Wolf: A Sports Romance: The Nighthawk Series #2

by Lisa Lang Blakeney

  I can hear the collective sigh of every woman on the bleachers.

  He’s shirtless.

  Dripping in perspiration.

  Covered in tats.

  And approaching us with a ball in his hand and a mischievous grin across his face.

  Chapter Twelve

  “Ahhhh!”

  I release a blood curdling scream that comes from deep within my chest. Coop just shook his hair out like he’s some sort of soaking wet Labrador Retriever, and sweat just flew all over me and probably ten other people too. I’m not a big fan of sweat, especially when it belongs to someone else.

  I quickly react and stand up, sticking my arms straight out away from my body in revulsion. My cell phone and ear buds drop like a rock through the slats of the bleachers. One entire side of the field turns to see where the death cry originated from. Most of them wearing a momentary look of concern on their faces until they see where and particularly who it’s coming from.

  Me.

  “Oh, it’s just Coop,” someone says casually from the sidelines. “He’s hysterical.”

  They comment as if it’s a usual occurrence to see Coop terrorizing me like some sort of fraternity boy hazing a neophyte. Uh, reality check people. This isn’t normal.

  Coop and I haven’t said much to each other since last night, but it’s obvious that he’s no pleased with me. I didn’t think he would be, but I guess he’s pissed that I quit, and he didn’t see it coming, and probably that I fell asleep on the phone last night too. It explains the sweat bath. This is how he expresses himself when he’s fuming. Like a thirteen-year-old brat.

  I can feel the muscles in my neck tighten when Coop lets out a deep boisterous laugh at my expense and tosses me a damp towel with the Nighthawks logo on it.

  “Here, Owens. Don’t ever say I never gave you anything.”

  I almost use the thing to wipe myself off when it dawns on me that it’s damp because it’s also soaked with Coop’s sweat, so I throw it right back at him, which only encourages him to laugh even harder.

  “No thanks. You looked a little tired out there today. You probably need it more.”

  I use my next best option and turn my T-shirt up to wipe my face forgetting for a moment that I don’t wear a bra most days in the summer. Luckily before I flash anyone my teacup sized boobs, Coop throws the balled-up towel back hard at me. It hits me with a thump in the center in my chest.

  “Ouch!”

  “Stop flashing your boobs to the fans,” he says gruffly. “You’ll frighten the children.”

  I allow my shirt to fall down as the spectators around us including the same two grumpy grandpas up front try badly to hold back their laughter. I’ve long since decided that most people here today are probably drunk. Four or five beers, drinking in this heat, and everything starts to seem a little funny.

  “Excuse me. We don’t mean to interrupt, but do you mind signing an autograph for my boy, Mr. Barnes?”

  A woman with a kind face, who’s been sitting within earshot of us, asks Coop for an autograph for her son who is standing quietly by her side. While Coop chooses to avoid the media, he acts much differently with his fans. I wipe my hands off on my leggings and pull a promotional picture out of my bag and hand it to him along with a Sharpie.

  “What’s your name?” He crouches down to ask the boy.

  “Craig.”

  “Nice to meet you, Craig. Do you play football?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “What position do you play?”

  “Coach said I’m small, so they made me a free safety.”

  “Awesome. That’s a great position. That means you’re fast.”

  The little boy’s eyes light up from the compliment.

  “Did you have a good time today?”

  “Yup!”

  “You weren’t bored?”

  “No, sir. Not even a little bit.”

  “Are the Nighthawks your favorite team?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Who’s your favorite player on the team?”

  The boy presses his lips together and leans in closer to his mom. It’s kind of cute that he’s reluctant to speak, because it’s obvious that his favorite player isn’t Coop. He’s wearing Saint’s jersey.

  “It’s all right if it isn’t me.” Coop pats his shoulder. “I can take it.”

  “Mr. Barnes asked you a question, Craig.” His mother encourages him to answer.

  “Well … I really like you a lot.”

  “Uh-huh and?”

  “But my favorite player is Saint Stevenson.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Is that okay?”

  “Definitely. Because guess what? Saint is one of my favorite players too.”

  A look of relief washes over the boy’s face that makes me believe there is hope yet for my employer. In this moment, I can see a glimpse of the man Coop can be: sweet, kind, warm and compassionate.

  “Really?”

  “Best quarterback in the league.” Coop signs and hands back the photo and a football that the boy was holding. “Here you go.”

  “What do you say, sweetie?” his mother asks.

  “Thank you, Mr. Barnes.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  It’s inevitable that when Coop signs one autograph a line starts. I’ve come prepared with plenty of photos and Sharpies, and we whiz through the line like a well-oiled machine. After we’re finished, Coop jogs around the side and under the bleachers to retrieve my phone.

  “Listen, I’m done for the day,” he says as he wipes off my phone screen on his shorts. “Gonna hit the showers and then I’m going to need Tito to bring the car around here in thirty.”

  “I’m the one who needs a bloody shower.”

  “Have you been watching that British version of American Idol again?” he asks while handing me my phone back.

  It’s irritating that he knows me so well. I have a bad habit of picking up accents or the colloquialisms of people on shows that I binge watch. It must be the actress in me.

