Catching Cameron: A Love and Football Novel

by Julie Brannagh

  “Oh, he’ll be there, but you’ll be spending most of your time with the players, looking for human-interest stories. He’ll be doing the in-depth stuff.” Ben took another sip of his coffee. “We think it’ll be a great fish-out-of-water story, especially since you’ll be spending an entire month with Zach Anderson and his teammates.”

  Chapter Four

  * * *

  THE CORPORATE JET carrying Cameron and four of her co-workers touched down at Seattle’s Boeing Field late on a Thursday night. The crew and their equipment would be following via charter flight tomorrow morning. Despite PSN’s best effort to keep a lid on Cameron’s involvement in the new show, sports media almost imploded when the information leaked on Twitter shortly after her meeting with Ben. “Coffee won’t be the only thing keeping Zach Anderson ‘sleepless in Seattle,’” one of the nicer sports website headlines read.

  Cameron was starting to wonder where these leaks were coming from, especially since Ben had been emphatic with everyone in the meeting that her involvement was to be kept confidential until the network began filming in Seattle. Someone had leaked her disastrous interview with Zach as well. Of course, Kacee and the entire production group insisted they’d had nothing to do with it.

  Kevin barely glanced in Cameron’s direction during a five-hour flight.

  “He’s really pissed,” she whispered to Kacee. She’d replaced numbness with feeling nauseated at what she was being asked to do by the network. She wanted to report the story, not be part of it.

  “Ignore him. He’s mad because he won’t get as much air time.”

  “He can have it all as far as I’m concerned,” Cameron said.

  Kacee shoved her electronic tablet and a bottle of water into an oversized tote. “We’ll be at the hotel in half an hour, and you won’t have to see him until tomorrow,” she comforted.

  Kacee was right. She could soak in a hot tub, have a glass of wine, and contemplate her stupidity for the hundredth time since this all happened. It would be great.

  The plane stopped in front of a smallish terminal, and she saw a long black limousine waiting on the tarmac through the window. The flight attendant popped the plane’s door open, unfolding the short stairway. Kevin was first off the jet. He had a welcoming committee, which were probably guys from PSN. She grabbed her handbag from under the seat, stretched, and stalled for a few moments before walking to the plane’s doorway.

  Multiple PSN executives, Ben included, stood at the end of the staircase. Kevin was already gone, and Kacee wasn’t waiting for her, either, which was very odd. The black limo waited, though. Maybe they were already in the car.

  Cameron managed to make it down the staircase. Ben gave her a quick, impersonal hug.

  “Cameron. How was your flight?”

  “Very nice, Ben. It’s good to see you.”

  “Good to see you, too.” He took her elbow. “We’ll drop you off on our way to the hotel.” Her luggage was being loaded into the limo’s trunk.

  She shook her head. “I must not have gotten the memo.” She tried to keep her voice light. “Are you all staying somewhere else?”

  “You might say that.” He held the car door open for her. “Get in, and we’ll talk about it.”

  Twenty minutes later, Cameron was being escorted through the lobby of the Sharks’ training camp facility, which was a dorm a short distance from the team’s headquarters. There would be no luxurious, comfortable room for her. No glass of wine. Not even a hot bath. She’d be lucky if she got a sleeping bag, according to Ben.

  “We talked to the Sharks about this yesterday, and they agreed. They’ve never had an ‘embedded’ reporter at training camp, let alone a female reporter. We think you’ll have access to stories other sports reporters would kill to get,” he said. She gave an extra tug on her suitcase, which seemed to be stuck on the indoor/outdoor carpeting. “You’ll get to know the guys as people, not as pro athletes.”

  “Ben, this isn’t a great idea. Where’s Kevin going to be during all this? Wouldn’t he be more suited to staying in the dorms with the players?”

  “Again, we’re going for that extra element. After all, a woman spending a month with a team will generate a huge amount of interest in the series. Women don’t play football, but they’ll tune in to watch another woman deal with eighty guys in a dorm for a month.”

