The Play Maker (The Sideline Series Book 1)

by L. M. Carr

  “Well, I can’t help that,” I retort sharply. “Why is it that men can have casual sex, but women can’t?”

  “He doesn’t just see it as casual sex,” Curtis retorts sharply. “Hell, he told me yesterday how much closer you two have gotten over the last few weeks.”

  “Sex, Curtis. That’s all it is.”

  “AJ?! Is that you?” Wes, our program producer, yells from his office across the hall. “Get your pretty little arse in here!”

  Grinning contritely, I turn away from Curtis. “I’ve got to go.”

  AJ?” he says. I glance over my shoulder. “Just think about what I said.”

  I nod and continue across the hall to Wes’ office. I enter the room, which is complete with floor-to-ceiling windows on one wall and television monitors on the others.

  “You realize I’m going to file sexual harassment charges against you one day, don’t you?” I tease, knowing Wes’ behavior is harmless.

  He waves his hand through the air. “Whatever. Close the door, love.” He removes his frameless glasses and tosses them onto the small stack of papers.

  “Oh no. The glasses came off. This must be serious.”

  I do as I’m directed, then wait. My mind races with endless possibilities of why I was summoned. I inhale quietly and run my damp hands down the buttons of my white, sateen shirt tucked neatly into my black dress pants.

  “Sit down.”

  I heed the new command, the clicking of my heels pronounced in the quiet room.

  “Is this about Justin?” I ask hesitantly, wondering if we’ve violated some work fraternization policy or something.

  Wes’ face contorts in confusion, then quickly relaxes. “What you do on your own time, sweet girl, is your business.”

  I nod.

  “Just don’t break the bloke’s heart. I think he’s in love with you.”

  I roll my eyes and sigh. “So I’ve heard… So, what’d you want to talk to me about?”

  “A decision was made earlier today.”

  Our eyes lock. I wordlessly wait for him to continue.

  “We got the MacIntyre interview.”

  Like a deer caught in headlights, my eyes grow wide and I stare at Wes, my heart nearly stopping. I swallow hard when my mind fills with vivid memories of the man I once knew.

  Be professional, I remind myself.

  “All right,” I finally blurt out. “That’s great. Who’s doing it? Curtis or Justin?”

  “Neither.” Wes’ narrowed, stern eyes turn mischievous as his lips tip into a grin, reminding me of Jim Carrey in The Grinch. “You are.”

  A surge of adrenaline shoots through my veins at the idea of being in the same room as Julian, let alone sitting across from him. “What?” I shriek, shaking my head. “No, I’m not.”

  “Yes, you are,” he retorts, smirking.

  “Why me? They’ve both been here longer. They have seniority.”

  Wes continues to stare at me, eyebrow raised.

  I push away from the table and step to the window. I press my lips together, pinch the bridge of my nose and breathe slowly, needing a few moments to compose myself. Cursing internally, I cast a hard glance down to the decorative pool at the front entrance of our building, a wall of water seeping over the sides in an endless cycle. While lost in the memories, a haze of anger and pain blurs my sight until I blink the moisture away.

  I turn slowly, speaking quietly, “Why me?”

  Wes picks up his glasses and sets them back on his long, thin face, then stares at me blankly. “You’re the best.”

  I narrow my eyes. “Bullshit.”

  My comment surprises him, causing his eyebrows to shoot toward his receding hairline. “You don’t think you’re the best? You’ve got a long list of accolades to prove otherwise.”

  “Curtis has received just as many awards. Have him do it.”

  Wes grins. “But he wasn’t named Playboy’s Sexiest Sportscaster three years in a row.”

  “That’s misogynistic and sexist.” I bring my thumb and index finger close together. “I’m this close, Wes! I swear to God, if I didn’t know better, I might think you want me to sue for sexual harassment and get your arse deported back to England.” I cross my arms over my chest, suddenly feeling exposed and vulnerable.

  “Oh, bloody hell! You know I’m taking the piss, AJ.”

  Over the years, I’ve become accustomed to Wes’ British colloquialisms, but that one drives me crazy.

