False Start: A Football Romance

by Saylor Bliss

  “I’ll do my best.”

  He leaves me to get settled in. My office is one of the larger ones on the floor, situated in the back corner, and I can feel the stare of others in the room, no doubt wondering how the hell I managed to land this job. Squaring my shoulders, I log into the computer in front of me with the passcode Brent gave me and go through some prior articles of the old sports reporter to try and get a handle on what the paper is looking for. After two hours of endless searching, my head is pounding and I’m ready to scream. All I see are numbers. Is that all this is? I feel like it should be more . . . personal.

  Lisa texts me around ten to let me know I’ve got an appointment at two this afternoon. Perfect. I leave my new office around one and hail a cab to the doctor. When I finish there, I head home to get ready for tonight and my first assignment.

  Tonight, the Bolts play at home against the Tycoons in the first playoff game of the season. I spent the better part of the wait in the doctor’s office reading up on the game and rules so I would have a better understanding when the time to interview came. I pray I get the chance. I need to prove myself to my new boss, and this is my one chance to do it.

  Stepping from the tub, I dry off gently and coat my skin with sweet smelling cherry almond lotion. I close my eyes and imagine my stranger’s hands rubbing the lotion into my skin, massaging it with his large, masculine hands that he trails up and down my body, touching and caressing every part of me.

  Snapping my eyes back open, I shake my head clear before stepping into my tight high-waist, black pencil skirt. I tuck the tail of my bright red blouse into it and zip the side up. Pulling the pins from my hair, I let it cascade down my back and then choose a few small strands around my face to twist and pull back away from my face. I finish the look with a pair of black, closed-toe heels and a yellow cardigan just in case I get chilled.

  I’m still adjusting to the temps in LA. Late April in Atlanta is usually warm, mid-sixties at least, but it could get a little cold at night. LA seemed to be the perfect temperature year-round, but I knew the one time I didn’t bring something warm would be the one time it got cold. Better safe than sorry.

  “I’ll be back later,” I call out on my way to the front door.

  “Be careful, and have fun,” Lisa’s reply comes from the kitchen.

  It’s now or never. I take a deep breath and close the door behind me. I’ve got this. Please, God, let me have this.

  Chapter Seven

  Kiptyn

  We fucking dominated the court. The team was on point all night long, bringing in a 112-79 win. I'm on cloud nine, floating with the gods just where I belong. I imagine if Zeus were here, he’d be slapping me on the back right about now. I'm looking forward to the next four games. I make it my own personal goal to beat them by even more next time.

  “Guess beer’s on me tonight,” Chris says, stepping from the shower.

  “Seven shy of me buying. Too bad ya missed that shot.” I duck away from him as his hand shoots out, barely missing my shoulder.

  “Fuck you, Kip. I wasn’t lined up right,” he says, scowling at me.

  “Yeah, is that what happened? I thought the basket might have jumped over two feet or something.”

  Chris is even more of a sore loser than he is a poor shot. He’s one hell of a center, though, and he makes sure I don’t get trampled on while making the winning baskets.

  Wrapping a towel around my hips, I head to my locker, laughing. “Come on. Let's deal with the hornets’ nest of reporters, and then we’ll head out,” I say, dreading the crowd that I know is waiting outside.

  “You deal with them fuckers. They’re only worried about you anyway, oh magnificent Lord Kiptyn Price,” he mocks, his voice sharp. I glance back over at him, trying to decipher his tone, when the doors open and the cameras start flashing. Would it be so damn hard for them to let me finish getting dressed before they bombarded me with questions? Apparently so.

  It worries me that Chris thinks he’s not good enough to get the attention of reporters. It’s not that they don’t want to talk to him. I’m just a prize none of them have had the chance to uncover yet.

  Up until now, I've denied all interviews, choosing to leave that to my agent or the members of the team. How was I supposed to know that would just make them want to speak to me even more? I catch his eye before he darts out the back exit. He brings his hand to his brow and salutes me with a wink, letting me know he was just joking around.

