“Whatcha working on?” Indie plopped herself down on the other side of my desk. She lifted her legs and sat Indian-style, even though she was wearing a skirt.

“Nice undies.”

“You can’t see my underwear.”

“Sure I can,” I bluffed.

“I’m not wearing any.”

“I hope you sat like that in the department-head meeting you just came from.”

“Of course I did.” Indie leaned forward and swiped a pile of papers off my desk before I could stop her. She thumbed through a few of the articles I’d printed. “Brody Easton, huh?”

“It’s research.”

“For what? An interview with Cosmopolitan magazine? I don’t see any sports-related articles here.” She spread the papers out with her fingers and fanned herself.

“For this week’s game.”

“Really?” Indie stopped fanning and plucked a page out of her fan. “What did you learn from this one?”

It was a picture of Brody in his underwear. Tight black boxer briefs. “I was looking at his knee to see if the picture was taken before or after his surgery.”

“You were looking at his dick.”

“I was not. The guy is a dick.”

“Who does it for you.”

“He does not.”

“Does too.”

“Whatever.” I rolled my eyes. “You know . . . he definitely has a unique story. First-round draft pick at twenty. Car accident mid second season. He was injured, but nothing too bad. Cut from the team before the start of the third season. Rehab almost two years later, then makes it back to the lineup as a walk-on. Three years later, Super Bowl MVP.”

“I remember when he got cut. He was in the news more than when he was starting for the Steel. Drinking and partying. Became a boy toy for a bunch of celebrity women.”

“How do you go from being a first-round draft pick to being cut from the team?”

“Drugs and alcohol.”

“But he wasn’t really known as a party guy until after he was cut. I’ve been digging around, trying to piece together the puzzle of Brody Easton, and I just feel like a few are missing. There isn’t anything about him having any issues, and the team didn’t cite any when they cut him.”

“The league probably didn’t want a black eye. Maybe he got hooked on painkillers from his car accident or something.”

“He walked away with only a few cuts and bruises. He wasn’t badly injured in the accident.”

“Was anyone?”

“He was alone in the car, speeding, and lost control.”

“Hmm . . . I don’t know. But maybe you can ask him during pillow talk.” Indie stood up. “When are you back?”

“Monday night.”

“Can I keep this?” She held up the photo of Brody in his boxer briefs. It was definitely a keeper.

“By all means. I don’t want a picture of that arrogant ass.”

“Sure you don’t.” She blew me a kiss and disappeared.

 

 

Delta custom configured planes for professional sports teams. A regular Boeing 757 held more than two hundred, but the aircraft that the league used had seats removed for extra leg space. In the rear of the plane, a few sections of seats faced each other across tables, designed for coaches’ meetings during flights.

All fifty-three active players on the Steel roster traveled together two days before the away game, along with seventeen coaches and a few office staff. About a dozen reporters were riding along with the team. Since WMBC was an official team sponsor, I was one of those reporters. And . . . I hated to fly.

Five minutes before boarding, I popped a Xanax and chased it with a full glass of wine. The last thing I remembered before passing out was the pilot saying something about a short delay due to a stubborn flock of birds. Birds?

When I woke up, I checked the time on my phone. I’d slept for four hours of the almost six-hour flight to California. My mouth was dry and my eyes even drier.

“Morning, sleepyhead.” The voice startled me.

Groggy, I turned my head toward the aisle, confused. “Where . . . where is Alan?” I’d fallen asleep sitting next to Alan Coleman, a reporter for Sports Chronicles. Sitting next to me now was none other than Brody Easton. And he was smiling from ear to ear.

“I offered him an exclusive interview on the league's new alcohol rules if he changed seats with me.”

“Why would you do that?”

“To sit next to you.”

“Did you enjoy watching me sleep?”

“I did. You snore, you know.”

“I do not.”

“Yes, you do. Want to see the video to prove it?”

My eyes widened. “You videoed me sleeping?”

“No. But you do have a little dried drool.” He pointed to the corner of my mouth. “Right here.”

I wiped it, even though I wasn’t sure if he was serious. “Did you come back here to annoy me?”

“Pretty much.” He smiled. It was a real smile; even his green eyes participated. Damn.

Just then, the plane hit a bit of turbulence, and whatever calm the Xanax had instilled in me went out the window. I gripped the armrests with both hands.

“Nervous flyer?”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“You should take something before you fly.”

