by Anne Black
When Matt took his job with the team, I took Matt's old job at the paper. If it wasn't for him, I'd probably be slinging copy at some soulless marketing company and dying a slow, uncreative death in a cubicle of doom. He also took me under his wing when I started covering the team on a very irregular basis, teaching me the tricks and tips I'd need to play with the big boys.
"Ms. Nelson, I see you're burning the midnight oil once again," he says.
"More like the twelve-forty-five oil," I say, glancing at my watch.
"You want to grab a drink?" he asks and I hesitate. "Come on, just one."
We walk across the street to the row of now-empty bars and head directly for the All Star. Each of the twenty bars scattered around the neighborhood is incredibly cheesy, and half of them have a moniker involving some variation of "star." All Star, Star Bar, Starry Night, A Star is Born (that's the karaoke one) and Gold Star are the worst, packed with drunken fans on game days and drunken post-fraternity-still-living-ten-to-a-house bros on the weekends. Thankfully, the postgame crowd has dispersed and the bros are all at home as it's Tuesday night, so we have the place almost to ourselves.
"So Katelyn, what's up with you?" Matt asks, signaling the bartender and asking him for two Coors Lights.
"Nada," I say, taking a long drink from my bottle. "Damn, this is awful."
"Yes, awful, but on special. And as it's my treat, you can just smile and thank me."
"Thank you?" I say, making it a question, not a declaration.
"You liking the beat? When will Jim be back?" Matt asks.
"He'll be back in a few weeks. But it's good. Even better now that I finally got Harry to leave me alone." Harry Davidson has covered the Stars longer than anyone else in the media contingent, but he has the worst body odor I have ever encountered. No one wants to tell him he stinks, so everyone just avoids sitting or standing next to him. Last year, one of the players threatened to throw him in the team showers during a particularly humid stretch of summer. He's also incredibly annoying, constantly talking about the good old days when women weren't allowed in the press box and reporters drank a fifth of bourbon during the games. He's as charming as one can imagine.
"You might be the first person in history. How, may I ask, did you work that magic?"
"I told him I was campaigning on behalf of Planned Parenthood and asked if he had a few minutes to talk about women's issues and the right to choose." Harry is also a card-carrying member of the Republican party. We all know this because he actually carries a membership card and whips it out during political discussions he inevitably begins. "He didn't know what to say, so he walked away and hasn't talked to me in a week."
"I wish I could try that, however, as I am a media relations coordinator, I actually have to coordinate with all members of the media. And as long as he's with us, I have to squelch the desire to hand him a bar of Irish Spring and a washcloth."
The one beer turns into two as we laugh and talk. I ask Matt how things are with his girlfriend and he sighs. "We broke up," he says. "She wanted to see a commitment, I wanted to see other girls on the road. Irreconcilable differences."
"You're a jerk," I say.
"No, I'm honest."
The bartender flashes the lights, signaling last call. I rummage in my bag, making sure I have my wallet and keys. Matt throws some cash on the bar and casually asks, "So, what did you think of the boy wonder tonight?"
"Finnegan?" I ask, keeping my voice neutral.
"Who else?" he says.
"I think he might be as good as advertised."
"We'll see. He wouldn't be the first who couldn't live up to the hype."
"You think he won't?" I'm surprised Matt isn't drinking the Ryan Finnegan Kool-aid. Matt was born and raised in the heart of Stars country. This is a city where they issue blue pinstriped jerseys in hospital birthing rooms, little boys grow up dreaming of hitting home runs into the bleachers and grown men call talk radio shows to discuss their version of the best starting lineup. In some neighborhoods, Matt would be racked and quartered just for questioning a star player's toughness.
"I'm not saying that. I just hope the equipment guys sized Finnegan for a cape. Chicago expects nothing less than a superhero every time he takes the mound. That's a lot of pressure. It can get in a guy's head if he's not careful."
"He seems pretty confident to me," I say, as we walk outside to the curb. "I guess time will tell."
