by Impulsive
Impulsive by Catherine Hart
THE REPORTER
Jessica Myers is a spirited freelance journalist who has just caught her biggest break: a feature story on the NFL expansion team, the Columbus Knights. She figures the perfect place to start is by hiding out in the team locker room--until she finds herself trapped inside a jammed locker and running out of air. Now, Jessica has no choice but to reveal her embarrassing predicament to the dazzling Knights' quarterback, Tyler James, who mistakes her for some whacked-out groupie.
THE QUARTERBACK
Ty had enough on his mind worrying about taking the Knights to the playoffs. But then management orders him to pose as the headstrong reporter's lover so that his fellow players will open up to her during interviews. Ty is absolutely furious. Instead of chasing adoring cheerleaders, he's being sidelined by this nosy woman who had the audacity to trespass on sacred team ground and has a knack for putting her two cents in where it doesn't belong.
THE BIG PLAY
Now, in close quarters, the inescapable attraction between the feisty reporter and the ultimate player is too hot for either to ignore. And soon, the pair discovers they are in desperate danger of losing a game where no rules apply...the game of hearts.
TOUCHDOWN
"Those two announcers in the booth seemed to think you were pretty terrific," Jess informed him.
"Do tell. And what did you overhear?"
She grinned. "I shouldn't tell you. You might get a swelled head." Darn! There was one of those double entendres again. She'd never had so much trouble keeping her mind out of the gutter. "They said you had great hands, and you didn't fumble very often," she related, managing to keep her tone flat. "But they also said you've got to avoid the sack and have better protection."
Ty drew in a deep breath, an unsuccessful attempt to tamp down his rising libido. "Did they now? Well, I have to agree to some extent. Good protection is a must. But eluding the rush isn't always possible, is it, Jess?" He took a deliberate step toward her, his sharp, searching gaze boring into hers. "Like now, for instance. 'I'm getting quite a rush."
Jess gulped and stepped backward. "You throw a smooth pass, on or off the gridiron, but I'm not much for playing 'bump and run,' Ty."
"Me, either. I like to retain possession as long as possible," he said, matching her quip for quip. He took another stride forward and she retreated again. "Don't back down now, sugar, just when the game is starting to get interesting."
One last step and he'd backed her to the edge of the bed. Jess lost her balance. As she fell, she reached out, grabbing for something to hold her upright. Her hands caught at Ty's shirt, and she wound up dragging him down on top of her.
"Nice tackle," he said, before his mouth shrouded hers in a long, blistering kiss....
ZEBRA BOOKS are published by Kensington Publishing Corp. 850 Third Avenue
New York, NY 10022
Copyright © 1998 by Diane Tidd
ISBN 0821759981
I dedicate this book to football fans everywhere, especially female fans, like me. Also, I would like to assure everyone that I intend no disrespect to the various NFL teams (or their players) that I mentioned in the course of writing this book to enhance the story line. They're all great, in my estimation.
CHAPTER 1
Whoa! Talk about tight ends and backfields in motion! Jessica Myers squeezed her eyes shut once more and leaned her hot, damp forehead against the inside of the locker door. One peek through the vent slats at the chaos in the locker room beyond was enough to give her a whole new perspective on these much-used football terms—not to mention the male anatomy—in a very up-close, in-your-face kind of way. Now, if she could just keep herself from hyperventilating in this claustrophobic tin box she'd chosen as her hiding place, she might survive the experience!
When she'd decided to snoop around the locker room, she hadn't counted on practice breaking up early, or having to stow away in an empty locker so she wouldn't get caught. So much for Plan A! Now, thanks to a badly timed chance glance, Jess would never be able to look these fellows in the eye without recalling the sight of their bare behinds and turning beet red in the face.
Her only remaining hope was to stay hidden until she could sneak out undetected. Given time, perhaps the memory of all those hairy, bulging thighs, sweaty Godzilla-like chests, droopy jock straps, and assorted tattoos would fade into oblivion. Then again, maybe not. But with luck, at least it would be her secret cross to bear, for this was one escapade Jess didn't care to reveal to anyone.
