The Baller (5 page)

I stood along the sideline watching the game with Brett Marlin, the on-air, play-by-play reporter. Part of my job as a staff sportscaster was to be Brett’s backup eyes. We consulted between live feeds—it was virtually impossible for one person to keep track of twenty-two men on the field at once. Four eyes did a better job.

As expected, the division-rivalry between San Diego and the Steel was intense. The outcome would determine first and second place between the two, and they played as if it were the Super Bowl. The roar of the crowd was so loud that it made it difficult for Brett and I to hear each other in our headsets. I felt the vibrations from feet stamping against the stands in my chest.
God, I love games like this
. With thirty seconds left on the clock before halftime, I stood near the goal line, watching as the Steel moved down the field. On a third and short, Brody dropped back to pass, only to find his receivers all under heavy coverage. Rather than chance an interception, he waited, somehow avoiding the head-on charge of a three-hundred-pound defenseman. Then he lowered his shoulder and charged toward the end zone. His legs never stopped moving until he crossed the line.
Was it just me, or was the sun suddenly getting warmer?

The crowd went crazy, and I caught myself clapping a little, too. Reporters were supposed to be neutral. As Brody jogged off the field at halftime with the scoring ball in his hand, he surprised me by tossing it to me. I hadn’t even realized he had seen me on the sideline.

My mom and I had spent years going to games, sitting in box seats on the fifty-yard line—I loved watching my dad play. Hell, it was growing up going to those games that made me want to be a reporter. I couldn’t imagine my life not involving football in some way. But watching Brody out there was different. The way the man moved was sexy and confident. His long strides, thick, powerful thighs, the way he seemed fearless to barrel over people. He was such a dominant force that it was impossible not to be attracted to him. And it wasn’t just me. Women actually catcalled almost every time he removed his helmet when he came off the field. During the second half, he scored another running touchdown. When he again tossed the ball my way, some of those adoring lady fans actually booed at me a little.

After the game, I waited outside the locker room, catching up on texts and emails. The first one I opened was from Indie.

Indie: That skirt is too long. Take that shit up a few inches before you go in the locker room to flirt with Easton.

I laughed while I typed.

Delilah:
I don’t flirt, I interview. It’s my JOB.

Indie: OMG. He gave you two balls today. Bet he gives you two more tonight!

Great. The camera had caught Brody Easton tossing me both of his running touchdown balls. I’m sure half the men in the mandatory Monday meetings would have something to say about it.

I swiped over to email and started weeding through the garbage, stopping at one from Michael Langley.

Just wanted to tell you how much I enjoyed spending time with you at the fundraiser last week and that I was thinking about you. I look forward to your month slowing down so I can take you to dinner. And I’m working on adding some interviews to my schedule. Best, M.

Such a sweet guy. Maybe I could end my cleanse a little early.

I kept my nose in my phone, catching up on work, until security opened the locker room for reporters.

Inside the guest team locker room, I interviewed a wide receiver and then headed over to Jennings Astor, a defensive lineman who’d had a key sack in the fourth quarter. Easton, as usual, had a long line. His locker was diagonally across from Jennings, and I could see he was finishing up his current interview. The next person in line was Sandra Halston, a reporter covering the home team. I was curious to watch the interaction between the two.

While Sandra was setting up to begin, the arrogant ass’s eyes caught mine.

He grinned wide.

I ignored him. Clarification: I
pretended
to ignore him.

From across the room, I studied Easton’s body language. He hadn’t dropped the towel for the gorgeous blonde reporter. In fact, he seemed to be treating her exactly as he treated the male reporters. No sexy smirk or sparkle in his eye as he made sexual innuendos. And he wasn’t showing off his Subway either. I wondered if Sandra had already gotten her fill of hazing. I really wanted to know if he had ever done the same thing to her, but I wasn’t sure why it was important to me.

After wrapping up all the interviews I needed, I headed over to Easton. I wasn’t nervous anymore. Instead, I think I was a little . . . excited.

While Nick set up the camera and lights, I said, “Thank you for the . . . balls today.”

Easton grinned. “No problem.”

“You did that just so I had to say thank you for the balls today, didn’t you?”

“Nope. But that was a total bonus. I did it so you’d take them home and every time you looked at them, you would think about me.”

“I know the perfect place for them.”

“In your bedroom?”

“In the basement, it’s creepy down there. Fitting.”

As usual, he ignored my insult. “Do you have them in your bag?”

“I do.”

He turned around, reached into his locker, and pulled out a Sharpie. “Let me have ’em. I’ll sign them for you.”

As he signed the second ball, Nick announced that he was ready to film. I shoved the balls into my equipment bag and attempted to tame my wild hair. “You ready?”

“For you? Always.”

I shook my head and shot off my first question. I expected him to drop his towel, but he surprised me by staying covered. In fact, he remained in his towel for the entire interview and answered every question without any sexual innuendos. Maybe my hazing was over.

After the camera shut off, I couldn’t resist. “Thank you for staying somewhat dressed today.”

“It was really
hard
to do.”

I chuckled as I packed away my microphone and notepad. “So, is it over? The hazing, I mean. I noticed you didn’t get naked with Sandra either today. Is that your thing, you treat the new female reporters to full-frontal nudity to embarrass them the first few weeks?”

“Seeing me naked was a treat. I knew it.”

“Your head is so big, I’m surprised you can get a helmet on it.”

He grinned. “Big head. Big helmet.”

