The Unforgettable Kind
by
Melanie Munton
The Unforgettable Kind
Copyright © 2019 Melanie Munton
All rights reserved
Cover Design by L.J. Anderson at Mayhem Cover Creations
www.mayhemcovercreations.com
eBook Edition
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The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction, which have been used without permission. The publication/use of these trademarks is not authorized, associated with, or sponsored by the trademark owners. This ebook is licensed for your personal use only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people except when loaned out per Amazon’s lending program. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, then it was pirated illegally, and you should return it and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of the author.
This is a work of fiction and any similarities to persons, living or dead, or places, actual events or locales is purely coincidental. The characters and names are products of the author’s imagination and used fictitiously.
Table of Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Epilogue
Bonus Scene
Acknowledgments
About the Author
More books by Melanie Munton
Standalone romance:
King of the Court
Short story series:
Salsa Nights (Volume 1)
Salsa Nights (Volume 2)
Slow Seductions series:
Casual Affair (Slow Seductions #1)
Sweet Attraction (Slow Seductions #2)
Cruz Brothers series:
Playing for Kinley (Cruz Brothers #1)
The Art of Sage (Cruz Brothers #2)
Always Mickie (Cruz Brothers #3)
Timid Souls novellas:
Stubborn Hearts
Unexpected Love
Possession and Politics Trilogy:
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
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For my daughter, Oakley
Always remember, girls can do anything
Chapter One
“Welcome to the Jungle”
By Guns ‘N Roses
Sam
I walk into the conference room at the FNN—Football News Network—television studio in downtown Atlanta the way I always do: like a freaking bawss (it’s like “boss” but with more attitude).
A bawss who’s five minutes late, but after this morning’s contact-lens-in-the-coffee debacle, five minutes is really the best case scenario.
I’ve called this magical place home ever since I became the first female lead sportscaster in FNN history a year ago. Yeah, that’s right. Eat your heart out, Erin Andrews. Before that, I clawed my way up two other sports networks in LA and New York, but the misogynistic executives of those boards refused to promote me as high as I wanted to go, thus terminating my employment with them. By my choice, not theirs.
First, let me make something abundantly clear.
I’ve never once tried to downplay my femininity in the football world.
If anyone has ever had a problem with the fact that I wear stilettos and makeup, insist on keeping my blond locks long, and wear clothing that flatters my trim figure without showing it off, I respond with one clear-cut statement: I’m a woman so get freaking used to it.
Football might be a man’s world, but I’m not going to pretend like I don’t have boobs and a vagina. The simple fact is that I know more about football than most men.
Yes, I know. Shocking.
I grew up with a father who lived and breathed football, who played college ball, and who later became a high school football coach. I also have an older brother who went the same route, only he made it all the way to the pros and now plays for the LA Rams. I’ve been immersed in this game since I was a kid, and I’ve loved every minute of it.
I got where I am today by being better than most of my male counterparts. Not because I slept my way to the top like all the gossip rags want the general public to believe. I also didn’t get here because of nepotism on the part of my brother. Needless to say, Drake has ruffled enough feathers over the course of his career that I couldn’t have gone that route even if I’d tried.
I don’t just read the words off the teleprompter and call it a night, either. I’m up late checking scores and stats after every pro and college game during season. I’m studying every roster, every major player. I’m analyzing every pre-game scenario and predicting playoff standings. I work tirelessly to prove that I know what the hell I’m talking about when I sit in front of that camera so no one will ever have cause to doubt me.
Yet they still do.
Welcome to 2019, America.
I can even understand some of the conjecture, considering the fact that I’m only twenty-six years old and am one of FNN’s leading analysts. All newscasting jobs with any reputable network are highly competitive positions and not easy to obtain. Naturally, there’s going to be talk about a young, attractive woman getting this job over older men with more experience, some of whom are former players themselves.
But all that talk doesn’t bother me anymore.
I just go about my life every day, erecting that hard exterior shell without letting any of the verbal barbs or leering glances penetrate.
And no, I’m not some radical feminist, spewing venom at every chauvinistic penis-toter who passes me on the street. But I’m also not going to sit meekly in my office and not tell my boss that I have a problem with getting paid ten percent less than my male colleagues.