A bead of perspiration rolled down her face and dripped from her chin onto her chest to join others that had preceded it. Jess grimaced, forced to ignore the growing discomfort, and the itch in the center of her back and the end of her nose, neither of which could she scratch at the moment. Wedged into the locker like a canned sardine, she couldn't even raise her arm far enough for a glance at her watch. At five-foot ten inches tall, the only way she'd fit inside at all had been to scrunch herself in with her knees bent, her toes overlapping, her shoulders hunched together, and her arms crossed.
Her back was protesting the strain now, and—God help her—her knees were beginning to wobble. Jess could only pray they didn't begin to knock against the thin metal door, the latch of which she was holding onto with near-numb fingers, lest anyone try to yank it open. Of course, with all the racket these gridiron jocks were making, cracking towels and jokes at each other and clanking equipment and lockers to beat the band, she doubted they would hear any noise she'd make anyway.
Though it couldn't have been more than half an hour, or forty-five minutes at most, it felt as if she'd been stuck here for an eternity already. How long did it take these guys to shower and change clothes, for crying out loud? She could have done it in half the time, and curled her hair to boot!
The pungent odor of muscle liniment tickled her nostrils, and Jess squelched the urge to sneeze. Drat! Couldn't these macho Goliaths use the newer brands that didn't stink so badly? Didn't they worry that the smell would clash with their aftershave and make them reek to high heaven? Obviously not. After years of inhaling the stench of the locker room, which had undoubtedly dulled their olfactory capabilities beyond redemption, they probably thought they smelled like veritable roses.
Liniment, varied colognes, several brands of soap and shampoo and deodorant, talc, foot spray, mud, blood, sweat, grass, musty showers, grimy shoes, and clothes filthy enough to defy any detergent—these scents and more combined to create that unique fragrance familiar to locker rooms the world over. Whereas under normal circumstances it would not have bothered Jess in the least, the odor totally permeated what little moisture-laden air seeped through the door slats to her, and she was fast becoming queasy. Hot, nauseous, even slightly light-headed. If these gorgeous galoots didn't speed it up, so she could make good her escape, Jess was apt to do something she'd never done in all of her twenty-seven years. Faint. The question was, would she do so before or after she up-chucked her lunch?
Gradually, the locker room cleared out. The noise faded as one by one and in small groups the men exited through the double doors to the outer hall. Jess heard them calling farewell, trading a last joke or ribald comment. Finally, all was silent.
Jess ventured another look. Big Willie Watson was just rounding the far end of the row of lockers, hiking his jeans over his abundant "love handles" as he went and offering Jess a parting glimpse of the crevice between his buttocks in the process.
Jess made herself wait for several more minutes, listening for footsteps or other indications that anyone else was still around. She heard nothing but the hum and splash of the jacuzzi, which someone had left running. She was really going to have to mention that to Tom. Here he and the other owners were trying to make a go
of a new NFL expansion team, and the players were already squandering tightly budgeted money by leaving lights and equipment on when they left for the night.
She had to flex her stiff fingers several times before she could get any mobility back. Then, when she tried to manipulate the lock, it wouldn't cooperate. She jiggled it. She smacked it with her fist. It gave a satisfying rattle, but the door remained shut. Jess pushed on the thin metal panel, and kicked at the bottom corner with her tennis shoe. Though she had little leverage to her benefit, she shoved with hands and knees, applying all her weight. But to no avail. The locker door was wedged tight. Jammed.
Again and again, Jess rammed her body against it, gaining nothing but a bruised shoulder. The door shook and resounded like a Chinese gong; with each effort, it would bow outward only to snap back into place. Though not normally prone to panic, Jessie was precariously close to it now. The more she tugged and lunged and squirmed, the more excited she became, the quicker she depleted the muggy supply of oxygen in the locker. Not that she was in any danger of suffocation. Additional air continued to enter the door slats, but she was rapidly consuming it in short, jerky breaths now—half cursing, half sobbing. Tears blurred her vision, soon mingling with the salty streams of perspiration running down her face.