  “Sugar, honey, iced tea—the screen is cracked!” I stare at my phone in horror. “I can’t text Tito. You’re going to have to do it.”

  My whole life is on my phone, and as a matter of fact, Coop’s whole life is on it too.

  “Did you just spell out the word shit?” he asks mid chuckle. “Sugar, honey, iced tea?”

  “I don’t use profanity in the workplace,” I say. “Something you should consider.”

  “Where’d you hear that saying? You even used a bad southern accent when you said it.”

  “My accent isn’t bad, and it’s an old saying.”

  “Yeah, but you must have heard it recently.”

  I suck my teeth.

  He really does know me too well.

  “On a reality show, but never mind about that, because the more important issue right now is that my phone looks like Charlotte’s Web and I won’t be able to get any work done.”

  The cracks in the screen have formed what looks like an intricate spider web.

  “You can’t make it work for the next thirty days?” He uses a sarcastic tone.

  “Very funny.”

  “I’m not laughing.”

  “Me either. Your life over the next thirty days is in this phone.”

  “I’m sure you synced it to a calendar on your laptop.”

  “Seriously!? I need my phone. I can’t carry around my laptop everywhere.”

  “All right, already, I’ll get you a new one,” he says dismissively. “It’s insured.”

  “Dang nabbit, I can’t open the calendar.” I try pressing the home button several times. “I can’t open any apps.”

  I know that I must sound like a crazy person.

  “I said I’ll get you a new one,” he repeats more emphatically as he jogs toward the locker rooms. “Stop spazzing the fuck out. And don’t say dang nabbit ever again.”

  “I want it today!” I holler back.

  He throws up a thum
bs-up signal and continues his retreat.

  “And a case!”

  He throws up another okay sign.

  “Hey, Coop!” Jim calls out after him. “You ready to give me that exclusive yet?”

  Coop stops dead in his tracks in the middle of the field with his back still to us.

  “What are you doing?” I angrily whisper to Jim.

  “Something my father taught me to do—just ask.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  “You wait until he’s halfway to the locker room to ask him for an interview?”

  Coop turns around and cocks his head to one side. He starts walking in long, purposeful steps back toward where I’m seated.

  “That was not the right way to ask him,” I say through gritted teeth.

  I don’t need any drama these next thirty days. It will take me months to change the narrative in the news if Coop ends up threatening Jim.

  “Don’t worry, Urs’.” Jim pats my arm in a patronizing manner. “I got this.”

  “Who are you?” Coop demands to know as he approaches Jim.

  Everyone is staring at us. I see a few spectator phones in the air.

  “They’re taping us,” I whisper to Coop.

  He throws his hand up to silence me.

  “Name?” he asks Jim again.

  “Jim McKinney. Daily Examiner.”

  Jim holds out his hand for a handshake. Coop doesn’t reciprocate the gesture. He just gives Jim a cursory glance and then turns to me.

  “Is he a friend of yours, Owens?”

  “He’s been on the beat for two years, Coop,” I answer almost defensively because I feel like he’s accusing me of something.

  Even if he doesn’t talk to reporters, Coop should know who works the Nighthawk beat. He sees them all season and Jim writes about him practically every Sunday. It’s not like I put him up to this.

  “That isn’t what I asked you.”

  “Yes, he’s a friend.”

  Friend is probably a bit of an exaggeration.

  “So you want me to be nice? You want me to be professional with him?”

  That was clearly a jab in reference to our conversation yesterday. I swear I can hear Carla and Monica’s voices in my head. What was I thinking? I didn’t realize he would react so badly to this. I should have given him more of a warning.

  “Yes, that would be awesome,” I say through a forced smile.

  He turns to Jim.

  “Okay, Jim McKinney, on the strength of Owens here I’ll give you thirty minutes on a day and time of my choosing. She’ll arrange it.”

  Every reporter in close proximity turns their heads with their mouths wide opened. Some are shocked, some are aghast, and some are pissed. I certainly don’t blame them. There are veteran reporters here who haven’t been able to get a peep out of Coop since he joined the team. He’s only doing this to prove some sort of convoluted point.

  “Thanks so much!”

  “You’re welcome and McKinney—”

  “Yes?”

  “The name is Mr. Barnes not Coop.”

  “Oh, I apologize … Mr. Barnes.”

  “It’s not that I mind so much, but our girl Owens here doesn’t like casual. It makes her … uncomfortable.”

  Jim looks quizzically at me.

  I think the reporter in him senses more is going on than meets the eye.

  “I’ll text Tito myself, Owens. Meet me in the parking lot in thirty.”

  I don’t respond but instead sit back down, place my damaged phone on the bleachers, and reach in my cooler for my turkey wrap. I’m famished. Being on the receiving end of Cooper Barnes’s wrath is taxing to say the least. This is going to be a long effin’ thirty days.

  “What gives?” One of the old cronies turns and asks. “Seriously, Ursula, we’ve been wanting that interview for years. We’re the veteran reporters here. What the hell was that?”

  I can’t respond because my mouth is full of a big bite of turkey.

  “That was me getting the interview that you guys were too chickenshit to ask for over the last five years,” Jim croons.