  I walk back and lower myself into the chair. “I’m serious, Wes. I’ve worked hard to get where I am. I’ve never been given the opportunity to interview someone like this.”

  “Like this?” Wes questions.

  “Someone so high profile. Julian MacIntyre is the youngest and…” I air quote, “‘hottest head coach’ in the NFL. His name and face are everywhere.”

  Even in my goddamn dreams.

  Staring at me as if aware of my past with Julian, he says slowly, “Rumor has it he’s more than a pretty face.”

  I know.

  I sigh. “Whatever. The question remains... Why me?”

  Curiosity spreads across Wes’ face. “I don’t understand why you’re so opposed to this interview. It’s not like you to forgo an opportunity.”

  “I have my reasons.”

  “Well, here’s the thing…” He shifts uncomfortably in his leather chair. “Our ratings have been down since last spring, and the guys upstairs think you can get our viewership up.”

  I blink at him. “Me?” How?”

  “AJ, despite how you see yourself, the world sees you as a symbol.” He scrunches up his face. “It’s bloody rubbish, considering what a cow you are.”

  At the twinkle of mischief in his eyes, a chuckle escapes my lips, which quickly dies when I realize the insinuation. “A symbol…,” I draw out suspiciously. “You sure as hell better be referring to women’s empowerment and not what I think you’re hinting at.”

  Wes bangs his fist on the table. “Fuck. Don’t be wanker,” he spits. “Listen to me, Addison…”

  I chortle in surprise at the sound of my given name. With the exception of three people, no one ever calls me that.

  Running a frustrated hand through his hair, Wes looks at me pointedly as a hint of embarrassment washes over his face. “Given your family’s past with MacIntyre, they think the chemistry will be off the charts.”

  My face scrunches in humiliation, and my ears, hidden beneath my long, blonde hair, burn with heat, then I realize he’s referring to Rence’s history with Julian, not mine.

  I plan my response carefully so as not to feed his curiosity. “So this isn’t about me being an award-winning sports journalist…” My voice fades into an abyss of skepticism.

  Guilt flashes across Wes’ face and his gaze falls away. “For what it’s worth, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to go with this angle. I went to bat for you.” He raises his arms and pretends to swing a baseball bat in an attempt to lighten the mood. Then he sobers. “I may joke around with you, but you have to know how much I respect you.”

  Unable to produce even the smallest smile, I moisten my lips and swallow thickly, then rise, collecting the strength to speak calmly. “Thank you, Wes. While I appreciate the consideration, I must decline the offer.”

  Spinning quickly, I head for the door, grasping the handle.

  “AJ…”

  “What?” I seethe, not turning around.

  “It isn’t an offer.”

  Chapter Two

  “What do you mean you have to do it?” Naomi asks, her high-pitched voice bleating through the phone as I walk to my SUV at the end of the day. I pull my sunglasses down from my head, shielding my eyes from the bright ball of fire that sits high in the sky against a blue backdrop, despite the late hour.

  “He said it like I didn’t have a choice,” I reiterate with annoyance.

  “There’s always a choice,” my roommate pants. “We live in the fucking United States!”

  “You sound winded.
How many miles have you done so far?” I say as I reach my car, toss my purse onto the passenger’s seat, insert the key into the ignition and tap the button to engage the Bluetooth.

  “Uh…” She hesitates, and I can hear her feet pounding the pavement. “Nine…” She stretches out the word. “Ten! Oh, my god! I’m tired.”

  “That’s awesome! Did you make good time?” I put my vehicle in reverse, glance over my shoulder and back out of the narrow spot.

  “Not as good as yours,” Naomi replies with amusement.

  I chuckle. “My time wasn’t great this morning. I had a late night.”

  “I know! Remember, we have thin walls.”

  “Sorry,” I chuckle, then slam my foot on the brake when I see Justin jogging over before stopping at the sidewalk. He raises a hand and waves when a sleek, black car crosses his path and honks its horn. His tie is loosened and he looks much more at ease than he did after lunch.

  “Speak of the devil. Gotta run. See you on Sunday.”