Equal pay, bitches.
That notwithstanding, the country has actually warmed up to hearing a woman talk football, some no-name writer somewhere even dubbing me “Football’s Sweetheart.”
Honestly, that title is a tough pill for me to swallow.
While I’d like to consider myself a kind and gregarious person, I’m also a ballbuster when it comes to my job. Not something I typically enjoy doing, but it has been proven time and again to be a necessary aspect of the job if I want to get anywhere in this business. Also, the term “sweetheart” carries with it a sort of innocent connotation. As if the sweetheart in question can’t do anything wrong and when she does, it’s blown even further out of proportion because of her purported goodie-goodie persona.
They’re just rubbing their hands together, waiting for me to screw up. The vultures.
But it is what it is. I can’t change it.
I guess I should be thankful that I got saddled with a term of endearment instead of something much worse. What they should really call me is a “Motherflipping Badass” because despite my boobage, I’m able to blend in with the men around me, as much as they might not always want to admit it. Bottom line, I have the respect of my colleagues. It helps that they know I won’t take any of their shit and that I’m friends with most of their wives or girlfriends. The occasional dirty joke doesn’t hurt, either. And that’s not me actively trying to fit in. That’s just my personality. I’ve always been the type to have more male friends than female. Though I draw the line at belching or farting in public.
After all, I’m still a lady…when it suits me.
I take a quick moment to appreciate how far I’ve come as I glance around the conference table at my fellow lead sportscasters. John Trainor, one of the best quarterbacks in the history of the game, sits to my right. Even though—or maybe because—he’s the father of four grown children, everyone around the studio has sort of adopted him as our fun, grumpy uncle. I’ve always had a soft spot for the guy, and not just because of how accurately he used to throw a spiral back in his NFL days. He’s basically FNN’s version of the cantankerous old guy who’s always the first one to fall asleep at Thanksgiving.
Marcus Babbett lounges in the chair across from me in another one of his impeccable Tom Ford suits. Confirmed bachelor and reformed party boy, the only reason he’s sitting at this table now instead of tearing it up on the turf is because of knee issues that prematurely ended his professional running back career. From what I understand, he went on a bit of a bender after the Colts dropped him. But he’s turned things around since getting this job. And thanks to his close friendship with my brother, he’s also become my adopted sibling, for better or worse.
Lastly, Grant Edgars joined the team upon retiring after a long career in the pros as a record-breaking wide receiver. He’s one of the smartest players I’ve ever seen, and everyone around here respects his opinion as an analyst. I believe he could have a very successful career as a coach, but he took this job so he could spend more time with his wife and two young children. Honestly, he seemed more relieved than anything to have retired at thirty-eight.
“What’s good, gentlemen?”
I spread out my green work folder, phone, and thermos of coffee in the same order they’re always in, left to right. I have very little organization in most aspects of my life, but in my job, everything has a place, an order, and a label.
“John ate one of the doughnuts from the break room,” Marcus says, snickering behind his hand.
I glare at John, who’s staring a little too intently at the colorful charts in his hands. When he adjusts his reading glasses on his nose, his classic tell, I know the truth. “And chances are you haven’t checked your blood sugar since, have you? Do I need to call your wife again? You know I have Lucille on speed dial, right?”
The gray-haired NFL Hall of Famer drops the papers and rubs his temples while glaring at Marcus. “First of all, you can kiss my ass, Babbett.”
That sends everyone at the table into guffaws.
“What?” Marcus is still laughing. “I love sicking her on you. She’s like a bloodhound.”
“Just wait until you have a woman pin you down, boy,” John growls, scowling, his Alabama drawl always thicker when he’s angry. “That will be the best damn day of my life. Second of all, Samantha.” He turns his attention to me, his voice softening. “I bought a cinnamon roll special for you. I left it in your office.”
Yes, I can be bribed. They all know it. It was a mistake, revealing one of my few weaknesses in life: effing cinnamon rolls.
I purse my lips. “Fine. She won’t hear of your gluttony from me. Speaking of gluttony,” I turn to Marcus with raised eyebrows, “how did your date with the pediatrician go last night?”