  “Fuck you.”

  The mom who asked for the autograph covers her boy’s ears.

  “Watch your mouths,” I reprimand them all like I’m their mother.

  Jim touches my arm.

  “I owe you big time for this one, Ursula. That interview may help me get a regular column. You have to let me buy you dinner. As a thank you … nothing more. You know unless you say differently.”

  I stare contemplatively at my bland pita wrap. The processed turkey. The fake American cheese. A metaphor for my life so far.

  Mediocrity.

  I’ve taken the first step and quit my job. I know Jim’s dinner invitation probably means more to him than a thank you, but maybe now it’s time for me to take a second step outside of my normal box.

  What could it hurt?

  “Okay, Jim. One dinner.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “I need to talk to you.”

  “Hi, I’m fine. How are you?”

  “I don’t have time for pleasantries.”

  “What is it, Monica.”

  “I did your chart last night, and the stars are clear, this isn’t a good time to make a life changing decision. Your moon is in Sagittarius. Did you quit yet?”

  “You do realize that astrology isn’t real, right?”

  “Tell a billion Chinese people that shit.”

  “They don’t believe in it either, Monica. You’re a nut job.”

  “And I guess you don’t believe in global warming either?”

  “Yes, I believe in global warming, but the two of them are not even remotely related. One is based in science fiction and the other in actual science.”

  “Says you. Anyway, I’m telling you it clearly says in your chart to wait before making any big career decisions. It won’t hurt for you to just hold off a minute and go on your passion seeking mission when the stars are better aligned.”

  “It’s too late for all of that.”

  “You did it?!”

  “It’s done.”

  “And? What did he say? I’m putting Carla on a conference call with us.”

  “Don’t do that, I have a meeting in a little while. She’ll want to stay on the phone half of the afternoon.”

  “Okay, spill the tea to me then. I’ll recap for her later.”

  “There’s no tea. He had a little bit of an attitude, but for the most part it went well like I thought it would.” Not exactly true. “He wants to make sure that I find a replacement and train him or her before I leave, which I agreed was totally fair. So that’s what I’m in the middle of handling today.”

  “Wow, I didn’t think he’d be so agreeable.”

  “I told you so. Maybe your charts aren’t always accurate.”

  “Yeah, that’s the thing. The charts are usually pretty precise. So, you definitely told him you’re leaving and that was it? He just said ‘okay find me a new girl’?”

  “Well … he did end up calling me in the middle of the night to talk about it again.”

  “Uh huh, now we’re getting somewhere.”

  “I guess that I did take him by surprise. It’s not like I gave any prior indication that I wanted to leave, so he was just looking for more of an explanation. You know probably wanting to make sure that it wasn’t anything he did.”

  “Well it was something he did, right? You’re leaving because he’s such a horrible boss.”

  “I never said he was horrible.”

  “That’s funny because that seems like all you’ve ever said about him. You had no life. We don’t know him. He’s not what we think—”

  I stop her there.

  “You misinterpreted. This is about me not him. I just want a change. I’m an actress, so I should be on television, right? Putting the degree that the good folks of First Methodist Church paid for.”

  “Have you started lining up auditions then?”

 
“Not yet. I have to give Coop his thirty days, train the new assistant, and then I can focus my energies elsewhere.”

  “So where are you headed now?”

  “The office. The applicant I selected is coming in to meet him.”

  “A woman?”

  “Yes.”

  “Did you tell her anything about him?”

  “Due to a confidentiality clause, the agency doesn’t reveal who the client is until the last minute. It’s to protect the client’s privacy. She doesn’t know that it’s Coop yet.”

  “Well were you at least able to warn her the type of commitment the job requires?”

  “Absolutely not. I want her to take the job, don’t I?”

  Due to Coop’s hectic schedule we don’t usually spend a large amount of time in the office, which is probably a good thing because he only rents one floor of the building that we’re in. While the space includes his office suite, my office, a large conference room, a weight room, a kitchenette, and a multipurpose area where Tito spends much of his time catching up on sports, it’s small enough that it makes it difficult to avoid each other. But today, I have no choice but to deal with him.

  I knock on his office door and promptly enter the room. I watch him for a moment. He’s on the floor, shirtless, in loose sweatpants doing his daily set of push-ups. He always has his shirt off, but lately it’s distracting.

  “What are you doing?”

  “My workout. What does it look like?”

  “I told you I have an applicant coming in. A good one.”

  “So, bring her in.”

  “I thought we were keeping things professional.”

  “I can’t wear sweats?”

  “For someone that hates the attention of random women so much, you sure seem to have your shirt off all the time.”

  He lifts his head and stares at me while continuing his workout. I can’t help but notice the definition of each of his muscles in his upper body as he effortlessly powers through the set.

  “That doesn’t give your gender the right to ogle me.” He grins mischievously.

  Get it together, Ursula.

  “You’re about to conduct an interview. Put a shirt on.”

  “I’m a football player. I always have my shirt off. If she can’t handle a little skin, then this isn’t the job for her. And remember, if you can’t find someone to take over for you then you can’t leave. That’s in your contract, Miss Owens.”