Page 1 of The Playmaker
CHAPTER 1
AVERY
"Don't sound so serious on camera. Don't get lipstick on your teeth. And most of all donotask that wide receiver about his hookup rumors with the blonde cheerleader." I run through my manager's checklist without missing a beat.
I live for moments like this.
My bestie Pen and I stride through the NFL Phantoms stadium's press entrance—her ogling the towering banners of sweaty football gods lining the walls, me envisioning my name on an ESPN badge. My job at the digital magazine pays the bills, but I crave more.
"Do make out with that hunk of prime beef," Pen purrs at a poster of NYC's most eligible bachelor, wide receiver Jaxon Carter.
I give his photo a clinical assessment. "Not my type."
No athlete will ever be my type. And yes, I have my reasons.
Pen nudges me. "More for me, then." She winks.
Despite myself, I feel the raw magnetism of Jaxon's broad shoulders and sculpted arms leap off the poster. Tall, dark, and dangerous? Hard pass.
Pen pivots for another eyeful of Jaxon, nearly colliding with Juan.
"Whenever you two finish drooling over the eye candy..." Juan, my cameraman, makes a gagging sound. "Avery, we have a job to do."
Pen jabs a finger into his skinny arm. "Be nice to my bestie, or I'll rewrite my review of your family restaurant from 'mouth-watering' and 'divine' to 'dry as the Sahara' and 'would not recommend.'"
Juan laughs. "The way you inhaled those enchiladas, nobody would believe they weren't 'divine.'"
As we pause in the corridor, several coaches walk by trailing cologne and authority. Pen breathes it in like oxygen, then turns to me with pleading eyes.
"Trade jobs today? You rate the stadium's new food vendor, and I'll handle your interviews?"
Juan snorts. "You'd miss free food you can critique?"
"I never critique—I evaluate," Pen corrects.
I leave them bickering and slip into the Phantoms' "game day" locker room where other press are setting up. The space gleams with polished wood, perfect lighting, and pristine uniforms hanging beneath brass nameplates.
Spoiled, I think, the only judgment I'll allow myself about pro athletes. After what my dad did...well, never mind that now.
The press crowds the middle of the U-shaped locker area. I spot an unclaimed space dead center—jackpot. I weave between packed reporters and claim my territory.
Why is everyone staring like I've lost my mind?
Murmurs and gasps ripple through the room. I search for Juan, finding him in the corner with wide eyes, silently urging me to move.
Then it hits me.
Shit.
Those men in suits were staff. The players are coming in now—right through this deliberately open area.
Too late to retreat. The first player approaches.
It's him.
And God help me, I can't look away.
Cheerleader-hookup-hottie.