  With that weight lifted off my chest, I put on my best Kiptyn Price smile and spin around to greet the swarm.

  “Kiptyn.”

  “Mr. Price, how do you do it?”

  “Kiptyn, can you tell us your plans for the playoffs?”

  The questions barrel at me at me an astounding rate. I hold my hand up, warding them off and silently requesting a moment to soak them in before another ten are tossed out. I catch a glimpse of my agent from the corner of my eye and turn toward him. He looks worried that I might bolt at any minute. The thought crosses my mind, but I gave him my word, and if there’s one thing Kiptyn Price does, it’s keep his word.

  The reporters have still not stopped tossing questions and flashing their cameras. Stars are dancing before my vision from all the flash. Now I remember why I don't deal with this shit. Tim claims it’ll be good for my career and that the fans would love to hear from me directly, so I told him I’d try. I should have known better. He slaps me on the shoulder, congratulating me on the win before turning to the crowd. They silence immediately.

  “Mr. Price will take questions in a moment, but let’s all try to act like rational human beings here and not bombard him.”

  The hands shoot up, all waiting for their chance. Tim glances around the room, making them wait before picking someone. Good for him. If it were up to me, I’d make them wait forever after the shitty way they greeted me, but I’m not the one in charge here. He opens his mouth to call on someone, but I stop him with a hand on his shoulder. He glances over at me, and I shake my head without looking at him. My gaze is locked on someone in the crowd, and I refuse to look away. He understands what my shake says. ‘I changed my mind. I don’t want to answer any question from them.’

  Not now.

  Not when standing two feet across from me in a mouthwatering tight skirt is her—my Midnight Sky.

  What the hell is she doing here? Am I dreaming? Hallucinating? I’m dehydrated. That has to be it. My eyes meet hers, and I see the moment she recognizes me. Her eyes widen. She takes a step back and plants a hand on her chest, just above her heart.

  She’s real. I know from her reaction, and now she’s finally within reach.

  “I'll do one interview, an exclusive.” The crowded room goes nuts. Every person in here knows what it would do for their careers to interview the elusive Kiptyn Price.

  “With you,” I say, and I point straight at her.

  She knows I'm speaking to her. I can tell by the tightness in her shoulders and the tiny shake of her head. It figures. The one person in the room I say can interview me doesn’t want to. That, or I just make her nervous. Yeah, I’ll bet that’s it.

  Every head in the room turns toward her. I can almost hear the thoughts ricocheting in their tiny peanut brains, ‘What, why her?’

  Because I want her, that’s why.

  I can’t say that out loud. I wish I could, but that’s a statement I don’t need in the papers. I’ve had enough of the Gossip Central reporting on my many affairs. Ha, little do they know that their articles are practically supplying the pussy for me. It’s like the golden rule with women—what one woman has, every other woman wants—and since none of them have made me want to give up the playboy title, bachelorhood, and to settle down, they all take it as their own cross to bear. I don’t mind. Not one bit. I’ll happily fuck them all, starting with the bombshell standing in front of me.

  Her hand flies to her mouth moments before she turns and runs.

  She fucking ran away from me again
. This chick is seriously damaging my ego. I can’t let her get away this time. I fly through the crowd, chasing after her.

  Me, Kiptyn fucking Price, chasing a fucking woman. The interview is long forgotten. My agent is no doubt spewing some dribble to accommodate the crowd right this second, but they aren’t listening. I know from the cameras flashing behind me. I can only imagine the stories I’ll read tomorrow, not that I care. No, the only thing I care about is the sexy as sin woman hiding in the bathroom right now and the many, many ways I plan to make her mine.

  I wait outside the bathroom door for her. I don’t know how much time passes.

  Five minutes? Three? Ten?

  I think about rushing in there and demanding she speak to me and then stop when I imagine her reaction. As much as I want to be buried deep inside of her over and over again, I’ll never demand it. I refuse to be that guy, the one who makes a woman feel like she has to do something. Or rather, I wasn’t that guy until a few minutes ago when I decided to give her an exclusive interview. I had no doubt that she would agree to do it.

