“Are you kidding me right now?”

I muttered the words to myself as I glanced down at my cell, and then looked back out at the road in irritation. I shouldn’t have been paying any attention to my cell while I was meant to be driving, I knew that, but every time it went off I had this panic that something awful had happened. That’s what I got from seven years being a mom, I guess.

And this time, it turned out, something was actually wrong. Jacob’s usual sitter had canceled and left me firmly in the lurch, and now I would have to turn this car around and skip out on the biggest interview of my life, or find someone else to take care of him by the time his classes finished in approximately…a half hour.

I peered out the front of the car and scanned the road for somewhere I could pull over; I was a little early leaving the house, as I always was, so I wasn’t pressed for time just yet. I spotted a rest stop up ahead and quickly pulled over, grabbing for my phone and scrolling through the numbers on it. Who could I get in touch with who could actually help? I had a back-up sitter, but he was a teenager and I doubted he’d be out of school in enough time to pick up Jacob and get him home, and the last thing I wanted was my kid wandering about thinking we’d forgotten about him. Maybe I could call my Mom, see if she was free? But it was a Wednesday, and she’d be out visiting my brother for the evening and wouldn’t be back till way too late to be any help. I leaned forward, crossed my arms against the steering wheel, and rested my head against them with a groan. How the hell had this happened?

And today, of all days? I couldn’t imagine anything worse. I’d triple-checked that everything was in place when I’d left the house – I’d left money for the sitter, a note with my number on it, and the exact details of where I was going to be and what time I was planning to get home. Everything had been perfect when I’d left for this interview, and now I couldn’t see a way I wasn’t going to have to turn this car around to pick Jacob up from school. I knew I should have asked to schedule the interview earlier in the day, when I could be sure that Jacob would still be under his teacher’s care, but no – I had just gone along with whatever they wanted, in an attempt to prove to both them and myself that I could juggle the single-mom thing and my career as a journalist without any problems. I felt stupid for thinking I could pull it off. Because, as the world seemed intent on outlining to me, I seriously couldn’t.

I took a deep breath and forced myself back up. I had about ten minutes buffer time to figure things out before I would have to leave to either head to the stadium or turn around and go back to Jacob’s school. That wasn’t a lot, but I could work with it. I dialed up the home phone number of my next door neighbors, praying that someone would pick up – they would likely be all out at work, but I could dream, right?

After a couple of buzzes, a woman’s voice came to my rescue.

“Hello?” Lilly greeted me, sounding surprised. She and her partner, Paula, had moved in next to me a few months ago, and they had stepped in to look after Jacob once or twice in similar scenarios. I’d mentioned this interview to her a few weeks previously, and I hoped that she would remember just how important it had been to me then.

“Hey, Lilly, it’s Sam,” I replied quickly. “Look, I hate to do this to you, but if you’ve got a minute, do you think you could pick Jacob up from school and look after him till I get back? I won’t be long-”

“Sure thing,” Lilly replied with a practically audible shrug. “Why, what’s up?”

“I’ve got that interview today,” I sighed. “The one with that soccer player? And the babysitter I had ready for him just pulled out and left me in the lurch.”

“Yeah, no problem,” Lilly affirmed. “What time do you think you’ll be back?”

“Thank you so much,” I closed my eyes, letting out a small sigh of relief that puffed up my grown-out bangs. “I left some instructions on the kitchen table, and Jacob will have a copy of the house keys. I should be back about half four or so?”

“Cool, I’ll see you then,” she replied. “Good luck with your interview!”

"Thanks, see you soon," I nodded, and hung up before tossing the phone to the back of the car and pulling out back onto the road. I didn't want to hear one more cheep out of that thing today. Jacob was taken care of and that was all that mattered. I had an interview to get to.

In the panic of the last five minutes, I had lost the calming flow that I had managed to build up on my drive down. I was still ridiculously nervous about how this interview was going to turn out, no matter what my editor had said when she assigned it to me.

“Honestly, I wouldn’t be giving you this if I didn’t think you could do it,” Irina had repeated to me the day before when we’d gone over a last list of questions and she’d been able to read the panic on my face. “You need to relax. The last thing I want is for you to be going in there all uptight with nerves.”

“Is it that obvious?” I pulled a face. “Sorry. I’ll get a handle on it.”

“Make sure you do,” She raised her eyebrows at me pointedly, then patted me fondly on the shoulder. “You’ll be fine. Call me if you need anything.”

