Page 15 of Power Play Daddies
D. Love
Sports Journalist
Miami Herald
I blink, my brain short-circuiting. “You’re a journalist?” My voice comes out sharper than I intended, but I’m too stunned to care.
She bites her lip, glancing away. “Beau, I can explain.”
“You’re a fucking journalist?” I repeat, louder this time.
She reaches out, her fingers brushing my arm. “Just—listen to me.”
I step back like she’s burned me. “You slept with me for a goddamn scoop? Is that it? Huh? What, you wanted some inside dirt on the team?”
“No!” she says quickly, shaking her head. “It wasn’t like that, I swear. Last night had nothing to do with my job.”
“Bullshit.” I grab her wrist, dragging her into the elevator with me. My thumb slams the button to stop the doors from closing, keeping the elevator stalled.
Her eyes dart to the panel, then back to me. “Beau, stop. This isn’t what you think.”
“Not what I think?” I laugh, but it’s humorless, bitter. “So what is it then, Daisy? You just happened to show up at the samebar, happened to end up in my bed, and happened to have a press pass for theMiami Heraldhanging around your neck the very next day? Explain that shit.”
She hesitates, her teeth sinking into her bottom lip again. It’s the same nervous tic I noticed last night, but now it makes me angrier than it should.
“I’m waiting,” I snap.
“It’s complicated,” she says finally.
“Complicated?” I let out a sharp bark of laughter. “Here’s what’s not complicated. You stay the fuck away from me. From my team. From this arena. You even think about writing anything about last night, and I’ll sue you, your paper, your whole goddamn family, for all I care.”
Her eyes narrow, and for a split second, I see a flash of fire in them. “You don’t know anything about me.”
“I know enough,” I say coldly. “You’re a liar.”
Her lips press into a thin line, but she doesn’t argue. Good.
I release her wrist, stepping back to jab the button that starts the elevator moving again. The doors slide shut and I lean against the wall, staring straight ahead, refusing to look at her.
When the elevator dings at my floor, I push past her without a word, taking the stairs instead of the second elevator. My steps echo in the stairwell, each one fueled by frustration.
What are the fucking odds? Out of all the women in Miami, I end up withher. A journalist. Someone who could ruin my career, my team, my reputation.
“Shit, shit, shit,” I mutter under my breath.
By the time I make it to the parking lot, I’m fuming. I throw my gym bag into the backseat of my truck, slamming the door harder than necessary. My hands grip the steering wheel as I sit there for a moment, trying to calm down.
But her face keeps flashing in my mind. The way she looked at me, almost like she wanted to say more but didn’t know how. Like she was sorry.
I shake my head. No. I can’t let myself think like that. She’s a journalist. They are all threats. Nothing more.
My phone buzzes again, and this time I pull it out and see a text from Kieran.
>> Practice was brutal. You hitting up the bar later?
I type out a quick response.
>> No. Got shit to do.