“I did. But it must have worn off.”

“How about a drink to calm your nerves?”

“I shouldn’t mix any more alcohol with Xanax.” The plane shook again. “I’ll have a Merlot.”

Brody chuckled as he reached up and hit the button for the flight attendant. The leggy brunette responded quickly. She ignored me and spoke to Brody. “What can I do for you, Mr. Easton?”

“Can you bring us a Merlot and a bottle of water, please?”

“Of course.”

The minute it arrived, I gulped almost the entire full glass as if it were medicine. Looking over at Brody, I realized for the first time that he was dressed in a suit. He wore it well. “Nice to see you in pants for a change.”

“I can take them off if you’d like.”

“I’d need a lot more than one airplane-size bottle of Merlot.”

Easton quickly reached up and pushed the button for the flight attendant. I actually laughed a little.

“So . . . really . . . why are you sitting here?”

“Have you looked around this plane? There’s one hot woman and a hundred hairy men. The question should be, why isn’t everyone fighting to sit here?”

“That almost sounded like a compliment, Mr. Easton.”

“It was. You’re hot as fuck. And I like you.”

“Oh really? You have a funny way of showing that you like me. Every time I see you, you try to sabotage my interview.”

“Every time I see you, I expose myself to you.” He flashed me his trademark smile. “That’s how we show girls we like them where I’m from.”

“Where are you from, the jungle?”

“Brooklyn.”

The offensive-line coach interrupted us. “Brody, I want to make some changes to Red Reverse Four. We just studied the tapes from last week and need to shift the play around a bit.”

“You got it, Coach.”

Brody took my hand and kissed it. Then he disappeared with the coaches for the rest of the trip. I didn’t see him again until game day.

 

 

As usual, the sun was shining in San Diego. I really missed California. After college, I thought I’d be back a lot more than I had. But over the years, my fear of flying had escalated, and now the only travel I did by plane was for work. This trip had reminded me that I was letting my fears control me, instead of the other way around.

I stood along the sideline watching the game with Brett Marlin, the on-air, play-by-play reporter. Part of my job as a staff sportscaster was to be Brett’s backup eyes. We consulted between live feeds—it was virtually impossible for one person to keep track of twenty-two men on the field at once. Four eyes did a better job.

As expected, the division-rivalry between San Diego and the Steel was intense. The outcome would determine first and second place between the two, and they played as if it were the Super Bowl. The roar of the crowd was so loud that it made it difficult for Brett and I to hear each other in our headsets. I felt the vibrations from feet stamping against the stands in my chest. God, I love games like this. With thirty seconds left on the clock before halftime, I stood near the goal line, watching as the Steel moved down the field. On a third and short, Brody dropped back to pass, only to find his receivers all under heavy coverage. Rather than chance an interception, he waited, somehow avoiding the head-on charge of a three-hundred-pound defenseman. Then he lowered his shoulder and charged toward the end zone. His legs never stopped moving until he crossed the line. Was it just me, or was the sun suddenly getting warmer?

The crowd went crazy, and I caught myself clapping a little, too. Reporters were supposed to be neutral. As Brody jogged off the field at halftime with the scoring ball in his hand, he surprised me by tossing it to me. I hadn’t even realized he had seen me on the sideline.

My mom and I had spent years going to games, sitting in box seats on the fifty-yard line—I loved watching my dad play. Hell, it was growing up going to those games that made me want to be a reporter. I couldn’t imagine my life not involving football in some way. But watching Brody out there was different. The way the man moved was sexy and confident. His long strides, thick, powerful thighs, the way he seemed fearless to barrel over people. He was such a dominant force that it was impossible not to be attracted to him. And it wasn’t just me. Women actually catcalled almost every time he removed his helmet when he came off the field. During the second half, he scored another running touchdown. When he again tossed the ball my way, some of those adoring lady fans actually booed at me a little.

After the game, I waited outside the locker room, catching up on texts and emails. The first one I opened was from Indie.

Indie: That skirt is too long. Take that shit up a few inches before you go in the locker room to flirt with Easton.

I laughed while I typed.

Delilah: I don’t flirt, I interview. It’s my JOB.

Indie: OMG. He gave you two balls today. Bet he gives you two more tonight!

Great. The camera had caught Brody Easton tossing me both of his running touchdown balls. I’m sure half the men in the mandatory Monday meetings would have something to say about it.