"The fans love him. I mean look at him, just your average guy, hanging out at Star Bar until last call." Matt points two bars down and I see three women flipping their hair and laughing at a man towering above them on the sidewalk. My heart skips a beat. Finn.
Matt whistles and yells, "Yo, Finnegan," and Finn looks up, squints and smiles in recognition. He says something to the gaggle of girls and walks toward us and the girls walk the opposite direction. What on earth is he doing at a bar in this neighborhood?
"What's up, man?" Matt says, embracing him in an awkward man hug.
"Just checking out the scene," Finn says.
"You know Katelyn?" Matt asks.
"We've met," I say, desperate to escape this conversation.
"Katelyn from the Chronicle and I go way back," Finn says.
What? Does he remember? Oh crap.
"All the way back to last week," Finn continues.
Thank you, baby Jesus.
"Hi Ryan," I say, checking myself before I accidentally call him Finn to his face.
"So, what are the two of you doing out at this hour?" he says, raising his eyebrows at us.
"Just decompressing after a hard night at the office," Matt says. "And why the heck are you out here? This is about the last place I'd figure a player would hang out."
"I was meeting a few friends and they needed to head back home after the game, so it was the quickest option," Finn says. "People are cool, though. Mostly they just stare across the room and pretend they're looking at their cell phones when they're really trying to take a stealthy picture of me. Like I can't tell."
"Those your friends?" I ask, inclining my head toward the ladies still standing a short distance away, laughing and pretending not to look in our direction.
"Them? No. They stopped me on the way out and asked if I would take a picture with them. How do you deny fans like that?" Finn smiles and runs his hand through his short blonde hair.
"It's practically your duty," Matt says, laughing.
"Well, we should really be going," I say, looking at my watch.
"Yeah, me too," Finn says. "My car's in the lot. See you two later. Enjoy the rest of your night." He walks away toward the ballpark parking lot. Watching him, I'm reminded of the first night we met, him walking away from my apartment with the same easy stride. I fight the urge to call him back and signal a cab turning the corner.
"Thanks, Matt," I say, opening the door. "See you tomorrow."
"Mañana," Matt says, preparing to close it behind me. "Let's do this again, OK? It was fun."
CHAPTER FIVE
I need to clear my head before work tonight, so I head to the lakefront path for a quick four-mile run. Nick's been on the warpath lately, berating me for small mistakes and generally micromanaging every aspect of my assignments. It sucks, but there's not much I can do other than tighten things up and not take his worst comments personally. The running path is almost empty on a Tuesday at midday, so I put myself on autopilot with my earbuds in. Listening to Jay-Z, I set a decent pace for myself and forget about everything, simply soaking in the view of Lake Michigan. Summers in Chicago are the reward for surviving the brutal winters. After four years in Arizona I got soft, so coming back to the Midwest was even more jarring.
Like Jay-Z, I got ninety-nine problems, and a bitch ain't one; all ninety-nine of mine involve this job. The music is loud enough that I never hear the bicyclist behind me warning me "on your left" or when he yells "hey, get out of the way" but I do hear him swear as he collides with me from behind. I'm knocked over and my phone goes
flying as my knees and hands take the brunt of the fall. The cyclist, who apparently thinks he's Lance Armstrong based on his outfit, never falls and keeps on going. Jerk.
I sit on the side of the path, inspecting my wounds. Equally concerning is my shattered iPhone screen. Tears leak from my eyes and I furiously wipe them away, trying not to cry. But my knees are bleeding and dotted with the tiny pieces of the gravel that lines the path.
A shadow stops in front of me and a deep voice asks, "Hey, are you okay?" His breathing is fast, as is mine, and I look up to see an Oregon State hat and pair of Oakley sunglasses peering down at me. And because my life is a virtual soap opera, the good samaritan is none other than Finn.
He takes his sunglasses off and his eyes widen. "Katelyn? What the hell happened?"
In spite of myself, I cry harder. "A guy on a bike knocked me over," I say, unsuccessfully trying to stop crying. Four million people live in Chicago and this is the guy who happens to come across my sniffling, bloody self on the bike path.
