Page 2 of Against the Clock

I can’t move.

“Ah, shit,” a low male voice says and I blink, trying to figure out what the hell just happened. “Shit, I’m so sorry. Are you okay?”

There’s a football player on top of me.

And not just any football player, either.

The goddamned quarterback of the Wilmington Beavers, the one that I’d have to be dead not to know about. The oldest quarterback in Beavers history, who’s apparently fragile enough that they’re worried about his feet falling off or something else equally stupid.

He’s on top of me, nearly resting his entire weight on me, and I can’t breathe.

“Answer me, gorgeous,” he says. “Are you okay?” He blinks, and even through the lines of the face mask, I can tell his eyes are an icy blue unlike anything I’ve ever seen.

He doesn’t look old.

I gasp, then cough, my lungs finally deciding to work again. Thank fuck.

“Dammit,” he says, frowning. “I knocked the wind out of you, huh?”

I nod and he finally backs up slightly, his face no longer mere inches from mine. I try to sit up, and to my surprise, he wraps one muscled arm around my back, kneeling next to me like there’s nothing more important than my well-being.

“I’m okay,” I say, somehow embarrassed despite the fact this is most definitely not my fault.

“I’m Daniel Harrison,” he says easily, like this is totally a normal way to meet someone.

“I know.” I cough again. Damn. I forgot how much it sucks to have the wind knocked out of you.

“What’s your name, gorgeous?” he asks, grinning at me, a plastic mouthguard dangling from his helmet.

“Er,” I say, staring at him. He’s just so giant. On TV, the players look big, sure, but when one is wrapped around you, looking at you with sparkling blue eyes, it definitely takes a slight readjustment in thinking.

“Er?” he repeats, laughing like I’ve just made the funniest joke ever.

His hand dips to the lanyard around my neck. Gloved knuckles graze my collarbone, and my breath catches again. This time, it has nothing to do with my lungs and everything to do with the sheer proximity of this man. A very manly man. A very, very manly man.

Maybe he knocked the sense out of me, too.

“Kelsey Cole,” he says, eyes finding mine again. “Kelsey Cole, from USBC-Philly. You’re a sideline reporter?”

“Uh-huh. But not sideline. Investigative. I just happen to be… here.” It’s hard to look away after being tackled by a giant of a man with biceps as big as my thighs.

Who could have guessed?

“Investigating on the sidelines,” I add, then try not to roll my eyes at myself.

“You’re not hurt?” he asks again, clearly bemused by my answer. “Didn’t hit your head?”

“I don’t know,” I say honestly. “Shouldn’t you be more worried about yourself?” The question comes out reflexively, and we both stare at each other for a split second before he bursts into laughter.

“Kelsey Cole.” My name is soft on his lips, barely audible over the roaring of the crowd, which seems to have flipped a switch and turned back on, or at least, my brain’s awareness of anything beyond the man kneeling next to me has. “I like your name… and your sense of humor.”

“I’m a regular clown,” I tell him, then try not to cringe at the idiocy of that statement.

Daniel laughs though, grinning at me like I’m the best thing he’s ever seen.

Maybe he did hit me harder than I thought. Or maybe he just has a really great smile.

A medic in Beavers team colors of navy and gold shows up, squatting next to me.

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