I swiped over to email and started weeding through the garbage, stopping at one from Michael Langley.

Just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed spending time with you at the fundraiser last week and that I was thinking about you. I look forward to your month slowing down so I can take you to dinner. And I’m working on adding some interviews to my schedule. Best, M.

Such a sweet guy. Maybe I could end my cleanse a little early.

I kept my nose in my phone, catching up on work, until security opened the locker room for reporters.

Inside the guest team locker room, I interviewed a wide receiver and then headed over to Jennings Astor, a defensive lineman who’d had a key sack in the fourth quarter. Easton, as usual, had a long line. His locker was diagonally across from Jennings, and I could see he was finishing up his current interview. The next person in line was Sandra Halston, a reporter covering the home team. I was curious to watch the interaction between the two.

While Sandra was setting up to begin, the arrogant ass’s eyes caught mine.

He grinned wide.

I ignored him. Clarification: I pretended to ignore him.

From across the room, I studied Easton’s body language. He hadn’t dropped the towel for the gorgeous blonde reporter. In fact, he seemed to be treating her exactly as he treated the male reporters. No sexy smirk or sparkle in his eye as he made sexual innuendos. And he wasn’t showing off his Subway either. I wondered if Sandra had already gotten her fill of hazing. I really wanted to know if he had ever done the same thing to her, but I wasn’t sure why it was important to me.

After wrapping up all the interviews I needed, I headed over to Easton. I wasn’t nervous anymore. Instead, I think I was a little . . . excited.

While Nick set up the camera and lights, I said, “Thank you for the . . . balls today.”

Easton grinned. “No problem.”

“You did that just so I had to say thank you for the balls today, didn’t you?”

“Nope. But that was a total bonus. I did it so you’d take them home and every time you looked at them, you would think about me.”

“I know the perfect place for them.”

“In your bedroom?”

“In the basement, it’s creepy down there. Fitting.”

As usual, he ignored my insult. “Do you have them in your bag?”

“I do.”

He turned around, reached into his locker, and pulled out a Sharpie. “Let me have ’em. I’ll sign them for you.”

As he signed the second ball, Nick announced that he was ready to film. I shoved the balls into my equipment bag and attempted to tame my wild hair. “You ready?”

“For you? Always.”

I shook my head and shot off my first question. I expected him to drop his towel, but he surprised me by staying covered. In fact, he remained in his towel for the entire interview and answered every question without any sexual innuendos. Maybe my hazing was over.

After the camera shut off, I couldn’t resist. “Thank you for staying somewhat dressed today.”

“It was really hard to do.”

I chuckled as I packed away my microphone and notepad. “So, is it over? The hazing, I mean. I noticed you didn’t get naked with Sandra either today. Is that your thing, you treat the new female reporters to full-frontal nudity to embarrass them the first few weeks?”

“Seeing me naked was a treat. I knew it.”

“Your head is so big, I’m surprised you can get a helmet on it.”

He grinned. “Big head. Big helmet.”

“How has no one filed a sexual harassment complaint against you with the league yet?”

He shrugged. “I don’t do this with anyone else.”

My eyes narrowed. “You mean Sandra has never experienced the towel routine during an interview?”

“Nope.”

“Well, aren’t I the lucky one?”

“You are. Have dinner with me?”

“No.”

“No?” I sort of loved that he was shocked to be turned down.

“That’s right. No.”

“Why?”

“I don’t date players.”

“You went out with that kicker from the Saints last year.”

“I said I don’t date players, not I don’t date athletes.”

For once, Brody Easton didn’t have a witty comeback. I walked away, then stopped and turned back. “By the way, researching my dating history? Creepy. Your balls are definitely going down to the basement.”

 

 

I took the earliest commercial flight on Monday morning, rather than the late-afternoon team flight home. Mr. CUM didn’t care that I was halfway across the country; he still expected me to be at his mandatory Monday meetings.

When I arrived at JFK, a corporate town car picked me up at the airport, and I headed directly to the office. We made it less than a mile before we were stopped dead in traffic. I reached into the equipment duffle bag I’d carried on the plane to take out my notepad. A slash of black marker caught my eye. Brody Easton’s name was scribbled on the ball, but something was written above it.

I’d really like to fuck you. 212-538-0321

I shook my head. Then I reached down for the other ball. I flipped it over and found:

Stop shaking your head. You know you want to.

I was a little turned on. And a lot pathetic.