Page 183 of Hate Mates

First Down by Dove Cavanaugh King

ONE

Avery

What a smug asshole.

That was the first thought that entered my mind whenever I looked at Nash Holloway.

I couldn’t help it; everything about the guy just rubbed me the wrong way. From his strong jaw that always seemed to havejustthe right amount of stubble to his perfectly straight, toothpaste commercial-ready teeth, the guy had every reason to be smug.

I just didn’t want to admit it, even to myself.

Nash may have been the number one tight end in the league, the most eligible bachelor in sports three years in a row, and the poster boy for the country’s largest animal rescue, but none of that mattered to me.

Because while he legitimatelywasall of those things, he also bloody well knew it, and that was the worst part.

See? Smug.

Sitting in the third row of the press conference, right behind Gary Johnson, the second smuggest asshole in the room, I chewed on the end of my pen, eyes narrowed on Nash as hefielded question after question, answering with a politician’s grace and earning smiles and laughs with every word he spoke.

It was like he could do no wrong.

Thinking back to the first time I’d laid eyes on him, I could admit that I was instantly smitten. Who wouldn’t have been? With his broad shoulders and gorgeous eyes, he was a walking dream. Add to that the impressive height and a killer smile, and how could I have done anything but find him attractive?

That was, until he opened his mouth.

“We’ve got time for one more,” called Moira, the PR manager for the Memphis Mustangs, and my hand shot into the air like a rocket. Eyes wary, she looked to Nash, waiting for his subtle chin lift before she finally pointed at me. “Avery. Go ahead.”

There were grumbles from the other sports reporters—none louder than Gary Johnson—but I ignored them, as I always did, and stood, clearing my throat before I spoke.

“Mr. Holloway,” I began, but that was as far as I got before Nash cut me off.

“Hold on there, darlin’,” he drawled, condescension dripping from every slowly-rolled syllable. “Mr. Holloway is my father.” Another round of appreciative chuckles sounded from the gathered reporters, and I grit my teeth. “Name’s Nash. Sure would like to hear you say it.” He finished his bullshit line with a wink as smooth as butter, and I rolled my lips together tightly to keep myself from snarling.

“Mr. Holloway,” I continued, ignoring his knowing smile and Moira’s disappointed frown. “Your contract with the Mustangs is over at the end of this season.”

“That’s common knowledge, darlin’,” Nash explained, looking at me like I was an idiot while I ignored Gary’s uncharitable snort; that guy could go suck an egg.

“What do you have to say about the reports that your agent has been unable to secure you an offer from another team due toyour unreasonable salary demands? Do you honestly feel that a player of your age is still worth that much money?”

The room fell silent. No one spoke, no one even breathed. Everyone stared at me, mouths agape and eyebrows high, their shock at my audacity clear.

Because if Nash was a smug asshole, then everyone else in the room worshiped him for it. It was an unspoken rule that no one asked Nash about his contract. They asked about rushing yards and touchdowns and training schedules. They asked him about his home town and the most recent model he was dating, but no one asked him about money.

Ever.

I couldn’t figure it out. It was ourjobto ask these questions, and even though they were all happy to ask them from other players in other leagues, no one ever seemed to ask Nash the tough questions.

Why the hell was he so special?

“Well,” Nash drawled, finally breaking the silence of the press room. “Looks like someone came to play tonight.”

Sitting back, Nash stretched his arms up, linking his hands behind his head and I refused to allow myself to acknowledge just how good his biceps looked in his ultra tight training shirt. Nope, I wasn’t going to look at how the shiny black fabric pulled enticingly at the round bulges practically bursting out of the short sleeves.

Not a chance.

“Are you going to answer the question, Mr. Holloway?”

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