Page 184 of Hate Mates

“What’s your name, darlin’?” he asked, one side of his mouth kicking up, and my dislike of the man kicked up in response.

He knew my name. It was printed on the badge on my chest. Moira had literally just said it out loud, but still, Nash chose to ask, as though he had no idea.

As though nothing about me was worth remembering.

“Avery Peel, Sports America Network,” I ground out through clenched teeth.

Teeth that weren’tquiteas perfectly straight as Nash’s.

“Well, Avery Peel, that’s quite a bold question for a little lady to be asking.” I could feel my nostrils flaring, the heat in my cheeks making it clear to anyone who looked at me that I was both angry and embarrassed. “But to answer your question…” he paused dramatically, and I held my breath, pen poised over my note pad, ready to record his response. “No. I’m not going to answer the question.”

The room broke out into awkward chuckles again, and Moira stepped forward, shooting me yet another dirty look before announcing that the press conference was over. Reporters shuffled to the door, ready to move onto the next event in the next city, but I stayed where I was standing, staring at the man who had just made me look like a fool in front of all my colleagues.

Again.

Nash Holloway was staring at me and I couldn’t help but think it once more.

What a smug asshole.

TWO

Nash

“You coming up?” Coach asked, holding the door to the elevator open with one hand.

“You go ahead.” I stuffed my hands into the pockets of my sweats, trying to appear casual, but Coach still frowned at me. “I’ll be up soon.”

“Practice is at nine sharp,” he called from inside the elevator, his bushy white mustache making him look just a little like a walrus. “Curfew is in an hour.”

“Sure thing, coach.” I nodded, waving him off as the doors closed and carried him up to his room.

As soon as he was out of sight, I breathed out a sigh of relief, letting the dutiful athlete mask I wore more often than not fall away and sliding back into my real self.

I’d never missed curfew in my entire career, but for some reason, Coach Conway always felt the need to remind me of exactly when my bedtime was.

I didn’t mind; I was typically in my room long before lights out, anyway, reviewing game footage and studying the playbook so that I was always sharp and ready for game day. If someonewas looking for me, there was a significantly good chance they’d find me in my room.

But tonight, I needed a drink.

Turning from the bank of elevators, I rolled my neck, trying to erase the tension I had been carrying since that disaster of a press conference.

Avery freaking Peel.

The woman had balls, that was for sure. Bigger balls than any of the other reporters who groveled and fawned over me every week during the regular season.

None of them would have dared ask me about my salary. But Avery hadn’t ever met a line she wouldn’t cross.

I had to admit—even if it was only to myself—I enjoyed pushing her buttons. I could tell just from looking at her that she worked hard to appear professional. She showed up every week, her hair pinned up, her starched white button-up shirt completely buttoned up, looking like every librarian fantasy I’d ever had. The way she filled out those tight little pencil skirts made it very difficult to sit comfortably in a room full of people, that was for damn sure.

She was a curvy little smoke show all wrapped up in a pristine polyester package and I had been fantasizing about her for years.

Too bad she hated my guts.

Stepping into the lobby bar, I looked around, hoping that there weren’t going to be any crazy fans hanging around at this time of night. I loved my fans, but tonight I was feeling the need to be alone.

Well, maybe not too alone, I amended to myself as I caught sight of a woman sitting at the bar.

Her back was to me, but damn—she had curves that could stop traffic.

---