  Any one of a hundred different reporters across the country would jump at the chance. She would be no different. What is she doing in there? Does she plan to hide in there all night? I’ve never in my life had a woman run away from me. Hide from me? Ha! That is downright laughable.

  I reach out and knock on the door—once, twice, three times—and then I tighten my towel back around my waist. “Miss, are you okay in there?” I ask through the door. I wait a few seconds.

  No response. I knock again,

  “Skila?”

  Leaning my ear against the door, I hear a rustling of fabric and imagine her drying her hands on paper towels. The door swings open so fast I stumble forward. Luckily, I catch myself on the door frame before I crash to her feet. Her eyes are bright and angry, surprising me with the fire I see in them.

  “WHAT. DO. YOU. WANT?” She hammers out the words slowly and with steady calm. I can feel the anger pulsing off her in waves. For the first time in all my life, I second-guess myself.

  Chapter Eight

  Skila

  I cannot freaking believe this shit. Of all the people for me to be stuck interviewing it has to be the Greek god from the club. My breath catches in my lungs when I see him and realize that my Greek god is none other than Kiptyn Price, the elusive, record-breaking star athlete I was sent to interview.

  Waiting for the doors to open, I listen to the others around me, my spirits crashing more and more with every word I hear. It figures my first assignment would be to interview the one person in the world who refuses all interviews. I'll never be able to keep this job. I pull out my phone, ready to start searching through the classifieds right then and there, when the doors open.

  My mouth goes dry. The phone in my hand is completely forgotten in exchange for the most beautiful bronze, sculpted man I have ever seen. I can’t take my eyes off him. His hair is soaking wet from either the game or the shower afterward. It’s hard to tell from here. Strong arms hang at his sides, covered in intricate tribal tattoos that travel across his shoulders down his chest. I wish I could step closer to him and study them, run my fingers along them, down his stomach to his . . . holy Hades, he has the freaking V.

  Look away, Skila. Look away.

  I try to peel my eyes off him. I really do, but I’m drawn him whether I like it or not. I know the type of ass he is, and God above knows, he thinks he’s God’s gift to women, but even knowing all of that, I can’t walk away. I can’t look away. It’s like a horrible car accident.

  I’m a rubber-necker.

  God, he’s so beautiful.

  Why is he in a towel? Lord help me. My skin is flushing hot and my breath is rushing out in pants of raspy air between my lips. I glance around, wondering if anyone else is as affected by him as me, and sure enough, every other woman in the room is fanning herself with whatever is available.

  He doesn’t see me at first. He can’t see anyone with the amount of lights flashing in his face from the dozens of cameras directed at him, two of which are from my own paper. It makes him uncomfortable. I can tell by the way he holds himself, stiff and guarded. It makes me want to jump forward and protect him, to defend him against the crowd the way he did that night at the club, protecting me from Rod. Even though I wasn’t in any real danger, I’m pretty certain he didn’t even know why he was fighting. I take a step forward, and I’m jostled on both sides by snarling reporters, thinking I’m trying to step on their turf and get the upper hand. It shocks me, the amount of animosity I feel coming from my colleagues.

  Another man arrives, and Kiptyn relaxes. His agent, I’m guessing, by the way he handles the crowd as he seems accustomed to doing. My hand shoots up with the others and I wait, praying that the good lord above will give me the chance to ask a question. Just one, and maybe I’ll be able to save my job.

  Kiptyn scans the crowd, passing over me. I breathe a disappointed sigh before his gaze sweeps back to me. His eyes lock onto mine, and every nerve ending in my body goes wild. My heart is trying to beat out of my chest. I press a hand over it and try to calm it. This feeling surprises me. Never in my life have I had this type of reaction around a man. Blood is roaring through my ears, making it hard to hear anything around me, but I can still see clear as day when he points right at me.