  I disconnect the call before Naomi can say anything and lower my window. “Hey! Where are you going? Did you forget where you parked again?”

  Justin leans in and props his elbows on the top of the door. A smile spreads across his ruggedly handsome face, framed by dark waves. My eyes close momentarily when his cologne permeates my nose. I inhale, my traitorous body betraying me.

  “No,” he replies, shaking his head slowly. “I wanted to catch you before you left for the airport.”

  “You could’ve called or texted.”

  The intensity in his gaze makes my belly flutter. “I wanted to give you something to think about before you left.” His right hand cradles my neck and pulls me closer, his lips pressing against mine. I feel the warmth of his tongue as it sweeps against mine, igniting a fire between my legs. Curtis’ warning rings in my mind. I sigh, bringing the kiss to a close.

  “I love you,” he murmurs against my mouth. “You don’t have to say anything. I just want you to know how I feel.” Justin pulls back and stares at me. “And there’ll be more of that waiting for you when you get back on Sunday. You can’t deny how much closer we’ve gotten over the past two weeks—”

  I reach my hand up to caress his face, running my thumb over his light stubble. “Justin,” I sigh. “I always have a great time when we’re together. You’ve been so good to me, and I value your friendship so much.”

  As if I’d slapped him, he flinches, and the surprise, as well as the hurt, is evident. “Friendship? I think we’re a little more than just friends, AJ.”

  I release a slow breath and lock my eyes on his. “Justin, I don’t do the kind of relationship I think you’re looking for. I’m married to my job, and I’m happy that way. Please, don’t think I’m being a bitch, but—”

  “Are you breaking up with me?”

  I look at my steering wheel, guilt consuming me. “You can’t break up if you’re not really together.”

  His full lips tighten and eyebrows wrinkle. “Are you serious? I asked you to move in with me. If that’s not being together, I don’t know what the fuck is!”

  “I’m sorry,” I whisper, feeling horrible for the hurt I caused him. “Why can’t we just keep things the way they are? I live at my place, you live at yours, and we—”

  “Why not?” he spits. “Because I love you and thought… You know what?” Justin pushes away from the door, then taps the roof of my car. “It’s all good. You have fun in San Diego.”

  I exhale as he walks toward the parking garage, a sick feeling stirring in my belly. “Justin!”

  Shaking his head, he glances over his shoulder. “By the way, congratulations on the MacIntyre interview.”

  News sure does spread fast around here.

  Words of gratitude get stuck in my mouth as I roll up the window and see him disappear into the shadows of the garage. With a sigh, I pull up the app on my phone to confirm the address of the short-term parking lot at George Bush Intercontinental Airport. Blowing out a breath, I head onto the main road and enter the highway.

  Why can’t you just let him in? a tiny voice asks. He’s a good man who loves you. He can make you happy if you let him.

  Another voice interrupts. You know exactly why.

  Pulling into the parking lot twenty minutes later, I park, grab my bags and hop onto the shuttle to the terminal. During the short ride, I grab my phone and pull up Justin’s contact information, hovering my finger over the screen. I know I should text him an apology for my callous heart. He doesn’t deserve this from me.

  After an internal battle, I cancel the message and drop the phone into my bag.

  Although the flying time to San Diego is only a few hours, the lines in security snaking around the partitioned barriers make me think some passengers will be here all night. Luckily, I bypass the horde of people and the TSA pre-check, thankful to be a frequent flyer, sometimes traveling twice a week for work.

  I make a quick stop at Hudson News for a bottle of water and a bag of trail mix, then look for a magazine. I scan over the array of glossy covers…and freeze. Almost every magazine involving men’s health boasts his face. Some have images of him with a playbook in hand, while others captured him gripping a football, shirtless. His physique is unbelievable, sculpted and well-defined. Time has been extremely kind to him.

  I drag my eyes away from his body and look at his face. The infamous side grin captures his boyish charm, yet in other photographs, he looks stoic and cold. But in every photograph, his blue eyes, staring into the lens, reach deep into me.