  She barely stifled the impulse to groan aloud. She’d lived in the dorm her freshman year at Princeton, and then lived off-campus during college. She’d never shared a living space since.

  Eighty guys. For a month. In a dorm.

  Where the hell was she supposed to take a shower, for instance? Plus, what if she wasn’t safe? Had anyone thought about that? She swallowed hard.

  A few minutes later, the Sharks team representative that shook her hand while Ben was going on about how “unprecedented” and “groundbreaking” her month with eighty guys she didn’t know would be unlocked a door at the end of a long hallway.

  “Okay, Ms. Ondine. Here you are. It isn’t luxurious, but it’s not bad,” he reassured. “Your door locks. Everyone staying on this floor is a veteran, so they know what’s expected as far as their behavior and your privacy. You probably won’t have to deal with many of the pranksters.” He motioned Cameron inside. “There are a few creature comforts in here the guys aren’t getting.” She tugged her suitcase in behind her. He handed her a key on a Sharks key ring, waited until she walked inside, and turned to go.

  “I don’t have to share a bathroom, do I?”

  “Oh, no. You have your own. It’s to your left.” He gave a short wave. “Let us know if you need anything.”

  He shut the door behind him. Cameron listened to his footsteps vanish in a roar of male laughter and a cacophony of conversation. Every guy on this floor must have been out in the hallway watching the whole thing.

  The room was a bit more upscale than the dorm she lived in her freshman year. The walls were painted a pale shade of café latte. A double bed was neatly made with a fluffy comforter and crisp white sheets, and a nightstand with a multi-line phone sat next to it. A built-in desk across the room held a smallish flat-screen television and outlets for laptops or other electronic gadgetry. A dorm-sized refrigerator sat next to the desk. She crossed the room to pick up some paperwork left atop it.

  She glanced around. “It’s not so bad,” she reassured herself.

  Like most other teams in the NFL, the Sharks’ marketing department had a packet for free agents. She wondered who had stayed in the room before, and why he’d left the paperwork behind. She thumbed through a few of the printed sheets. The Sharks’ mission statement, and guiding principles of the franchise. A team schedule for training camp. Rules for training camp. Hopefully, she wouldn’t be subjected to the nightly bed check. A printout of suggestions on how to deal with the fans that attended the Sharks’ public practices.

  She scanned a notice on hot-pink paper of a Sharks all-hands team meeting tomorrow morning. Attendance was mandatory. Those who were late would be fined fifty thousand dollars. A media consultant would be working with the entire team to prepare for their appearance on PSN’s Third and Long. The following team rules were in effect immediately.

  Cameron Ondine would have a team representative with her at all times outside of her dorm room. Even better, players were not allowed to talk with her unless the questions were preapproved by coaches and the team’s PR department.

  “So much for those warm and fuzzy human-interest stories,” she muttered to herself. She wondered what would be most appropriate: screaming or crying.

  She smacked herself in the face with the sheaf of papers in frustration. Why invite an “embedded” reporter when they wouldn’t let her do her job?

  Chapter Five

  * * *

  THE TELEPHONE ON Cameron’s bedside table rang at six am the next morning. She snaked one arm out from under the covers to grab the receiver.

  “Whuuuu?”

  “Good morning. This is
Coach Phillips. Get your ass out of bed and get down to the field. NOW.”

  “Excuse me?”

  The line clicked dead, and Cameron sat up. He had to be joking. She could hear running feet in the hallway, so she wasn’t the only one to get a phone call. She rubbed her eyes, swung her legs over the side of the bed, and hurried into the bathroom.

  Half an hour later, Cameron made her way through dewy grass to the practice field. She would have happily handed over the deed to her apartment in New York City for a cup of coffee. It might be a while before she could get a cup; the entire team was already out there. Coaches patrolled the sidelines. Players were in shorts and jerseys. They obviously meant business.

