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Moira nodded, her cell phone skittering across the desk and distracting her. “I’ll put it this way,” she finally said. She pulled her eyes away from the text thread open on her cell screen. “You’re a junior, but a transfer from Spruce Valley Community College. I know they’re not big on athletics over there, but here at Sycamore State, it’s a very big deal and don’t these kids know it. They’re cocky, they’re entitled and they eat cute little reporters like you for breakfast, so fair warning—keep it quick, keep it short, and above all, keep it professional.”
Moira reached for her phone even as she pinned Tatum with a vaguely maternal expression. Tatum understood she was being dismissed and stood, nodding accordingly as she swiped up the sexy headshot and cute little portfolio her editor in chief had prepared for her. “Ma’am,” she saluted playfully, turning on her crisp new heels. “Yes, ma’am.”
“I mean it, Tatum,” Moira offered. She waved her cell phone like a wooden spoon she was about to smack her newest editor’s hand with. “Keep it professional, and above all, keep it in your pants!”
Chapter Two
Shane
“Dixon!”
Shane Dixon glanced up from untying his cleats to find Coach Clayton glaring at him from his office doorway. “Coach?”
“Your ass. My office. Now!”
The smattering of other freshman players milling about after conditioning practice chuckled good-naturedly as they drifted in and out of the showers, bare asses, snapping towels and squeaking flip-flops aplenty. Shane stood anxiously and ignored their playful taunts, limping toward Coach’s office still clutching the one cleat he’d managed to take off before being summoned.
“Did I do something wrong?” Shane asked cautiously, half-in the doorway.
“Hell no, Kid,” Coach assured him, waving a beefy hand toward the chair across from his desk. “I just didn’t want the other rookies to hear how special you are.”
Coach wore a smile, but his words sounded vaguely sarcastic. Shane wriggled into his uncomfortable chair and waited for the punch line. “How’s that?”
Coach picked up a newspaper from his desk and waved it around as if he was swatting flies. “Every fall the school newspaper profiles incoming freshman for their ‘Rookie Roundup’ feature. For whatever reason, they’ve chosen our very own Shane Dixon for this year’s profile.”
Shane shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “What? Why me?”
“Hell if I know, Kid.” Coach gave him a good once-over, frowning in his predictably surly way, as if deciding which limb to chop off first. “Maybe it’s those cute little dimples of yours,” he teased. “Or those dreamy green eyes. Or that damn country accent of yours. Either way, it’s my job as your coach to give you a little fatherly advice before fame comes calling.”
“Warning?”
“Listen, I’ve seen some of those reporters at theSycamore Statesmenand let me tell you, hands off, you hear?”
Shane frowned. The last thing he wanted at this point in his life was some dowdy brainiac distracting him from his goal of winning Rookie of the Year as an incoming freshman at Sycamore State. “Uh, I’m good, Coach, honest.”
Coach scoffed openly, swigging from what looked to be a tar-stained coffee mug. “That’s what they all say, Kid.”
Shane was insistent. “Yeah, but I mean it. I dated one girl back in high school and that was it.” Shane thought of Emily Rose, his high school sweetheart, blushing at what they used to do after he snuck into her bedroom late at night, his big hand over her mouth to keep her from waking up her parents with her high-pitched little squeals—to say nothing of the bed frame squeaking under their naked, writhing bodies.
Coach rolled his eyes. “That just makes you all the more ripe for womanly charms now that you’re separated from your puppy love back home, Kid.”
“All I care about is baseball, Coach. Scout’s honor.”
Coach set his coffee mug down with a huff and a puff. “Save it for the paper, Kid. This is the part where I warn you about falling for sexy little reporters with their glasses and ponytails and their fancy pens and high heels, okay?”
Shane chuckled. Suddenly, it was Coach’s turn to blush. “Sounds like your fantasy, Coach, not mine.”
“You’re a freshman, Kid. What, eighteen still?”
“Nineteen.” Shane sat up a little taller as if to prove it.
“Wow, big whoop. At your age, a stiff breeze is enough to get your pecker hard and I don’t need some sexy reporter distracting you from conditioning classes this semester, you hear? We may be off season but you’re still to abide by our team’s code of conduct, Shane. Remember that?”
Coach stood, short and squat and intimidating. Shane nodded, aware he was being dismissed but still dismayed by the brief interaction. He sat, watching Coach stride to the door. “Is that … all?”
“Far from it, Kid.” Coach stood in the doorway, salty face easing into a teasing smile that failed to reassure him. “Now, you’ll want to put that cleat you’ve been holding this whole time back on.”
Shane held it up as if he’d forgotten he was still clutching it like a security blanket. “What? Why?”