Same speech, different day. As his adopted sister, I’ve dubbed myself his dating fairy godmother and am constantly lecturing him about the kind of bedmates he keeps choosing—or not choosing. Plus, we’re all sick of hearing, in great detail, about his nocturnal escapades with said bedmates.
He shrugs, his expression devious. “I asked her if she’d have my babies, just like you told me to, Sammy girl. But she said she needed to focus on her career first.”
I roll my eyes, leaning back in my chair. “Yes, because I advised you to impregnate a woman you hardly know. Like any of us need a mini Marcus running around here.” I point my pen at his face. “But if you don’t start getting a little more selective in your hunt for a wife,” I lower my pen and wave it toward his kibble and bits, “eventually all of what you’ve got swimming around down there will be too dried up to be of any use to a uterus.”
“Who the hell says I’m looking for a wife?” he blusters.
I point the pen back at myself. “I say you need one.”
He waggles his eyebrows, throwing his ankle up to rest on his knee. “Sammy girl, would you like to have my babies?”
Okay, apparently he doesn’t see the whole adopted sibling thing the same way I do.
“That’s a sexual harassment lawsuit right there,” John mutters under his breath.
I snort. “I think we can all agree that the two of us procreating wouldn’t be fair to mankind. For so many reasons.”
“True. It’s probably for the best, anyway. I wouldn’t want to ruin you for every other man.” Marcus waves down at himself. “Once women go brown, they don’t turn this down.”
I pretend to retch, causing him to burst out laughing.
“So, who saw the Oregon vs. Wisconsin game last night?” Grant changes the subject, his finger swiping down the screen of his tablet. “Chambers was out for half of the fourth quarter and still threw for 300 yards.”
I take my own tablet out of my folder and fire it up. “Yeah, but Clemson’s Jankowski threw for 310 last night and had a better accuracy percentage.”
Conversation ensues as we cover Sunday’s games and Heisman trophy potentials while waiting for our boss. Mike Raddick, manager of the studio, walks in ten minutes later as the four of us are debating over who will win the Stealers vs. Packers game tonight.
“Save the rest of it for the cameras,” Mike says, his gruff way of starting the meeting. “This morning’s segment will be business as usual. Analysis of last night’s games and predictions for tonight’s games, specifically focusing on the Stealers defense since it’s the best in the league right now. Then you’ll briefly run through the events of the bar fight that three of Auburn’s players were involved in last night. Lastly, finish up by clarifying the rumors of a coaching change in the Kansas City Chiefs organization.”
He answers a
few of our questions, then runs through the rest of the schedule for tonight and tomorrow.
“I’ve also got two announcements. First, I received word this morning that KBC is opening up their last commentating spot for the Super Bowl to someone from the other major networks, including FNN. Each network is supposed to select one sportscaster for the bid, submit the name to KBC by five tomorrow, and then they’ll deliberate and decide.”
KBC is the television network that’s airing the Super Bowl for the next three years. Per their contract with the NFL, they have dibs on the commentating positions. History and tradition dictates that they select one or two of their own sportscasters, plus a former pro player, to commentate the game. Those jobs have never been opened up to other sports networks, like FNN.
More notably, no woman has ever commentated the Super Bowl game before.
This would be huge for me. And of course, for women everywhere.
Before I can throw my name into the hat, though, Marcus speaks up. “If we’re running this as a democracy, then I nominate Sammy.”
My wide eyes snap to his. “Really? You don’t want it?”
The job will no doubt be big money for anyone who gets it. But more importantly, you’re commentating the biggest football game of the year, not to mention one of the most-watched television events in the entire country. Anyone in our industry would be after this gig.
Marcus shoots me a serious look, a rare sight to see from him. “You’ve earned this. You bust your ass harder than most people in this job, male or female. You deserve it.”
I’m shocked to see my other two co-workers nod their heads in agreement. I always knew these guys had my back, but seeing their unfettered support right now makes my eyes water. But I choke back the tears before they can fall. Supportive or not, they would give me so much shit if I broke down and cried right now.
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