“How has no one filed a sexual harassment complaint against you with the league yet?”

He shrugged. “I don’t do this with anyone else.”

My eyes narrowed. “You mean Sandra has never experienced the towel routine during an interview?”

“Nope.”

“Well, aren’t I the lucky one?”

“You are. Have dinner with me?”

“No.”

“No?” I sort of loved that he was shocked to be turned down.

“That’s right. No.”

“Why?”

“I don’t date players.”

“You went out with that kicker from the Saints last year.”

“I said I don’t date
players
, not I don’t date athletes.”

For once, Brody Easton didn’t have a witty comeback. I walked away, then stopped and turned back. “By the way, researching my dating history? Creepy. Your balls are definitely going down to the basement.”

***

I took the earliest commercial flight on Monday morning, rather than the late-afternoon team flight home. Mr. CUM didn’t care that I was halfway across the country; he still expected me to be at his mandatory Monday meetings.

When I arrived at JFK, a corporate town car picked me up at the airport, and I headed directly to the office. We made it less than a mile before we were stopped dead in traffic. I reached into the equipment duffle bag I’d carried on the plane to take out my notepad. A slash of black marker caught my eye. Brody Easton’s name was scribbled on the ball, but something was written above it.

I’d really like to fuck you. 212-538-0321

I shook my head. Then I reached down for the other ball. I flipped it over and found:

Stop shaking your head. You know you want to.

I was a little turned on. And a lot pathetic.

Delilah

“The Steel just announced a news conference on Tuesday at ten. Rumor is, Tyrell Oden has a more serious injury than originally anticipated, and they’re going to announce a mid-season trade.”

Luckily, the writer next to me kicked me under the table to get my attention.

“Sorry. Can you repeat that?”

Mr. CUM huffed.

I felt the need to make an excuse. “I was going over some interview questions in my head.”

“Your head should be in this meeting. And eyes on me.”

I nodded, and he proceeded to tell me about the news conference, presumably for a second time.

“Already registered,” I said.

“Good.” He sighed. “Now that we have Ms. Maddox’s mind back on the news, why don’t we chat about Brody Easton.”

Ummm. That
was
where my mind had been. I just couldn’t seem to shake the jackass from my thoughts. “Okay.”

“Phil Stapleton wants a sit-down with Easton for his weekly show. You seem to have established some sort of rapport with him. I saw him toss a ball your way after a touchdown yesterday.”

Two balls. Ones that were in a duffle bag in my office and read,
I’d really like to fuck you
, to be exact. And I was pitifully hard-up in the romance department, because the thought of him wanting me had me shifting in my chair.

“I’ve interviewed him a few times, yes. Although I’m not sure you’d label our interactions good rapport.”

Mr. CUM waved a dismissive hand. “Next week, invite him for a sit-down with Phil. We want him on
Sixty with Stapleton
.”

It was a widely known fact that Brody Easton did not do more than required TV locker room interviews and news conferences. Newspaper articles were even limited to those where he had final approval of the words. He’d declined every in-depth, one-on-one televised interview since he’d earned himself a spot back on the team. “He doesn’t do sit-down interviews.”

“It would be a big score for us. We’re lagging in ratings this year, you know.”

I gritted my teeth. I knew what he was insinuating. Although the truth of the matter was, we were behind in ratings because of irrelevant content. Many of the old-timers stuck to interviews of the players they were friendly with and reported mostly on notable past sporting events. Viewers wanted fresh stories. “I’ll see what I can do.”

I sat through another hour of the wasteful meeting and then headed back to my office. Indie was sitting in my chair, tossing a football in the air. The
I’d really like to fuck you
football. And she was smiling from ear to ear.

“Anything you want to talk about?”

“Shut up.”

“Guess the cleanse is about to end. Or did it already?”

“I don’t think so.”

“Why? He’s ridiculously hot, and he’s obviously into you.”

“That man isn’t
into
me. He wants
in to
me.”

“Same thing.”

“No. There’s a major difference.”

“You know, it’s the new millennium. You can have sex without love and commitment.”

“Yes. I know. I’ve dated.”

“You date guys for a few months, find something wrong with them and then take a six-month hiatus from penises. Wouldn’t it be easier to just have sex and not date? Then you wouldn’t need the six-month celibacy recovery period. You could just fuck your brains out year-round.”

“That logic made a lot more sense in your head before it came out your mouth, didn’t it?” I pulled a file from my cabinet and began to thumb through it.

“So you’re going to sleep with Easton?”

“Did you really miss the sarcasm in my voice? The guy only wants to get laid. He’d be gone the morning after I gave in.”

“Did he ask you out?”

“I suppose. He asked me out to dinner before delivering that eloquent invitation on the ball.”

“See, he’s into you.”

As much as I hated to admit it, I sort of wanted him to be. There was no denying that I was attracted to him physically. What woman in her right mind wouldn’t be? But I just wasn’t a one-night-stand type of person. I imagined the day after—going from feeling wanted to being forgotten—was a little bit like bungee jumping and slipping loose from the rope. An exhilarating high as you took the plunge, only to free-fall when you realized nothing was holding you any longer. It was just you—all alone. And you couldn’t even remember what made you jump in the first place.

That night, exhausted from travel, I climbed into bed early. Although my body was drained, my mind seemed to be spinning. Thoughts of Brody Easton and the way he looked at me gave me a feeling of excitement I had forgotten existed—a visceral reaction that was pointless to try to tame. Not once since Drew did I have that flutter.