He sits down next to me. "Your knees look pretty bad," he says. "He just knocked you down and rode away? Who does that?"
I wipe my face with hands, careful not the spread the bloody gravel to my cheeks, and stand up. I find putting any weight at all on my left ankle results in shooting pain and I grab Finn's arm to steady myself.
"You can't even walk," he says.
"Thanks, Captain Obvious," I respond.
"How far away is your place?" he asks.
"About a mile."
"There's no way you're going to limp a mile home. We're pretty close to the North Avenue parking lot. Let's get you over there and we can get a cab."
I grab my broken iPhone and gingerly try to limp a few steps before Finn stops me.
"This is ridiculous," he says. "I'm carrying you."
"No!" I yell. This is embarrassing. "I can do it. I'll be fine."
"Katelyn, I'm going to pick you up and carry you. You can either go willingly or I can throw you over my shoulder, but your feet are leaving the ground." He stares at me and holds his arms out and I sigh.
"Fine, but we're not doing the whole 'bride over the threshold' thing. I will consent to a piggyback ride. And only because I have no choice."
He bends over and hikes me up onto his back and I am conscious of the fact I have my legs wrapped around his waist. My practically bare legs as my running shorts don't cover much real estate. I grab his arms with my hands so I don't fall backward and try not to marvel at the size of his biceps. He carries me the short distance to the parking lot and deposits me on a bench before calling a taxi. As we wait, he takes a closer look at my ankle.
"Does this hurt?" he asks, gently palpitating the skin around my ankle bone. I flinch and he says, "I'll take that as a yes. Do you have any idea how many times I've turned my ankle in my life? Hundreds. I'm surprised I can still walk upright."
The cab pulls up and he grabs me under my arms and knees and I protest. "I said no threshold carrying!" I squirm and he grips my legs tighter and deposits me gently in the backseat before going around to the other side.
"We're going to..." he looks at me expectantly.
"Clark and Armitage," I say to the driver, "but we're making two stops. He'll need to be dropped off first."
"Are you kidding me? There's no way I'm abandoning a damsel in distress. I'm taking you home and making sure you're okay. And I'm not taking no for an answer."
I sit in silence until we pull up outside my building. Finn insists on paying the driver, but I draw the line at him carrying me again, so I hop on one foot to the door. I take my key out of my sock and pause at the bottom of the steps, trying to figure out how I'm getting up the two flights.
"Allow me, madam," Finn says, scooping me up again. This is ridiculous.
He carries me up the stairs and pauses outside my door so I can open it. "I can't unlock it unless you put me down," I point out.
"And miss the opportunity to actually carry you over the threshold after your all whining about it? Not a chance." He lowers me to the level of the lock. "Go ahead, turn the key."
Thoroughly annoyed, I roll my eyes and he exaggerates his step through the doorway. Thankfully, he gently puts me down on my couch and goes back to close the door. My eyes sweep the living room area, silently giving thanks the cleaning lady made one of her twice-monthly visits two days ago.
Finn wanders to the kitchen and yells down the hall, "Do you have a bag for the ice?"
"Left-hand drawer under the microwave," I yell back. "And you don't have to do this. Really."
He emerges with the ice and a bottle of Smartwater he found in the fridge. Finn hands me the water then removes my shoe and tenderly holds my foot in his hands, inspecting it. "It's already bruising. Here, you really need to ice and elevate it."
He grabs a throw pillow from the other couch and props it under my foot. He gingerly places the ice on top of my ankle and I gasp from the chill. "Sorry, it's cold," I say.
Finn leans back on the couch and looks at his fancy running watch. I study him carefully, noting how casually hot he looks right now. His sunglasses perched on the brim of his backwards hat, a gray Black Keys T-shirt just tight enough to show a hint of chest muscles contained underneath it, his navy blue Champion shorts stopping at his knee, putting his prominent calf muscles on full display. For someone who spends all of her time eschewing athletes, I can still appreciate the time and effort they put in to their bodies. Especially the effort Finn has clearly put in.
"I don't have to be there until four this afternoon," he says. "So..."
