Protecting The Quarterback. Kristina Knight

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      “Pack my bags?” Brooks shook her head. She had to be hearing things, right? The professional baseball season was in full swing, college teams were still in conference play. She didn’t cover basketball, and football players wouldn’t start reporting for training camps for a few more weeks. “We’re still covering all of the bases on the steroid—”

      The network exec cut her off. “We’re starting a new pilot program, and we’d like our rising network star to be part of it.” When she didn’t say anything—couldn’t say anything, if she were honest with herself—he said, “The rising star would be you.” Brooks nodded, still not trusting her voice. “One reporter will be assigned to each of the professional football teams as full-fledged beat reporters. News of the day, of course, but we’re also looking for human interest, behind-the-scenes kind of stuff.” He barely paused before launching into more detail about the new program the network wanted to implement, and Brooks’s heart beat faster.

      “The local affiliates usually cover that kind of thing.” Those were the kinds of stories she’d been covering for the past eight years. Her heart started to race.

      “We’re launching a football-only network this summer, and to do it right we need more than local affiliate reporting. There will be daily shows, special programming, too, but we have too much time to fill for the locals to help.” Jacobs cleared his throat. “You’d be working directly for the network—not for the affiliate in Louisville—but we would need a year’s commitment.”

      “I’m not sure what to say.”

      “Frankly speaking, you should say yes, and before I call the next name on my list.”

      He waited a beat, picked up a pen and began tapping it against the desk blotter. “You have good instincts and you understand the game and the players better than anyone who hasn’t played a down. Women like you because you don’t wear evening gowns and high heels on the sidelines. Men like you because—” he eyed her for a moment and Brooks’s cheeks began to burn “—well, you were voted Hottest Female Sportscaster for a reason. As a network, we like that you draw evenly from both demographics, that you know how to tell a story and that you’re passionate about the game. The only question is do you want this?”

      “Y-yes, I want it.” She did want it. She wanted football to be part of her life. So badly. She knew football. Believed in it. Waited on pins and needles every spring to see who was drafted and at what pick. During the season she lived on the highlights, dissecting each play and player to learn more about what made them work. A few bad apples like Bobby McCord couldn’t kill her love for the sport or her love for reporting on it.

      “Are you willing to put in the extra time? To follow up on leads like you did on the steroid scandal? To put any personal relationships aside to break a story?”

      “Of course.” And she already had her first scoop in mind.

      “Then what do you say? And whatever the answer is, I would highly advise it not include the words ‘think’ or ‘about it.’” Gary Jacobs’s voice took on a stern edge as he spoke, making Brooks sit up straighter in the chair.

      “When and where do I report?”

      They talked a few more minutes about contracts and equipment, what station she would co-op space from and when her photographer would arrive. Brooks surreptitiously pinched her hand several times, hoping that if this was a dream she wouldn’t wake herself up. But when she walked out of the office, she was still on the fifteenth floor. Still wearing her favorite leopard ballet flats, still tucking that same wayward strand of hair behind her ear.

      This was real.

      She was going back to Louisville. Brooks swallowed. And she knew exactly what her next story would be: Jonas Nash and his future in football.

      * * *

      “BOOBS ON THE FLOOR, boys,” a gruff voice called out from around the corner.

      Jonas splashed his way out of the icy whirlpool bath and to his locker. Grabbed a too-short white towel and secured it around his waist. There were only a couple of other guys in this early in the summer. All of them stood there oblivious that their junk was now on display. More likely they just didn’t care. Jonas had no issue showing off his body, but he was in no hurry to show off to someone outside the organization the surgical scar he’d acquired after the season or answer the questions sure to come with it. He couldn’t keep the rotator cuff surgery a complete secret, but only his circle knew the extent of the tear that happened when a defender laid him out on the last play of last season.

      “Don’t pull a hammie, there, Muscles,” a honeyed voice that had haunted him for the past two months said from behind him. “Nothing there I haven’t seen before.”

      He glanced over his shoulder. “Brook Smith, the Hottest Female Sportscaster.” Damn his rotten luck. Annoyance flashed in her pretty green eyes, and he wondered why. Because of the award? Or because of him? Women usually weren’t annoyed by him, but there could always be a first time.

      Jonas pulled the green tee down his flat abs and schooled his features into a careless mask as he turned.

      “Or we could just stick with Belle.” He grinned at her annoyed expression. She wore a sleeveless blouse and a bright green pencil skirt that showed off the length of her legs and the curve of her hip. His mouth went a little dry again, as if she’d somehow sucked all the moisture out of the room—out of him—just by walking up to his locker. “I see you’ve traded in your ice skates for a safer option.”

      Not that the flat shoes she wore were any less attractive. Her delicate ankle bones flexed as she closed the gap between them, and he decided her calves would be defined whether she wore tottering heels or flip-flops. He’d like to see her in both, or neither, and nothing else. Which was not where his mind needed to be right now. Jonas chastised himself.

      “And I’ve finally tracked down the elusive Beast again.”

      “Didn’t realize I was so hard to find,” he said and was rewarded when a faint tinge of pink lightened her cheeks. “For a princess you’re very determined.”

      “All the best princesses are,” she said, and then seemed to think better of it. “Not that I need a man to come to my rescue.”

      “Could have fooled me.”

      “I didn’t exactly go careening off the stage.” The pink darkened and she narrowed her eyes. Then something switched. She straightened her spine and set her shoulders back and the annoyance in her gaze turned to something else. Real embarrassment, maybe? Whatever it was it made the green in her eyes deepen and Jonas had to remind himself, again, that she was a reporter. He’d had his fill of them.

      She sucked in a breath and said, “But thank you, anyway. It could have been a lot worse if you hadn’t been there.”

      “True. That was some pretty fancy footwork.” Jonas told himself to stop baiting her. Let her say what she wanted and get out of his locker space. But he couldn’t seem to stop. “I didn’t realize princesses normally walked with their legs going in different directions.”

      She bit her bottom lip and then folded her arms across her chest. “I’m trying to say thank you. Would you stop being such an ass about it?”

      “Okay,” he said solemnly. “You’re welcome.”

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