Page 6 of The Playmaker
“I love you, kiddo. I really do. Let me think about the social media thing, okay?”
Her face softens at that small ray of hope. She nods, gives me a hug, whispering, “Love you too, meanie butt.”
Then she grabs her bag and is out the door, leaving me to chuckle at her words. I’ve been called much worse in my day.
Bench warmer.
It comes unbidden to my mind. I shake it off. Reporters are dangerous. They are the exact type of people who could destroy the private and relatively normal life I’ve built for my sister.
I pull my car into the usual spot where I’ll wait for Riley’s class to finish and then take her home.
My phone rings. Hawk.
“Yo,” I say in a bored tone.
“Guess who I just saw on TV at this bar, man?” Hawk’s voice sounds quiet amidst the background noise of wherever he and the guys are.
“I couldn’t care less,” I retort. I need to get that reporter out of my head, already.
“Avery Monroe. Apparently, all the gossip outlets love that she tried to give you a hard time about Giselle.” He laughs. I don’t.
“Did you call about anything of value, Wesley?” I say grumpily, using his proper name.
“Yep. Just that half the guys here think she’s gorgeous. So, if you’re gonna make a move. Do it soon.”
“Not interested.” I feel irritated at him. “Anything else?”
“No. Oh, wait, yeah. Don’t whack me upside the head or anything, but I told Coach that Avery is exactly the type of honest reporting we need in a shadow journalist for the team.” With that, he hangs up.
I sit there with a sinking feeling in my gut that our PR team might just eat this up. A reporter who doesn’t kiss-up to athletes being assigned to follow them around for a few weeks?
“Shit.”
If they go for it, I know exactly who they would assign her to follow around.Me.
CHAPTER 3
AVERY
“Could you look any less excited to be here?" Pen nudges me with her elbow, almost spilling my overpriced champagne. "I'm thrilled," I deadpan, scanning the glittering rooftop party against Manhattan's skyline. The summer breeze carries laughter and the unmistakable scent of money and power. "Nothing says 'career advancement' like watching millionaire athletes get drunk on a Tuesday."
Pen rolls her eyes, her glasses reflecting the lights of the Empire State Building. "This is the Players' Association Summer Gala. Everyone who matters in sports media is here." She gestures around the expansive rooftop of the Overstory. "Including your boss, who's watching you sulk instead of networking."
I sigh, knowing she's right. Ann, my editor at NY Sports Mag, pulled strings for me to be here. I prefer writing scathing exposés about ego-fueled athletes from the safety of my laptop, where they can't flash practiced smiles that make women forget they're walking red flags.
"Fine." I smooth my emerald green dress—borrowed from Pen—and plaster on my best professional smile. "But if onemore retired quarterback asks if I 'actually watch the games,' I'm jumping off this roof."
"That's the spirit," Pen laughs, then her attention shifts to the buffet table. "Is that Emma Daniels? I have to talk to her about her menu for the blog." Before I can respond, she weaves through the crowd with the determination of a heat-seeking missile.
I drain my champagne and set the glass on a passing server’s tray, suddenly realizing how exposed I feel without my human shield. Ann catches my eye from across the room, effortlessly holding court with what looks like the entire defensive line of the Giants. She waves me over with a sharp, insistent motion that brooks no argument.
Great. Just what I need— being the awkward writer surrounded by men paid millions to tackle each other.
"Avery!" Ann calls as I reluctantly approach. "I was just telling these gentlemen about your piece on concussion protocols."
The largest man—whose bicep might be the size of my torso—extends a hand. "Isaiah Coleman. That article made my wife cry. In a good way."
"Thanks," I manage, surprised by the genuine appreciation in his eyes. "I just reported what I saw."