  Cameron fumbled through her bag for a notepad and her smart phone. She could take a couple of still photos while she waited for the crew to show up with their video cameras. She didn’t see any other media people out here; maybe this was a good thing. She stifled a yawn.

  ZACH ANDERSON GLANCED over at the sidelines, did a double-take, and stopped in the middle of a blocking drill.

  “Anderson! What the fuck?” one of his teammates yelled.

  Zach was still staring.

  “Hey, asswipe,” Derrick Collins gave him a playful shove. “You’re acting like you’ve never seen a female before. We’ve only been here a day. Get your shit together.”

  She was here. Zach had known she was coming. He couldn’t understand why he felt so shocked and surprised to see her again.

  He gave himself a shake. Maybe he was calorie-deprived. After all, nobody ate breakfast until early morning practice was over, unless they wanted to barf it right back up. The whistle blew, and he glanced up to see what the coach had in mind now.

  The coach was advancing on Cameron with all speed. If she failed to notice this, he was yelling at her as well. All that exertion and stress couldn’t be good for an out-of-shape older guy.

  “What the fuck are you doing? Get out of here!” Coach pointed toward the practice facility, jabbing his finger toward the open doors. “You’re not supposed to be out here without your team babysitter, either. Go back to your room!”

  Most women would cry. Zach’s most recent ex-girlfriend cried over a lot less on a regular basis. Cameron’s blonde ponytail fell over one shoulder as she glanced up from whatever it was she was writing on the pad she held. She seemed to stand up a bit straighter. It probably pissed the coach off even more; Zach knew he liked it when others cowered.

  “You called my room and told me to get down here,” she responded, loudly enough that the now-silent players could hear it.

  “I didn’t mean you. I didn’t want press here at all. Plus, you’re not even supposed to be out here.” He continued to point and yell despite being within her three-foot comfort zone, and Cameron continued to stand right where she was, looking him in the eye. “I don’t need to spend the next month dealing with a female who shouldn’t be allowed on a football field in the first place.”

  Cameron wasn’t backing down. “That’s too bad. Your organization seems to disagree with you.”

  One of the assistant coaches approached them on the run. “Hey, Coach. Why don’t you let me deal with this, and we can get back to the drills?” He gave the coach a slap on the back. “Maybe she got lost on her way to the mall. I’ll take care of it.”

  She’d have liked to say something about the fact she hadn’t been inside a mall in quite some time. She had a stylist who shopped for her, on and off the air. She’d also have liked to say something about the fact that the assistant coach wouldn’t dream of insulting a male sports reporter with anything like what he’d said to her.

  The coach’s finger was inches from Cameron’s nose. He jabbed the air for emphasis.

  “You and your network are a boil on the ass of the NFL. Women have no business in a locker room or interviewing male athletes. I’m not cooperating with you. I’ll do my best to make sure my players don’t cooperate, either,” he spat. “I want you gone today.” He pivoted toward his team and stalked away from her.

  Cameron would die before she showed any reaction to the coach’s tirade. She knew there were other female sports reporters who crumpled under the withering verbal attacks of some NFL coaches and owners, but she wasn’t going to be one of them.

  “Well, that was pleasant,” she muttered. She’d faced worse while attempting to do her job, but not recently. She stowed her smart phone and notebook back into her bag.

  “Ms. Ondine, you’re going to have to leave the field,” the assistant coach said.

  “Actually, I won’t.” She took a deep breath, and forced a polite smile onto her face. “My network was invited here by the Sharks’ front office. I’m not disrupting practice or doing anything else but my job.”

  All teams claimed they wanted press coverage, but when it came right down to it, they wanted a pre-negotiated “chat” with a coach or puff piece interviews with players: “What’s your favorite TV show?” or “What’s your favorite book?” or “Are you one of the best running backs the team has ever had, or are you THE best?” Pro football fans wanted to hear something interesting or different from their favorite players, which could go well, but mostly blew up in spectacular fashion. Web sites like deadspin.com and kissingsuzycolber.com were only too happy to capitalize on some of the ridiculous, embarrassing, or bigoted things a professional athlete might Tweet after one too many beers. Cameron wasn’t rooting for anyone’s career-ending statement or photo, but she was looking for something interesting and unique to report on.

