Wolf: A Sports Romance: The Nighthawk Series #2

by Lisa Lang Blakeney

  I’ve been able to be mostly anonymous the entire time I’ve worked for Coop. The woman behind the man. I really don’t want any permanent reminders of me being connected to this night on camera, on tape, or anywhere. I want a clean break.

  “You’ve been working for me for three years and have been to every game, every publicity event, and every interview I’ve ever agreed to. The people that matter already know that you’re just my assistant.”

  Just.

  I hate that word.

  It’s fine though. I just have to hang in there a little longer, and then I’m done with all of this.

  “Exactly,” I say brightly. Shaking off his condescending remark. “We’re basically saying the same thing. Everybody knows that I’m not your real date, so why do we need to walk in together and make it appear as if we are?”

  Coop lazily looks me up and then down, and then his eyes settle on my cleavage—what little of it there is—for a moment before he speaks.

  “The red looks good on you, Owens.”

  I stumble to come back with a quick response. Coop never pays me a compliment. Tito notices it too. He’s smirking up front and seems to be taking an unusual pleasure in our exchange tonight. I’ll have to speak to him later about doing a better job of minding his own business.

  I swallow the lump in my throat and manage to retort with a respectful reply, “Thank you, Coop.”

  “Tito, let’s stop at the next Duane Reade and get a first aid kit. We should always have one in the car anyway. We’ll wait for Owens to repair her ankle, and then we’ll walk the carpet together as planned.”

  “Gotcha, boss.”

  “But—” I protest.

  “You know I don’t like talking to every sports journalist and blogger on the planet. That’s your job. It’s my job to put on some shades, look good, and pose for a few photos.”

  “You’re being unreasonable.”

  “We walk in together. End of story.”

  Then he picks up his phone and starts typing furiously. I know what that means. Our conversation is unceremoniously over, and I’m simply going to have to dig deep tonight and do my job.

  Thankfully, it’s one of the last orders he’ll ever give me.

  Chapter Three

  I’ve attended a ton of red carpet events before, but for some reason tonight, I’m tense. Maybe because my ankle mishap feels like the start of some bad omen. So, after cleaning up my wound, I take the liberty of cracking open a bottle of prosecco from Coop’s stash and take a huge swig straight from the bottle. It’s probably one of the most unprofessional things I’ve ever done, but my excuse is that I’m using it to swallow two ibuprofen gel caps and to quash the uneasiness that’s starting to bloom in the pit of my stomach.

  The night has barely begun and already I have an injury, I’ve had a few choice words with Coop, and I’ve been texting the deejay I hired for the afterparty and have received zero response. He should be running a sound check right now, and so far, he’s a complete no show.

  Simply craptastic.

  I suddenly feel the stares of both men in the car.

  “What!” I blurt out.

  “You all right?” Coop asks staring at the bottle in my hand. “You know we have plenty of bottled water in here.”

  “I needed something a little stronger to dull the pain. Sue me.”

  “Seriously? You’re acting like you broke your collarbone or something. Talk to me about pain when you’ve lived through something like that.”

  “It’s rare to find a man so proud of everything he’s ever done. Even when he breaks a bone getting pulverized on the football field. Isn’t your job NOT to get hit?”

  “Make light of it if you want, but they pay me the Benjamins, because I can take a hit or two without crying about it.”

  “I know. I know. Your pain threshold is the highest in the land. You’re like the bravest gladiator ever to have fought on the field of battle.” I roll my eyes for effect. “But how about you come talk to me when you play football in a pair of brand-new stilettos. Now that I’d love to see.”

  Coop snickers. “Are you drunk off of that one gulp of prosecco or something?”

  “What?! No.”

  “Highest pain threshold in the land. Who talks like that? And gladiators fight in a ring, not a battlefield.”

  “Whatever.”

  Tito is chuckling to himself up front.

  I make sure to cut my eyes at him.