I wondered if I should put her on speaker just to help me calm some of my nerves, but I didn’t want to give her a reason to second-guess my appropriateness for the job. Not that she could have found anyone else at such short notice, but still – I had a chip on my shoulder about people treating me as less-than because of my position, and I would fight tooth and nail to make sure that no-one had an excuse to back up any assumptions they might have made about me. I tightened my grip on the wheel and checked the turn-offs that were coming up; I wasn’t far away now. Another couple of minutes, at most. I ran through the questions in my head once more, repeating them until they felt like a mantra, and pushed any nervousness that might have been clouding my mind from my head as best I could.

I was right to be nervous. At least, I thought I was – I had never done anything like this before in my life. Usually, the big interviews went to the guys who’d be working at the magazine a while – sure, I’d been there was just over a year now, but I was far from the most experienced reporter on the team. But Irina had insisted, telling me that my perspective was sharp and different and wouldn’t just come to worshipping at the feet of this soccer star in an attempt to get in on his good side. Well, that she could be sure of.

In fact, it was that attitude that had got me to move on from my last job. I had written a profile of a boxer I met, and reported the truth; that he was a crude, rude asshole with little to no respect for women and a violent attitude that continued out of the ring. The editors point-blank refused it and demanded that I rewrote it; I let them listen to the tapes I had of our interview and asked them how pray tell, I was meant to make a jerk-off like that sound in any way appealing. Long story short, I quit out of anger that they wouldn’t let me tell the story that needed telling, and Irina snapped me out not long afterward. I was glad that I’d ended up at Sportsweek when I had, if only because it felt nice to have an editor who was actually in my corner for once. And now, it seemed, she wanted to exploit my allegedly controversial viewpoint to get a good story on this guy.

Adam Channing. That was his name. I had repeated it a dozen times in my head till it had practically lost all meaning to me, and it still felt like some kind of dirty word. Channing had a reputation on and off the field, an English player who had made the jump over to American after an amazing career in Europe to make a buttload of cash and stand out amongst the less creative American teams. He was a well-known heel in the sport, a bad boy who got the crowds going and proved them wrong by scoring dozens and dozens of goals every season. He was an incredible player, and his move to the American leagues had come with what amounted to mourning all over European football. The fact that he had even agreed to an interview with Sportsweek, let alone the fact that I was going to be the one conducting it, just felt something like crazy to me. Not to mention the fact that this guy…shit, he was hot as all hell. I had done plenty of research on him over the past few weeks since I found out that I had landed the assignment, and there was no arguing with the fact that he was a stone-cold hottie. Six foot tall with a body that was built for underwear ads, he had a crop of short, dark hair that brought out the ever-present smattering of stubble across his chin, and even when he was drenched in sweat at the end of another hard-working match, he somehow managed to look put-together.

I finally pulled up outside the stadium, and checked in my pocket for my Dictaphone. I pulled it out, switched it on, and held the record button down for a moment or two while I spoke.

“Test, test,” I tried to speak as clearly as I could. I played it back to make sure the machine was working, and it was. Taking a deep breath, I realized I had no more excuse to hide from the inevitable. I actually had to go in and do this. I opened the door, and was met with the first few spots of rain landing on my feet. Okay, well, I wasn’t going to take that as an omen. Grabbing my phone, I ducked my head down to keep from getting soaked.

I hurried inside to the stadium, where I flashed my press pass and was directed through to the changing rooms that sat down a few winding corridors. The smell of sweat hung heavy in the air, and I was instantly reminded of the times when my high-school boyfriend and I had snuck into changing rooms to hook up after practice. Yeah, and look at where that had landed me last time, huh? I found myself outside a door with “Adam Channing” emblazoned on it in strong black lettering, and lifted my knuckles, hesitating slightly before I brought them down. Was I certain that this all wasn’t some kind of crazy mistake? That I wouldn’t knock and find the whole staff of the magazine waiting for me, laughing at the fact that I had fallen for a ruse as obviously see-through as this one? I pushed such ridiculous thoughts from my mind and rapped on the door. I didn’t have time for that shit. Not today.

“Come in,” A voice called from inside, and I pushed the door open and entered. Instead of the sweaty scent that had enveloped me as I’d entered the first corridor, I was met by the smell of aftershave – light, spicy, and expensive. And, of course, the sight of the man who was behind the smell.

“Hey,” Adam Channing looked at me in the mirror. The place was set up like some kind of movie-star dressing room; there was a mini-fridge, a table scattered with fancy aftershaves and lotions, and a sleek minimalist vibe that didn’t seem to jibe with the rest of the stadium so far. He seemed to notice me glancing around, and cocked an eyebrow.