  The assistant coach was shorter than she was. His team logo polo shirt stretched across the expanse of his belly. She could tell it was all he could do to maintain his composure. He’d dropped the pleasant but firm tone of voice and facial expression. She watched the dull red flush spread up his neck, over his face, and tint the tops of his ears. His hands formed into fists.

  “We’re trying to cooperate with you, Ms. Ondine, but you present a distraction to our players. You’ll need to leave.”

  “Don’t you think standing here arguing with me is a bigger ‘distraction’ than anything I could possibly do or say right now?” She reached into her bag again, pulling out the notepad and a pen. “Maybe you’d like to talk with me a bit about some of the things the Sharks’ coaching staff will be focusing on to improve the offensive line during training camp and the pre-season.”

  She saw a bit of movement out of the corner of her eye. It seemed the crew was in town after all. One of her cameramen, Logan, was advancing on them and filming, if the small red light over his lens was any indicator.

  “How long has that thing been on?” the assistant coach called out to Logan.

  “Long enough,” Logan said with a snarky grin. “Thanks for the footage, Skip.”

  Skip’s mouth snapped open and shut while he struggled to come up with something to say that wouldn’t get him half a million hits on YouTube. He turned an even more alarming shade of red. Finally he pivoted and stalked away from them.

  “Coffee’s on its way,” Logan said. “We’re going to have some fun here, aren’t we?”

  THE SHARKS’ PRACTICE continued without further incident, besides the coaching staff’s lethal glares at Cameron and Logan from across the field. She breathed in fresh, pine-scented air, enjoyed the sunny morning, and took notes of what she observed. The first training camp practice wasn’t rigorous. She got the general impression the coaches were more interested in subdued, compliant listeners for the subsequent all hands meeting than they were in which rookies committed the playbook to memory after the draft. The team was told to form a semicircle and take a knee after the whistle blew twice, signaling the end of practice.

  “I want to see you showered, dressed and in the cafeteria in twenty minutes. We’ll have a bite. Our mandatory meeting will start afterward,” the head coach shouted. “I’d advise all of you to listen carefully to our media training expert. If you fuck up on camera, there will be consequences.” He rubbed his thumb against his
fingers in the universal signal for “cash.” In other words, there would be fines. “Huddle up.”

  The men made a circle, put their hands inside, and shouted, “Go Sharks!” before running off the field. The head coach gave Cameron one last glare and made an obscene hand gesture on his way off the field. She had been lucky enough to avoid encounters with the Sharks’ head coach previously—the guy made Neanderthals look enlightened—but it looked like her luck had just run out.

  “Did he flip me off?” she asked Logan in disbelief.

  “Why, yes, he did,” Logan said.

  “This is going to be a long month.”

  ZACH GLANCED UP from a tray of food that could feed three normal-sized adults, or one defensive tackle. Cameron and the camera guy were staking out a table in the corner. He recognized one of the guys from the front office at their table, too; he must have been the team babysitter. Zach didn’t see a lot on her tray. She was probably eating some salad without dressing or some other damn thing. Maybe she was one of those women who thought not eating made them more attractive. He stared at his plate again. He’d rather go three hours on the field with the All-Pro starting offensive tackle than let her catch him looking at her.

  He still couldn’t figure out why she went after him like he was made out of meat on her damn TV show. They hadn’t seen each other in ten years. It wasn’t like that was entirely his fault, either. She couldn’t still be that pissed about the cab, could she? He shook his head. He heard laughter across the table as he winced.

  “What’s a matter, cupcake? Got a chill?” his teammate, Derrick, asked Zach. Derrick played the same position on the other side of the defensive line. They typically got along, but today he was on Zach’s shit list.