"No!" she wailed, pounding on the jammed door. "I refuse to be stuck in here!" Briefly, she wondered if one of the guys had slipped a lock or something through the outer hasp, anchoring it fast. Could she have missed that while she'd had her eyes closed? Was that why the door refused to budge?
"Oh, please, no," she groaned. If that were the case, despite the embarrassment it would cause, her only chance of release would be to yell loudly enough to attract someone's attention. But whose? The players were all gone. No one else was likely to drop by the locker room at this hour—not even the malingering janitor who obviously needed to get the lead out—and the Lysol! Good grief, it stank in here! And she could be trapped, like a rabbit in a snare, until tomorrow, when the team returned to resume practice. They did have practice the following day, didn't they? What if they didn't?
At that thought, hysteria blossomed once more, full-bloom. Amid rising shrieks and several choice curses, Jess pounded fists and feet against the stubborn door. "Let me out! Somebody get me out of here!"
Ty was relaxing in the whirlpool, letting the swirling water soothe his aching, abused muscles. His mind and body were adrift in a warm, fuzzy state of bliss when the most god-awful racket yanked him rudely back to reality. It seemed to be coming from the connecting locker room, and was fast growing in volume, rising well above the rumble and splash of the jacuzzi. Someone, or something, was banging on the lockers to beat hell.
"Hey! Knock it off out there!" Ty hollered.
The metallic din continued. "If I have to come out there, I'm gonna kick some ass!" he warned. As an afterthought, he hoped he hadn't just threatened "Sir Loin" Simms, a massive defensive tackle who weighed well over three hundred pounds if he weighed an ounce, with hide as tough as buffalo jerky. While no wimp himself at six-foot-three and tipping the scales at two hundred ten, Ty was still just a slim-line quarterback by comparison, and thumping "Sir Loin" was a task he'd rather leave to a hapless member of an opposing team, thank you very much.
The noise built, the clanging now accompanied by an unearthly shrieking. A week ago there had been a similar ruckus when, as a joke, one of the guys put a baby pig in a comrade's locker. Ty sighed in exasperation. "Here we go again. It's probably another pig, or maybe a cat this time, and it had better not be trapped in my locker or there will be hell to pay."
Reluctantly, Ty heaved himself up and out of the whirlpool. The towel he hastily knotted around his waist did little to impede the streams of water puddling in his wake as he trod barefoot into the locker room. The source of the commotion, while as yet unidentified, was not difficult to locate. Ty simply followed the nonstop clamor down the aisles until he stood opposite locker number thirteen.
He frowned at it, his brows knitting. "I should have known," he muttered irritably. The prankster had chosen the one locker in the entire place that invariably stuck—the reason no one used it, except any unsuspecting rookie recruit who could be momentarily duped.
As Ty was eyeing the locker, watching the door bulge and twang and wondering what the devil was in there and how he could free it, the "thing" inside issued a string of obscenities that nearly made Ty's hair curl. His brows rose in surprise, and remained arched halfway to his hairline. Holy Toledo! This was no captive animal! It was human! And female, at that! What had those lamebrain teammates of his done now?
"Hey! Hey! Calm down in there!" Ty had to yell to be heard above the ruckus. When that didn't have the desired result, he banged his fist on the outside of the locker. "I said shut up in there! If you'll settle a minute, we'll figure a way to get you out!"
She must have heard some of this, because her shouts reduced to whimpers, and she quit kicking at the door.
"Okay," Ty said. "Now, I'm going to have to find something to use to jimmy the door open. You just stay put and wait quietly. I'll be back as soon as I can."
"No!" she screeched hysterically. "No! Don't leave me! Let me out! Now!"
"Lady, I would if I could, but the door is jammed big time. I need something to use as a pry bar, or you're going to be in there until love beads and bell-bottoms are back in style. So just behave yourself, and I'll be right back to rescue you."
