time I spoke to Reed, it had been a few days ago at the charity event—when he had offered to give me a ride home and I had refused. His offer had taken me by surprise—just like him trying to apologize earlier that night had taken me aback, too. I never expected someone like him—someone rich and famous with an attitude problem—to approach me and apologize for his less than friendly behavior.
The entire night at the event, I could feel his gaze on me, heavy and warm and, I hate to admit it, not really uncomfortable. I didn’t feel creeped out that he was looking at me; if anything, every time I became aware of the weight of his stare, my pulse began to race, my chest warming at the attention. I would kill to know why he was looking at me, what was going through his head, but I had a feeling finding out would throw me for a loop I wasn’t ready for. Hell, half the time I convinced myself hewasn’tlooking at me, that I was being foolish and getting way too ahead of myself.
But, God, almost every time I would glance his way, trying to be subtle about it, I wouldseehis gaze on me, and my head would start spinning with no hopes of stopping the thoughts that it would conjure up.
Now, that little comment in the locker room has me bewildered once again. As I walk, trying to calm my heart down, I tell myself that Reed did it because I was probably being a distraction. I had no business sticking around in the locker room as the team got ready if I had already wrapped up my pre-game interviews. It’s a known fact that Reed, in particular, is not a fan of journalists and reporters. He was probably trying to get rid of me fast.
My cheeks flame up in newfound embarrassment if that’s the case. I can only hope and pray that Reed keeps his word from the charity event and our post-game interview this time around goes better than the first one did.
***
After an intense and, frankly, anxiety-inducing game, the Rebels managed to beat the other team in their own home state after the game went into overtime. I spent the game profusely taking notes, an eye on the field as I quickly typed and typed and typed on my phone, preferring to take notes on my phone rather than on an actual notepad because it’s quicker.
All eyes were glued on the field as the game went into overtime because of the tied score that happened out of nowhere, but fortunately, the Rebels came out on top, resulting in a disappointing loss for the other team. Michael and I join the dozens of other reporters and cameramen on the sidelines of the field for the post-game interviews, and my heart races with familiar excitement as I wait for Kenny to give me my cue into my active earpiece as I approach Reed through the busy crowd.
I would be lying if I said I’m not a little nervous for this interview, hoping it goes smoothly. When I make my way towards Reed, I catch sight of him smiling alongside Leo, sweat glistening his face as a bead rolls down his temple. His helmet is in his hand and his dark hair is mussed and messy and damp, but the man manages to look unfairly attractive.
As if he can sense my approach—or maybe sense my thoughts about him—Reed looks over to me, and I watch as his smile sobers up and a blank mask slips over his face. My grip on the microphone tightens as I refuse to let his expression stir me.
When I stop in front of him, I adopt my own air of professionalism and ask him, “Are you ready?”