  “All I’m saying is that was an expensive bottle of wine to crack open just to take a couple of pills. Right, Tito?”

  “A bottle that you just had lying around the car,” I protest.

  “To celebrate my big night not yours.”

  Touché.

  “True … well … Tito can replace it while we’re in the show. I’ll pay for it, of course.”

  “Pay for it?” Coop snickers. “You’re missing the point, but I’m going to let it slide tonight, because for some reason I think you’re more nervous about me getting this damn award than I am. I’ve never seen you this … off your game.”

  I hurt my ankle and I’m off my game? I take a swig of sparkling wine and I’m off my game? That’s an exaggeration if ever I’ve heard one. I’m never off of my game. I have been scheduling and running Coop’s entire life for the last three years without incident. Okay … maybe that’s not exactly true. In the beginning I stunk at this job. I was totally unqualified and scared to death, but I’m fucking fantastic at it now. The nerve of him.

  Before I have a chance to respond to Coop’s totally inaccurate observation of me, Tito pulls up in front of Madison Square Garden. We’re here. The awards ceremony is being held in the small theatre inside The Garden and will be broadcast live to millions of sports fans across the nation.

  The sidewalks are teeming with paparazzi and fans, but Coop doesn’t like to ride around in obnoxiously expensive cars like some of his contemporaries. No one knows that it’s him in the car, because it is so nondescript. Just a plain black Chevy Tahoe with slightly tinted windows and a few bells and whistles on the inside like a mini bar.

  I text Millicent to let her know that we’ve arrived. She instructs me to have Tito pull around to the side of The Garden, so that she can give me our passes before we hit the red carpet. I will be in charge of making sure Coop’s family gets into their seats while he gives a couple of the obligatory interviews and photos on the red carpet. The same interviews that he thinks he’s not doing, but that I’ve promised he would as long as they give us something in return. Usually a cover or a free ad spot for his nonprofit organization.

  In between all of that I have to make sure that the afterparty he’s throwing in partnership with our corporate sponsor goes off without a hitch. Obviously, a large company like Nike has a huge event planning department for things like this, but Coop demands a personal touch, aka me, when he throws an event. There will be a lot of celebrities attending, and he wants to make sure that it’s a party that goes down in the record books. A party that everyone will still be talking about in years to come.

  Since the bottle is open, I say the hell with it and take another swig of prosecco and then get to work.

  “Stay inside,” I order Coop. “I need to pop out and get the passes.”

  “I thought your feet hurt.”

  “I’m fine now.”

  He firmly pushes his hand down on my left thigh, and it sends an immediate shock to my core. I can count on one hand the number of times that Coop and I have had physical contact. This makes the sixth time.

  “Text whoever is in charge tonight and tell them to bring the passes to the car.”

  I don’t dare move a muscle.

  Honestly, I can’t move.

  My dress is simple; a sexy red, strapless gown made from a soft jersey fabric with a huge slit on the side. I can feel everything through this dress.

  The warmth of his hand.

  The texture of his skin.

  The cool metal of the Super
Bowl ring around his finger.

  “Well, are you going to do what I told you or not?”

  He’s staring at me as if I’ve lost every bit of good sense that I have left. I think I have. If I hold my breath any longer I might just pass out.

  “Could you—”

  “Could I what?”

  “Could you move your hand, so I can grab my purse, please?”

  I hope he hasn’t figured out that his touch had any sort of effect on me.

  “Hand lifted, Owens.”

  One little corner of Coop’s mouth turns up into a devilish smirk.

  Crapsandwich, I think he noticed.

  Chapter Four

  The life of an assistant is hectic, and you’re bound to make a mistake, especially when you’re dealing with the egos of athletes, which is exactly why I don’t want to bother Millicent any more than I have to. While I work hard for my one football ego, she has to manage hundreds of them tonight, so it’s going to take every bit of strength I have not to pull her to the side and berate her like I want to at this moment.