  How in the world am I going to sit with him? How can I be professional and ask questions about a life I once knew so well? Perhaps he’ll change his mind and not want to do the interview once he finds out I’ll be the one questioning him. This is going to be awful. The last time I saw him, his unbridled feelings of animosity were unmistakable.

  I close my eyes and take a deep breath, pushing Julian MacIntyre far from my mind. I walk toward the rack filled with gossip magazines. I could use a little mindless reading. My gaze rakes over the faces of celebrities whose photos have most likely been altered by photoshop. One in particular catches my eye, the caption reading, “Getting Cozy with the Coach”.

  Hurriedly, as if afraid someone might see, I pick up the magazine, flip through the pages to the article and stare at his face. I clench my teeth. Why does he still have to be so gorgeous? Why does he still have this hold on me after all these years? I narrow my eyes at the picture. Why is the woman on his arm so beautiful?

  I groan inwardly, hating that I’m even entertaining these thoughts. Julian MacIntyre isn’t the boy I knew. He’s now a man with a young, stunning woman by his side. Not only is she one of LA’s hottest models, she also happens to be the only daughter of a prominent team owner. It’s a match made in heaven.

  I skim the article quickly, reading the details of their courtship and what “sources” say might be happening in the near future. My heart sinks at the idea of him getting married. I can’t imagine their life together. Given their age difference, I can’t imagine what they’d talk about or even have in common. He was in high school when she was learning how to walk. I could’ve been her babysitter, for Christ’s sake.

  Unconsciously, I curl my fingers and flick his face angrily, leaving a small dent on the page. As soon as I realize what I’ve done, I put the magazine back, pay for my items and leave the store with a bottle of water, a bag of trail mix and a heavy heart.

  Once they announce my flight, I walk onto the plane, stow my belongings and type a quick text to my brother.

  Arriving 4:45.

  He replies almost immediately.

  OK.

  I smile as my fingers fly over the keyboard.

  Don’t be late, Rence.

  I’m never late :(

  You’re ALWAYS late :)

  After ordering wine and scanning the SkyMall magazine, I find a copy of the latest edition of Sports Illustrated tucked in the seat pocket in front of me. A disbeli
eving chuckle emerges as I stare at the man gracing the cover. It seems I can’t escape him. He’s everywhere.

  The photographer’s skills are definitely showcased in this close-up. My eyes trail downward, slowly taking in the image. I begin at his light brown hair, cut shorter than I remember, which frames his perfect cheekbones and strong jaw hidden beneath a perfectly trimmed five o’clock shadow. Mischievous blue eyes, which narrow when he smiles, reach beyond the lens of the camera and into my soul…again. Even the green t-shirt details every muscle in his chest and outlines the definition in his arms. I swallow the memory of those arms wrapped around me and look away for a moment, the recollection of my life with him too overwhelming.

  Several minutes later, I inhale quietly, as if needing courage to return my eyes to the image. I focus on the football held in one large hand. The expression on his face suggests he’s ready for a challenge. This is his “game face”. How is it possible that after all these years, that simple gesture, the one I witnessed hundreds of times, still excites me? Julian always enjoyed a good challenge…until he didn’t. Perhaps the challenge of loving someone was too much for him, but it wasn’t for me. I would’ve given anything and done anything for him.

  And that sexy smirk, the one that was always reserved for me, the one that drew me in and made me fall in love with him, calls to me.

  Damn you, Julian MacIntyre. Damn you.

  I gulp down the last few sips of wine, then close my eyes and allow myself a brief glimpse into the past.

  §

  Eighteen years earlier…

  Keeping my attention focused on the tanned face and green eyes that were so much like mine, I sprinted off the line when my brother’s voice rang through the crisp air. I glanced back and raised an arm, waving frantically as three other figures raced toward me. My footsteps were quick and light. I was determined not to get caught.

  “Rence! I’m open! Throw it!” A wide grin stretched across my face when I dashed around my opponent and faked to my right just before I saw the football sail past me.

  “Dammit!” A wave of disappointment rolled over me, but it didn’t last long before strong, muscular arms wrapped around my waist, secured me to his hard chest, then took me down onto the blades of soft grass.