For several seconds, all he heard from inside was her frightened, heavy breathing. She was panting like some wild creature. Finally, she replied tearfully, "All... all right. But hurry, please. It's very close and hot in here. Like... like being locked in a coffin."
"I'll hurry," he promised. "Sit tight."
"As if I had a choice," she quipped shakily.
He stalked off, slipping and sliding with every squishy stride, delaying his mission of mercy long enough to ditch the wet towel and yank on his cut-off jeans and his running shoes. Then he headed into the workout room, considering it the best place to search. He was right. There he found a small toolbox with an odd assortment of tools used to assemble the exercise machines and keep them in running order.
Ty returned to the locker, gave a quick tap on the door, and inquired, "How you holding up?"
"Just dandy," she groused. "I'm swimming in sweat, my shoulder's numb, I think I've scraped half the skin off my knuckles, and my knees have turned to Jell-O."
"It could be worse," he suggested.
"Did I mention the nausea and that I've got to pee?" she countered miserably. "So if you could speed it up some, I'd really appreciate it."
"I'll do my best." Screwdriver in hand, Ty set to work on the warped metal. "What's your name, and how in the world did you get locked inside there, anyway?"
After a moment of silence, she said softly, "Jessica. My name is Jessica, but most people just call me Jessie or Jess."
"I'm Ty. Ty James."
"The Knights' quarterback and duly appointed king of the team," Jess commented dryly. "Otherwise known as T.D. James, for touchdown, of course."
"And a lot handier with a pigskin than a screwdriver, I'm afraid," he added. Then, "You never said how you came to be stuffed in a locker in the team locker room. Did one of those idiot guys sneak you in here for a little fun and games or something?"
"Get real!" Jess huffed. "Do you actually think I'd let some jerk stow me away in a tin box for later use, like some play toy, and then forget me?"
"Sorry! So, what's the story, sister?"
There was a long pause before Jess admitted ruefully, "I was having a look around the locker room when I heard the team coming in from practice. I knew I'd never make it into the hall without someone spotting me, so I crawled inside the first empty locker I found and waited until all the players left. But when I tried to get out, the door wouldn't open."
"Obviously. However, that doesn't tell me why you were snooping around the locker room to begin with. What are you, one of those
wacky groupies? An avid fan scouting around for a special souvenir, like maybe a spare jersey or a jockstrap?"
Jess groaned. "Give me a break! I'm not some star-struck loony, and I wouldn't touch your jockstrap if it were lined with gold!"
"Your loss," he snickered. "For all you know, it might be."
"Fat chance," she shot back.
"About the same odds as you electing to hide in the one locker out of a hundred that always sticks," he retorted wryly. "And you might try buttering me up, 'cause it wouldn't pay to piss off the one person available to rescue your dumb butt." Half to himself, he muttered, "Geez! You've got to be a blonde!"
"Isn't that a case of the pot calling the kettle black?" she jeered. "You're blond, at least until you go bald. Most athletes do, you know. Must be from wearing those helmets and caps all the time. And for your information, buster, my hair is brown."
"Does it stand up in sharp spikes like your tongue?" he taunted. "Lord, woman! For someone in need of help, you sure are a smart-ass! But back to the topic at hand—if you're not a groupie looking for a freebie, what were you doing in an area that's off-limits?"
After another lengthy hesitation, Jess announced, "I'm a reporter."
"Aw, for cripe sake!" he exclaimed. "Tell me you're kidding!"
Jess bristled. "Why? What's wrong with being a reporter?"
"A female reporter, no less," he added. "Nothing personal, klutzenheimer, but ear wax is a step up on the biological ladder. As a group, you're nosy, biased, uninformed, intellectual snobs who wouldn't know a punt from a peanut."
"As opposed to all you super-jocks," Jess snapped back, "who are overpaid, undereducated, conceited jackasses who run around slapping each other on the rear and scratching and spitting in public? Wow! Am I impressed or what!"
Ty sat back on his heels and malevolently contemplated the door, and the woman hidden behind it. "You know, for two cents, I'd walk off and leave you to fend for yourself, Miss Bad Mouth."
