Page 22 of The Playmaker
Tilting my head up to meet Coach Thorne's gaze, I study him. Unlike many coaches I've interviewed, he lacks that power-hungry edge. My years writing sports exposés have taught me to recognize the genuine article when I see it.
"Yes, Ann at the magazine is thrilled about the reach this story will get, especially with the web series component." I offer him my professional smile. "Thanks for volunteering your team as the next sacrifice to the public's insatiable appetite for athletes' personal lives." My tone is light, and I'm relieved when he chuckles.
"Well, thank the team ownership, not me." He glances at his phone.
I seize the opening. "I do have a few questions about Jax's rise to success. I'd love your perspective—both professionaland personal. You've been with him since day one of his NFL career, right?"
His expression softens noticeably. "Yes. He arrived with raw talent and boundless energy, but lacked the discipline and strategic thinking all rookies need. He matured quickly, though." Pride colors his voice. "He's done well for himself."
I nod encouragingly, letting him continue.
"Honestly, I hope he sees me as something of a father figure, considering he lost his parents so young."
My heart catches. This revelation strikes a chord I wasn't prepared for. My own father abandoned us for his sports career—choosing fame over family. But Jaxon lost his parents involuntarily. The distinction matters, though I've never stopped to consider it before.
"I'm sure he does," I say, finding my voice. "You seem to be both mentor and friend to these guys."
"I appreciate that. There are egos to manage, of course. Plenty of testosterone to channel into on-field victories."
Unbidden, my mind flashes to that moment in the bathroom a week ago—the raw connection that caught me completely off guard. I'm not the type to throw myself at men, especially not athletes with reputations. That's what makes my reaction to him so confusing. It wasn't just physical; there was something in his eyes—a vulnerability at odds with his public persona—that drew me in.
"But Jax is a good man," Coach continues, oblivious to my inner turmoil. "I trust him completely—on and off the field. He's a leader to the younger players, a loyal friend, phenomenal athlete, and most of all, a great..." He stops abruptly, catching himself. An odd look crosses his face before he forces a polite smile and checks his phone again, though I notice the screen remains dark.
"Excuse me," he mutters, striding toward an assistant coach before I can press further.
What was he about to say? A leader, friend, athlete, and...what?
Maybe it's nothing. Or maybe it's everything. My journalist instincts are firing—he was definitely about to reveal something he shouldn't have.
This confirms it: Jax is hiding something. I chew my bottom lip, contemplating. I should be consumed with uncovering his secret and exposing it. That's what the old Avery would have done without hesitation. So why do I feel both curious and strangely protective of him?
My gaze drifts to where he stands with his teammates. Despite his reputation, I've seen moments of genuine kindness—the way he mentors younger players, how the staff light up around him. There's a disconnect between the "bad boy" image and the man I'm starting to see glimpses of.
I suppose they are on a mission. Just not the political kind.
And so am I—tasked with crafting a positive, "good vibes only" story about the team and their star receiver.
But would it really hurt to uncover a few of Jaxon Carter's secrets along the way?
I hang back as the hotel's grand lobby empties, watching elevator after elevator fill with players and staff. Keycard in hand, I keep my small suitcase close while answering a text from Ann, promising to send my notes from the flight interviews later today.
When I slip my phone back into my handbag, only one player remains in the lobby among a few scattered hotel guests.
Jaxon.
His eyes lock onto mine, and something inside me stills. It's not just his physical appeal—though God knows that's potent enough. It's the way he looks at me like he sees pastmy professional facade, past the walls I've built. That's what makes him dangerous.
"Are you avoiding me?" he asks as I approach the elevator—not him, definitely not him.
I stop beside him as the doors slide open.
"Me, avoid the biggest story of my career?" I press a hand to my chest in mock horror. "Never."
He feigns wounded pride. "So I really am just a hunk of meat that'll advance your career, aren't I?"
I pat his muscled chest condescendingly—or that was the intent. But beneath my palm, I feel his heart beating, a reminder that behind the jersey and statistics is a human being. A man with secrets and losses I'm only beginning to understand. I snatch my hand away, retreating into the elevator. "Too bad I'm vegan."
His laugh echoes through the small space, genuine and warm. "Are you really?"
