Page 37 of No More Heartbreakers

Ever. To anyone. Not even the national media or to Dennis, who’d been doing sports at WPVG for twelve years. Predictably, Coach Barlow charged ahead toward the field house, acting like he didn’t see or hear Aric.

“Come on, we’ve got to set up in the media room,” Aric grumbled, jogging back over to me and grabbing the tripod.

At the post-game press conference, Aric got in two questions and received two gruff, short answers from the long-time coach.

It would have to suffice—it was all we had time for. We both needed to get back to the station and write and edit our segments.

“That guy’s a dick.” Aric scowled as we exited the field house.

“You’ve got to know Coach Barlow. He really isn’t so bad. Actually my dad—”

He turned to me with one hand raised. “I know your family’s all, ‘Bulldog Nation, Go Dawgs, Sic Em Sic em,’ but take it from a guy who’s interviewed a lot of college coaches, Barlow is a dick.”

The area around the stadium was still busy with post-game tailgaters who’d decided not to fight the traffic leaving campus. We weaved among them, walking toward the news car.

As I opened my mouth to argue further and explain my family connection to Coach Barlow, a familiar voice called my name.

I turned and nearly had a heart attack.

Hale was striding toward us across the grass from the colorful tent-packed tailgating area.

TEN

Comparison

I hadn’t seen Hale in a couple of weeks.

He looked great, as usual. He wore tailored tan pants, a crisp white dress shirt, and a luxurious dark blazer with a beautiful cardinal-and black striped tie representing the Bulldogs team colors.

“Friend of yours?” Aric asked in a low voice.

Hale reached us and grabbed me up in a hug, swinging me around. He set me down and moved in for a kiss.

Which was weird.

The fact that he would kiss me after breaking up with meandthe fact that I didn’t really want him to.

I turned my head at the last second, causing his lips to land just to the side of my mouth on my lower cheek.

“Hi.” I was a little breathless from his tight squeeze and alotnervous to see him while I was with Aric.

Correction—workingwith Aric.No big deal.

“Hey there, beautiful. Great win, huh?” Hale beamed at me and sent a curious look toward my tall, attractive co-worker.

I took a half-step back, reestablishing my personal space. “Yes. Uh, Hale, I’d like you to meet our new sports anchor, Aric Amore. Aric this is my, uh… Hale Gentry.”

They paused for a moment, sizing each other up. It was bizarre to see them side-by-side. They were both good-looking guys. Many people would’ve considered Hale the more handsome one, with his whiskey-brown eyes, dark hair and classic aristocratic features.

But there was something about Aric that commanded your attention—his voice, his uber-masculine, beachy athleticism, the piercing light eyes that drew you in.

They stepped toward each other and shook hands, Aric standing a few inches taller, Hale thicker and more seasoned-looking, though they were probably the same age.

The greatest contrast was in my reactions, looking from one to the other.

I’d grown so accustomed over the years to the loose-fitting, easy comfort of Hale, while there was nothing easy about Aric.

He inspired a tug-of-war match of contradictory feelings in me, powerful attraction on one end of the rope and an equally irresistible urge to run away and hide on the other.

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