  “You.”

  I feel that word in the deepest part of my soul. My mouth starts watering like crazy, and I know I’m exactly two seconds away from losing my lunch on the locker room floor. I can’t explain it—I just run.

  I hear him outside the door. I know it's him. Who else would have bothered to follow me? Not one of the other reporters. I’m sure they're happy I'm gone.

  It’s Kiptyn.

  I wipe the back of my hand across my mouth, stand up straight, and make my way to the sink. I glance in the mirror, not recognizing the woman staring back at me. I look scared shitless, terrified. Of what?

  I hear a knock, and the tears I was trying to swallow evaporate to be replaced by blinding, white-hot rage. How dare he single me out? The nerve of him. I want to slap that knowing smirk off his smug face. Exclusive interview, hell. I didn’t want to be in the same room with him, much less have to speak to him.

  I snatch the door open, startling him. “Are you okay?” he asks, concerned.

  “How do you know my name? Are you a stalker?” My question catches him off guard.

  “WHAT?”

  “A stalker, ya know, an asshole who follows someone around trying to get them alone so you can do God knows what.”

  “No. No, I’m not a stalker. I was just trying to check on you. You seemed upset or something. Forget it.” He turns to angrily walk away. His hands are balled into fists at his side, clenching and unclenching. I watch him walk a few steps, satisfied with myself for pushing him away, and then I remember the reason for my being here. My job. Shit.

  “Wait. Kiptyn,” I call out to him, rushing after him. He turns back to me, raising his eyebrows and waiting to see what amazing nonsense comes out of my mouth next. I can’t believe the mess I’ve made of this. The one chance I've got at keeping my job, and I let my temper get in the way. Typical.

  “The interview?” I ask biting at my lip nervously. He laughs, but it contains no humor, and he rubs his hand over his brow. I imagine he thinks I’m bipolar, running hot and then cold, but he doesn’t leave. No, he stands there watching me, thinking.

  “One condition,” he says after what seems like forever. I don’t want to agree, but after my display of crazy a moment ago, I don’t really have a choice.

  “Anything,” I say, and I mean it. I need this job, not just so I can find my own place, but so I can prove to everyone back home that I made it. No one had faith in me. I’m pretty sure they're taking bets on how long I last before I come running back with my tail between my legs. It isn’t going to happen. I won’t let it, and besides, it’s not like he has some crazy condition, does he?

  “I want one date
, my choice. Tomorrow night.”

  What? No, no, no, no, no. There is no way. I can’t do it. He can’t make me, but my job . . . I've got no choice. Swallowing my pride, I hold out my hand. It isn’t a deal until you shake on it, and I’m not about to let him back out on a loophole, no matter how childish. The smile that lights up his face steals my breath. I force air into my lungs. His hand wraps around mine, engulfing it completely. Chills run up my arm and travel down the length of my spine. My nipples harden instantly, jutting out from beneath my thin lace bra. I hope he doesn’t notice.

  He does.

  I try to pull my hand away, but he holds it in his strong grasp, waiting, forcing me to meet his gaze. The palest blue eyes I've ever seen meet mine, piercing my soul. Holding my gaze, he raises my now limp hand to his lips and places one kiss on the back side of my palm before turning it over and nipping gently on the fatty part of my thumb. I suck in a breath, startled by the way my body reacts to his blatant display of attraction, and pull my hand free. His smile widens. He knows what he’s doing and the effect it’s having on me.

  I turn, and for the second time this evening, I walk away from Kiptyn Price.

  I only wanted to ask him one question—just one. That would have been enough to hopefully save my job, but now, instead of asking Kiptyn one question, I seem to be asking myself one. What have I gotten myself into?

  Chapter Nine

  Kiptyn

  When I wake this morning, I lie there for a minute, wondering what or who I had done last night, and feeling the emptiness on the other side of the bed, I struggle to figure out where ‘she’ had gone. Then I remember that I didn’t go out last night. I have a date tonight, a real fucking date.