Protecting The Quarterback. Kristina Knight

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СКАЧАТЬ Jonas said, as if the bottle blonde hadn’t just offered herself as his backseat entertainment for the evening.

      Why the thought of Jonas with the woman bothered her Brooks couldn’t say. It wasn’t as if she really knew the man. It also was no secret that he’d left a bevy of blondes, brunettes and redheads in his wake for most of his football career. But it did bother her. Brooks pushed the image of the woman from her mind. She needed to focus on the presentation.

      The manager ushered them onto the stage as the host for the International Sports Awards introduced them as “Kentucky Football Royalty,” whatever the heck that meant. Brooks rolled her shoulders and pasted a bright smile on her face as they walked into the spotlights. Jonas took the stage with his palm against her lower back, seeming to burn a hole through the silk and sequins of her navy dress.

      “Slow down there, Slugger, we stop at the podium, not the next curtain.”

      As if.

      She didn’t run. Well, except when she ate her weight in salted caramel ice cream.

      “I know how to work a stage,” she said out of the corner of her mouth, making sure she kept her smile in place. The problem was being center stage wearing sky-high heels and with nothing to do with her hands. Standing before a single camera in her ballet flats and with a microphone in her hands was so much...simpler.

      Jonas waved to the crowd, a big grin splitting his handsome face. “Then try actually smiling for the cameras and waving to the crowd.”

      “I am smiling—”

      And then her feet betrayed her. Brooks’s left foot slid on the smooth marble floor in the middle of the stage. She tried to grip with her right but she wasn’t used to more than a kitten heel. With sickening clarity Brooks saw the headlines and internet memes and goddamned internet gifs in her mind. Ridiculous hair, ridiculous makeup, ridiculous Brooks sliding across the stage at the International Sports Awards while perfectly dressed, never-out-of-sync Jonas Nash looked on.

      Then the strong arm at her lower back seemed to turn to steel as it slid around her abdomen, steadying her. Her face warmed and she couldn’t catch her breath. Heat seemed to envelop her, sizzling across her lower back, dangerously close to where Jonas Nash’s arm held her so tightly, making her stomach clench. And she knew why she made that catty comment to Jonas.

      She was attracted to him. God, she’d thought she was over this part of her life. Past being attracted to the men she worked with on a daily basis. She arrived at the station house or the stadium, did her job and went home to her empty apartment to get ready for the next game.

      She didn’t feel awkward interviewing half-naked athletes in the locker room. Not once in the five years since she took her first reporting job had she allowed herself to wonder what it would be like to be with one of them. With Jonas’s arm at the small of her back all she could think was how much more heat she would feel if there weren’t several layers of clothing between them.

      Brooks swallowed hard and straightened her spine.

      “The objective is to arrive at the podium on your feet, not sliding into home,” he said, and this time there was laughter in his quiet voice.

      Brooks took a steadying breath, as they continued across the wide expanse. Just a jolt of attraction. She’d had those before. But they’d never left her quite as dry-mouthed or made her heart beat quite so erratically. Probably the cottonmouth feeling and the raging pulse rate were ninety percent fear, and ten percent attraction.

      She tried to look past the bright footlights, but only saw shapes. And still her back burned where Jonas’s hand and arm had touched her.

      Maybe seventy percent fear, thirty percent attraction.

      No laughing faces. She couldn’t hear any telltale titters of derision, either. Maybe no one had noticed.

      Jonas’s fingertips trailed across her lower back once more, and the sizzle intensified.

      Probably fifty-fifty, but standing next to six feet five inches of pure male perfection, who wouldn’t be attracted? And he’d saved her from an embarrassing fall on international television. That had to add to it.

      They reached the podium a second later. Jonas leaned down and whispered, “You’re welcome.” His breath tickled her ear, the slow drawl of his Southern accent seemed to tickle the hairs at the back of her neck, and the heat from his palm at her lower back seemed to scorch another degree higher.

      Okay, so it was sixty-forty with attraction making a comeback.

      “Thank you,” she said, and the words seemed to echo around the auditorium. The microphone had just switched on. Hot embarrassment flooded her cheeks, but Brooks refused to follow her instincts off the stage and into the blessed comfort of the non-spotlighted backstage area. She chastised herself for the flub.

      Cameras and stages were nothing new, but normally she was talking about a great pass or defensive play, not sent out in full hair and makeup as the center of attention at an awards show.

      “For accompanying you to the stage? It’s always my pleasure to escort a gorgeous woman,” Jonas said, deadpan. “But it’s not every day I get to escort the Hottest Female Sportscaster. So maybe I should thank you.”

      She felt her face flame hotter and closed her hands more tightly around the envelope in her hands. “Maybe we should just stick to the script,” she said, begging him with her eyes to start reading from the teleprompter. Miraculously, he did.

      Jonas introduced the first nominee for Most Inspiring Performance, pausing as the producers of the show replayed the highlights for the audience at home as well as the people in the live audience. Brooks concentrated on the clips rolling across the screen and stepped in to announce the second. They traded back and forth for the next nominees and then she waved the envelope. One more minute and she was home free, would be off the stage and could go back to being her ponytailed, flat-shoe-wearing, sports nerd self.

      “And the award goes to—” she said, but the envelope wouldn’t open. Brooks tugged on the vellum, tried sticking the long, fake nail the makeup artist had glued to her finger not twenty minutes before under it, but nothing worked. The stage manager had nothing to worry about as far as peeking went: these envelopes seemed to be sealed with atomic-strength glue. Brooks tugged once more. Her hand flew off the vellum and smacked right into the microphone. It popped and hissed. “Apparently these envelopes weren’t sealed with Post-it glue,” she said, and the audience chuckled. Brooks felt the tension ease in her shoulders. Okay, it was going to be okay.

      “Let’s just rip it off and see what happens, Brook,” Jonas said and she didn’t even feel the usual annoyance at someone mispronouncing her name. She didn’t care. She wanted to read the winner, hand off the trophy and get the heck off this stage as quickly as possible. She handed the envelope to Jonas.

      “Normally, I’m all for a woman doing a man’s job,” she said, “but this time, I’ll just let Muscles, here, do the heavy lifting.”

      Jonas tore the edge off the envelope, and a moment later the room swam in applause as a short, balding golfer took the stage to accept the award. Brooks knew she should recognize the man, even if sports wasn’t her job she should recognize him, but all her mind could focus on were Jonas Nash’s hands, trembling as he handed the heavy trophy to the older man, who took it without batting an eye, as if it weighed nothing. She turned her gaze to the man beside her. His face was impassive, СКАЧАТЬ