  “Hey, Ursula. Wow you look nice when you want to, huh? I don’t think I’ve ever seen you dressed in anything but Converse and skinny jeans.”

  I take a deep breath and plaster on one of my fake smiles. One thing you can’t teach a person no matter how much money they make is how to have class. You either have it or you don’t.

  “Nice to see you too, Megan. Are you looking for Coop?”

  I crane my neck around to see if I can locate him in the lobby teemed with athletes from all over the world.

  “Oh no, girl. I’m here with Paul Parinzino.”

  Megan smiles like a cat who just swallowed a canary.

  “I saw you standing over here and just wanted to say hi.”

  I’m dumbfounded. I don’t know Megan that well, in fact I don’t know her at all because she and Coop dated briefly, but I wouldn’t have guessed that she would do something this low.

  Paul Parinzino is the brand-new rookie the Nighthawks have drafted as Saint Stevenson’s backup quarterback. He’s probably young and dumb and thinks someone like Megan is his dream woman, but he also has to know that she was sleeping with Coop literally a few weeks ago. I mean, he must know that. She posted about it every ten seconds on Instagram.

  “Well, uh, you have a good time tonight, Megan. I need to get back to work.”

  After we exchange a few more very bogus pleasantries, it only takes a second for me to realize that we both are headed in the same direction, same seating section, and the same row where Coop’s family are already seated.

  “Hello, Mrs. Barnes,” she addresses Coop’s mother. Coop’s father must have stepped out for a moment. “I’m a really good friend of your son’s.”

  Megan extends her arm out for a handshake.

  Wowza, she’s so shameless.

  “And this is Paul Parinzino. Future star quarterback of The Nighthawks.”

  Parinzino looks uncomfortable but shakes Mrs. Barnes hand too. “Nice to meet you.”

  After the two of them take their seats, Mrs. Barnes uses her pointer finger to motion for me to bend down so she can whisper something to me.

  “Did you know about this, Ursula?”

  “What do you mean, Mrs. Barnes?”

  “I know exactly who she is. Why is she sitting next to Coop?”

  I knew I felt a bad omen coming on.

  “I apologize, Mrs. Barnes. I’ll take care of it.”

  To add more bad juju on the night, not only is Megan on the arm of the newly signed rookie quarterback from Coop’s team but sitting on the other side of his seat is a player, Peter Duncan, from a rival team that Coop has had a long running war of words with.

  Granted—Duncan is a NFL veteran with three Super Bowl rings and a legendary career, but there were a lot of other places they could have seated him on Coop’s big night. Frankly I think the network did this for ratings. In a world of seedy reality television, I feel like almost anything goes these days.

  I scan the room to look for Millicent, when I finally spot her standing by the sound booth. Before I walk towards her, I feel a sturdy hand grab my wrist.

  “Wait.”

  The seventh instance of physical contact.

  “What’s up, Coop?” I ask clearing my throat.

  “You were about to find the show runner, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Don’t change anything. Nothing can ruin my night.”

  Coop’s father who’s standing right behind him agrees.

  “That’s right, son. Be the bigger man.”

  “But, Coop—”

  “I’m the star of this shit show, so we’re going to sit down and enjoy every moment of it. Megan and Duncan are unimportant. They don’t matter.”

  Coop’s mother chimes in, “I think you should let Ursula do her job and fix this. Serves them right to get their seats moved. Shame on Megan. Good thing you never brought her to my house for dinner.”

  “Ursula did her job, Mom.” Wait, did he just defend me? “It’s just the network fucking with us for ratings. I won’t give them the satisfaction.”

  Coop and his father exchange a knowing look then Mr. Barnes sits down next to his wife. “Come on, Ann. This is Coop’s decision, and frankly I’m in total agreement. Fuck ’em.”

  Coop’s mom finally acquiesces. “Okay, then. Fuck ’em.”

  Sheesh, the whole family has potty mouths.