Shit. I'm in no condition to hobble around the ballpark, up and down to the clubhouse and the field and the press box. I'm going to have to get someone to cover for me. I reach for my phone, forgetting it's unusable since the accident and throw it down on the couch when I'm faced with the spider-webbed screen. I push myself up and try to stand, but Finn stops me.
"What do you need? I can get it," he says.
"I'm fine," I snap. "I just need my laptop from my bag. I have to email my editor."
"Where is it?" he asks.
"No, I'll just--" as I stand to try to walk across the room, I determinedly put weight on my foot and fresh pain shoots through my leg again. My knee buckles and Finn jumps up to help. He steadies me by grabbing my elbow at the same time I turn to sit down and we are suddenly inches apart.
I look up at his face. He hesitates before bending to meet my lips with his. His kiss is gentle and I can't help myself but I respond, kissing him and moving my hands to his chest to steady myself. I open my mouth and feel his tongue slide into mine as he guides me back to the couch. I put my hands on the sides of his face and kiss him more urgently, losing myself in his embrace as he traces his lips down my neck to the place where it disappears into my shirt.
Suddenly, I realize what I'm doing and abruptly sit up, pushing him away. "I'm sorry. We can't do this."
I don't care how hot he is or how skillful he is with those luscious lips of his, this is wrong. I have to stop things now before I make a mistake I can't take back. "Please. You need to go."
CHAPTER SIX
I steady myself with my hands on the couch cushions. Finn runs his hands through his hair in frustration.
"I didn't mean to lead you on," I say, trying unsuccessfully to avoid his gaze. "It's just ... we can't."
"Because of Matt?" he asks quietly.
"I'm a reporter who covers the team. It's totally unprofessional. It's, well, it's ... wait, what are talking about 'because of Matt?'"
"You're dating Matt Carter. I shouldn't have kissed you. Totally my bad." Finn looks guilty.
"I have no idea why you think I am dating Matt, but I am most certainly not dating a member of the Stars' front office," I say. "And I most certainly should not be kissing a member of the Stars' team¸ either."
"But I saw you two together that night at the bar. I figured you were together."
"We are friends. Nothing more."
&nbs
p; "So what's the problem with this then?" Finn asks, once again leaning toward me now twisting a lock of my hair in his fingers. I swat his hand away and give him my most serious "do not push me" face.
"The problem is that I'm a reporter and you're a player. There are rules against this kind of thing."
"Rules are broken all the time." He stares at me, his eyes the color of moss. I need to focus or those eyes will be my undoing.
"Not these rules. It would ruin me professionally. But for you, nobody would care, I'd be just another girl in your long list of groupies."
"The list isn't that long."
"So you admit you have a list."
"No. No list. Why are you fighting this, Katey?" he asks, his eyes commanding my attention.
My own eyes widen and my mouth goes dry. Nobody calls me Katey anymore.
Finn inches closer to me and puts his hand on my thigh. He traces little circles right above my knee as he speaks softly.
"Did you really think I didn't recognize you? The second I saw you in the clubhouse that day I knew it was you. The darker hair threw me, but when I heard your voice, it was confirmation. I've always kept that incredibly sexy Arizona pool shark in the back of my mind. I couldn't just out you right there with everyone crowded together and Mikey ready to smack you around. But then you tried to play it cool so I thought I'd wait to see what you would do. And then when I saw you with Matt, I figured it didn't matter anyway because you were seeing someone."
"I'm not dating Matt," I say again. "But that's not the point."
My hands are shaking slightly and I steady them by gathering my hair into a ponytail before letting it drop back to my shoulders. Finn takes my hands in his and turns them over to inspect the scrapes from my earlier brush with the path. He brings my right palm to his mouth, softly kissing it.
"Better?" he says, looking up at me from under his eyelashes.
I nod before I speak. "I never stopped thinking about you, either. I've replayed the night we first met a thousand times in my head since I saw you again in the clubhouse. But I don't know what to do. I can't date a player. If anyone found out, the paper would immediately fire me."