“Yeah, it’s not exactly what I’m used to, either,” He shook his head, gesturing around. “I didn’t ask for any of this, but I guess they took one look at me and decided I must be the kind of guy who needs this kind of bullshit.”

I pulled my Dictaphone from my pocket and place it out on the table in front of us, making sure that he could see it. I didn’t want to have to break the flow of the conversation by stopping to bring up the fact that I was recording the conversation, but nor did I want him to pretend that he hadn’t seen it. I clicked it into record and leaned up against an oddly-molded chair sitting behind me.

“It’s probably all those fashion ads,” I pointed out. “They probably think you actually have taste.”

“I guess that makes a change from a lot of the arseholes who work in this place,” he shook his head with an amused chuckle. I cocked my eyebrow – that seemed like something I could pounce on.

“Arseholes?” I pressed, and he laughed again, but this time there wasn’t a hint of snark in his tone.

“It never sounds right when you Americans say it,” he teased, grinning that megawatt smile. He looked better than anyone who’d just walked out of intensive training should have; his hair was damp and floppy from a recent shower, but somehow the way he had to brush it back from his face when he spoke just made him all the more endearing. I bit my lip. Okay, I could tell that this guy was going to be trouble.

“Well, you’re on my side of the Atlantic now,” I cocked an eyebrow, doing my best to cover up how damn flustered I felt in his presence. “Maybe try getting a hold of the local vernacular?”

He seemed amused by my ability to talk back, and I took the moment to run through the questions again in my head. I didn’t want this to turn into a flirt-fest – at least, not before I’d had a chance to get the interview out of the way. I rolled my shoulders back and met his gaze steadily; I’d interviewed enough sports stars to know that the best way to call them on their shit was to look them dead in the eye and get on their level. They were used to having women throwing themselves at them at every turn, so when they got one that doesn’t take their shit, it tends to throw them. Which makes for an interesting interview, one way or another.

“So, why did you come to America?” I asked, itching to feel a pen and notebook in my hand. When I had done those classes at night school to earn a degree in journalism, I had done all my interviews with pen and paper because I couldn’t afford a Dictaphone. It still felt wrong to me to not take any notes, but I knew that I had to make as though this was the most natural thing in the world.

“Money, and the chance to play somewhere new,” he shrugged, reaching for a bottle of water that sat on the other side of the table from him. The muscles in his arm flexed as he did so, and I did my best to keep my eyes off of them. Focus, Sam, focus. He eyed me briefly, and then added an addendum.

“Not to mention the women,” he cocked an eyebrow, and I didn’t move my face an inch. He was looking for a reaction and he wasn’t going to get one from me.

“Hmm,” I acknowledged what he’d said. “You seeing anyone now?”

“Why, you asking me out?” He asked, cocking his head to the side playfully. I flushed.

“You wish,” I shot back before I had a chance to think about how sharp that would come across. He laughed, again, and my shoulders slumped in relief.

“You know, one of the things I miss most about Britain is the fact that I actually get talked back to once in a while,” he sighed. “You’re making me homesick.”

“Tell me about home,” I used his comment to transition smoothly into his past. He didn’t talk about it much, and I knew that if I could squeeze a few details of that out of him I would have nailed this interview. He shrugged.

“I grew up just outside London,” he explained, running a hand through his hair. “Moved into the city when I got scouted when I was a teenager and never looked back.”

“What about your parents? What did they do?” I pressed, but I saw something come down behind his eyes, something that told me I wasn’t getting any more questions in this vein answered.

“Nothing exciting,” he responded firmly, and I decided it was best to back off for the time being.

“So, how are you finding the Saracens so far?” I returned to safer territory. I had done some reading up on old interviews he’d done and had seen that he’d been pretty happy to answer any questions about his career, but anything about his past seemed to cause him to bristle up.

“I love it here,” he grinned, bowing his head. “The attitude to soccer, it’s so different – there’s so much less politics to worry about, you know?”

“In what way?” I cocked my head, interested.

“I just…” he trailed off, thinking of the best way to phrase it. “So many of the clubs back home, everything seems to revolve around these rivalries that have been going on for decades. There’s not much new there, if you get me?”

“I do,” I grinned. He was smarter than he’d come across in other interviews I’d read. “So you prefer-”

Before I could finish my sentence, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I tried to ignore it, but he nodded towards the lit-up square in the pocket of my pale shirt. The screen was glaring through the fabric, flashing up like a firework.