  * * *

  While they sabotaged our seating, the network made up for it during the actual ceremony. It was truly a testimony to how respected Coop is, that so many athletes and other celebrities were either live on stage or prerecorded a video saying nice things about Coop.

  * * *

  He makes me a better player, because he is the best.

  If I want to see an example of excellence I watch him play.

  Mr. Friday night lights!

  His commitment to educating our children is unprecedented.

  The funniest man I’ve ever met.

  Cockiest player on the playing field. Kindest man on the planet.

  * * *

  I wasn’t sure where they dug up all these people, because I’ve been around Coop almost around the clock for three years, and he is definitely a loner. When did he find the time to make these sorts of connections with people? Connections that would inspire them to make these comments. Perhaps like a television drama, the ceremony was all scripted.

  I don’t know, but it doesn’t matter. Even with Megan rolling her eyes at him all night, he left the ceremony on a high, and we’ll be sure to continue the celebration at the afterparty even if I have to deejay the dang party myself. I’m going to go out with a bang even if it kills me.

  Chapter Five

  “Gutterball!”

  My sisters both brazenly high five each other as they cackle. The pregnant one (Carla) stuffs a few french fries in her mouth as she grins in triumph. The other (Monica) pops a wad of Double Bubble in her mouth and then practically bulldozes me out of the bowling lane with her voluptuous hips.

  “My turn!” she exclaims.

  They’re both so ridiculously jubilant, because I just rolled a gutterball for my team (the team being me and our seventy-five-year-old grandmother). I shake my head in disbelief. These two have no shame when it comes to competitive sports.

  “It’s pretty sad when you get this excited about beating your nana on bowling night,” I say scornfully.

  My words don’t seem to faze either one of them. Self-satisfying smirks are still plastered across their faces.

  “Speak for yourself,” Nana blurts out from behind me. “I haven’t thrown a gutter ball like you just did since 1978. Your sisters didn’t beat me, they beat you.”

  “That’s right, Nana!” My sisters roar with laughter. “You tell her.”

  I make a pouty face and sit back over on the side bench.

  Nana is a turncoat.

  “So, tell us about Mr. Wonderful, Ursula. How�
��s that gorgeous man doing?”

  My sister Monica and probably half of the women in this city have a celebrity crush on Coop.

  “Funny that you mention him.”

  “Yeah—what is it? Do you have some tea on him?”

  Both of my sisters are practically salivating at the mouth. They think I’m going to break my confidentiality clause and tell them some sort of juicy gossip (also known as the tea) about Coop. They’re so predictable. They’ve been dying for me to spill the beans on him for years. I never do. I never would. It’s against my confidentiality clause and more importantly my moral compass.

  “Is he really seeing Ariana Grande?”

  “No.”

  They don’t listen to me.

  “Ooh yeah—is he, Ursula? I mean she’s so young.”

  “No,” I say again with emphasis.

  “Totally too young for him and way too skinny. Plus, they’re not a good match. She’s a Cancer and Coop’s an Aquarius.”

  “Is she a June or July Cancer?”

  “She’s June.”

  “Ewww.”

  Seriously?

  “Yeah, those late June Cancers are the worst, but I think her voice makes up for it. That girl can really sing.”

  “Yep, that’s true she can, but your butt looks way better than hers.”

  “Does it? Thanks, sis. I’ve been using this squat press thing at the gym and—”

  I hold my hand up to stop them both from their incessant chatter and to finally share my big news.

  “I’m quitting my job.”

  Suddenly three sets of jolted eyes are on me.

  “WHAT!” they exclaim.

  “You can’t do that,” my sister Carla says. “I won’t let you do that.”

  “I can, and I am,” I say defiantly.

  “What on earth for? You have a dream job. People would die for that job. You get to hang around that beautiful specimen of a man and get paid handsomely for it.”

  “Yeah and aren’t you like the big kahuna at your job? I’ve overheard you on some of your work calls. Don’t you tell his other employees what to do? Didn’t you have a big hand in his big awards night?”