Page 2 of The Playmaker
A wide receiver with a body so perfectly sculpted lesser mortals would swoon into those arms. Not me.
My gaze betrays me, dropping to his Gucci belt. To his hips. The raw power there...
No. I won't go there.
I force my eyes up to meet emerald green, and everything inside me freezes, then burns.
The tabloids devour this man daily. He is...magnificent.
Raw masculinity radiates from him as he pauses above me. I should look away but remain trapped in his gravitational pull.
My hatred solidifies when his full lips curve into a slow, arrogant smirk that makes my body betray me. But it's his eyes—cool, guarded—that snap me back to reality.
"I didn't know we had a new bench warmer."
Even his voice is infuriatingly sexy. I finally register his meaning—I'm blocking his path.
I meet his gaze with manufactured indifference, praying this blunder won't cost my job.
"You wish I would warm your bench," I snap, then flush at my own innuendo.
He stops, his chest nearly touching mine, his heat scorching the air between us.
I swallow hard but stand taller. My dad taught me one valuable lesson before walking out: nobody stands up for you but you.
My hardened nipples brush his chest. For a heartbeat, interest flickers in his eyes before that impenetrable wall returns.
"Here," a female reporter murmurs behind me. "There's room."
So much for holding my ground. The buzz of players chatting with reporters reminds me they're waiting because of me.
I step back but maintain eye contact with Jaxon Carter. I refuse to let him think he's won.
His eyes narrow. "Watch yourself," he warns, just loud enough for me to hear.
I scoff silently.No, buddy, you watch yourself.Juan whispers urgently that we can't stay here.
"Shush," I hiss. Having survived this chest-to-chest standoff, I'm not budging.
The major networks fire questions at Jaxon about last season's Super Bowl run and training camp. I study him critically. Stoic. Stern. Borderline rude. Classic bad-boy reputation.
Juan nudges me. "You're next."
Jaxon's hard gaze locks onto mine as he ignores the camera. I can't resist. He wants to play bored? I'll throw him a curveball.
"Avery Monroe, NY Sports Mag," I say with honeyed sweetness.
His eyes glitter with challenge.
"I'm wondering how you'll manage all your off-field hobbies now that the season's started." I rush ahead before courage fails. "I hear a certain team cheerleader kept you busy in the off-season. Is that true?" I smile, all teeth. The exact question I was forbidden to ask.
His voice deepens. "Avery Monroe with NY Sports Mag?" The way he says it makes my stomach plummet. He looks far too pleased to answer my taboo question.
"Yes," I breathe.
"I can assure you that even in the off-season, no one warms my bench."
His heated gaze holds mine like we share a secret. I maintain my composure while my insides flutter traitorously.