“You’re fine to answer it,” he assured me, looking amused, and I quickly pulled it out to check what was going on. I wish I’d have had the nerve to just ignore whoever it was and get on with the interview, but knowing what else had gone wrong today, I just didn’t want to risk it.

“Shit,” I muttered as I scanned the text that had appeared on my screen. It was Lilly – she was letting me know that she’d been called away last-minute by work and wouldn’t be able to take care of Jacob like she’d promised. I felt a wave of panic strike me as I tried to keep a cool head, but I knew my freakout must have been painted loud and clear on my features.

“You don’t have to stick around if you don’t want,” he joked. “If you’re looking for an out there are much easier ways to do it than-”

“No, no, it’s fine,” I tried to figure out what the best course of action was. By this time, he’d at least be home, right? Maybe I could risk leaving him for a half-hour while I wound this up. It wasn’t like I was going to get another shot at this anytime soon, and I knew I would never forgive myself if I blew this interview over my inability to get a babysitter who could actually stick.

“What’s up?”

“It doesn’t matter,” I shook my head, glancing over at the Dictaphone. I didn’t want to rush this, but then, I didn’t want to leave Jacob sitting at home alone for too long. Lilly would be leaving soon – I would need to get out of there and back on the road right away if I was to have any chance of getting in before she left. I raked my fingers through my hair and managed a smile.

“Look, if you need to go, we can reschedule this,” Adam leaned back in his seat and placed his hands on top of his head.

“Really?” I felt a little uptick in my chest as I realized what he was offering. I could get home to take care of my son without blowing this interview. It was perfect.

“If you’ll join me for dinner,” he grinned cockily, his gaze meeting mine once more as though he was challenging me. My mouth fell open – he couldn’t be serious, surely? I shifted in my seat, not sure how to react. It must have been something that appealed to his British sense of humor.

“Uh…” I stared him for a moment, and then decided to call him on his bluff. “When?”

“Tomorrow night, if you can make it,” he glanced in the direction of my phone. “Provided nothing else comes up that tears you away from me.”

“Sure thing,” I nodded. I was sure I could find someone to step in and take care of Jacob by then – Mom would be free, and I knew she would be there for me if I told her the scope of this interview.

“Here, give me your number,” He suggested, reaching for my phone. I drew it back on instinct; I had a picture of Jacob as my background, and for some reason, I didn't want him seeing my son quite yet. Our fingers grazed, and I felt a little flutter in my chest as our skin came into contact for the first time.

“Give me yours,” I shot back playfully, making it into a joke, and he grinned as he whipped a card from a small stack on his table and handed it over. I took it, and tried to ignore what felt like a spark passing between us as we touched again. Okay, now I was just getting overexcited. I shook my head in an attempt to steady myself, and tucked the card into my pocket. His eyes swept up and down my body briefly, as though he couldn’t help himself, and I shifted in my seat, tickled by his apparent interest.

“I’ll text you when I…when I’ve taken care of everything,” I got to my feet. “Really, thank you. You’ve helped me out so much with this.”

“No problem,” He got to his feet, stepping over to the door to open it for me like a proper gentleman. “I look forward to seeing you again soon.”

There was a split-second moment, as I ducked under his arm to get out the door and grabbed my dictaphone, that a crazy thought brushed through my mind. I could so easily have leaned up to kiss him, there and then – our bodies were so close that I could have leaned mine into his, looked into his eyes, and told him all he needed to know with a single look. But, in a second, as I stepped out into the sweaty corridor once more, the moment was gone, and I had to pull myself back together.

“I’ll see you soon,” he grinned, closing the door behind me and leaving me standing in that sweaty corridor before I could think of anything to say in response. I stared at the door for a moment, emblazoned with a name that I could finally attach to a person. I couldn’t quite believe any of that had actually happened. I made my way out to the car as quickly as I could, the scent of his aftershave still filling my senses.

As soon as I was in the car, I pulled my phone out to reply to Lilly and let her know I was on my way, and to text Irina to fill her in on what had just happened. A few seconds later, my phone buzzed with her response.

“Wait, so you have a date with him? And it was his idea?”

I stared at the words on the screen and had to suppress a small smile as I read them. Yeah, I guessed I did have a date – I hadn’t gone in there expecting anything, but just like that, he’d managed to turn things around and now I was meeting him for dinner. The thought sparkled in my brain, making my heart flip in my chest a couple times as I started up the engine. It had been a while since I had last been on a date, and for my re-entry to the game to be a hot, foreign, successful soccer player with the kind of body that was plastered on ad-boards across the country? Yeah, I could get behind that.