Prologue #2
I usually only come to these events as a reason to bring a date. And then a reason to take them out afterward. Admittedly, Lacy and I couldn’t be more different, but she’s hot and a good time. Which is really all I’m looking for right now.
“Congratulations to you too, Evans.”
My pulse jumps at the sound of my name coming off her lips.
Logically, I understand she knows who I am because of the speech by one of my buddies earlier on stage, but I wasn’t expecting her to talk to me tonight—let alone say my name.
I make a mental reminder to thank Ford for shouting me out on stage.
I turn to thank her, but all I can do is stare at her. Stare like some teenage boy who just saw a woman for the first time. Her eyes, her hair, the way the dress seems to fit her like a glove. And the spark in her? The wit and sass took my goddamn breath away.
She moves to get up, but slightly stumbles.
“Oh shit.” I extend my hand to help, but she seems to catch herself and avoids taking my hand. “Good thing you’ve switched to water,” I joke.
“Stupid heel,” she mutters. “That was embarrassing, I feel dumb that you just saw that.”
It looked like the heel of her shoe got caught on the footrest of the stool.
“If it makes you feel any better, I think you’re smart.”
Her eyes narrow at me and I casually grin her way. “We just met four minutes ago.”
“I’m a quick study.” I shrug. “And technically, we didn’t meet. You know my name, but I don’t know yours.”
“Demi,” she says, standing up straighter. “And I actually don’t drink.” She grabs both glasses from the bar, regaining her composure before she takes a step forward and then stops. “Have a good evening.”
“You too,” I say, watching her walk away.
I’ve been on my fair share of dates. I’ve interacted with plenty of women. But even the best sex I’ve ever had doesn’t compare to the five-minute conversation I just had with that woman.
Training camp starts today, and to say I’m excited is an understatement. I’m over the fucking moon to be back at this place, getting to do what I love.
There are only so many puzzles and boat days I can take before I start to go a little stir crazy, missing my home away from home.
Freshly cleaned dark wood floors and the smell of new leather greet me as I enter the building.
Perfectly placed red and black flags with the Knights logo hang from every corner of the lobby when I make my way in.
A round wooden desk is centered in the middle with Tampa Bay Knights on the front, along with previous and current team jerseys lining the walls.
There are two different shrines on either end of the far wall, one highlighting Ring of Honor players and the other holds memories of the last time this team won a championship. That was over a decade ago.
A lot of the staff are already in the building—a surprise since I’m notoriously one of the first ones here every morning. The allure of sleeping in doesn’t do anything for me, so nine in the morning might as well be noon to me.
“Good morning,” I say with a smile to Greg as I pass him.
He’s the head of our media team. Our social media has really blown up in the last couple seasons since he joined, letting a few of the more trendy interns take the reins on the accounts. Apparently, people are really interested in knowing which teammate we’d all let date our sisters.
“Morning, morning. I have a new reporter starting today. I’m sure you’ll meet her, she’s already here somewhere…I think saying hello to Coach Aarons.”
“Awesome, I’ll be sure to say hello.”
I’ve made it a point to always be lighthearted and playful with the staff—coaches, medical, athletic trainers, reporters—their job in this organization is just as important, maybe even more so than mine. It makes it easier when we have a mutual respect for each other’s role.
Walking toward Coach Aarons’s office, I hear a laugh that sounds all too familiar. A series of sounds that have been living rent-free in my mind since I heard it a week ago.
Down the hall, I see a tall figure leave his office. Dark hair spills over her shoulders and a large brown bag is on one of her arms. She’s smiling down at her phone and then looks up—as if she could feel me staring at her.
“It’s you,” I say—in probably the softest, most pathetic voice I’ve ever used.
“Hi,” she says.
“W-what are you doing here?”
“I’m your new sideline reporter.”
No way. No fucking way. I haven’t stopped thinking about this woman since she rolled her eyes at me last weekend, and now I’m supposed to work with her, knowing she’s engaged to a mediocre man?
I guess I could spin it. I get to work with her. I get to see her. Even if she can’t ever be mine. At least I get to be around her. That’ll take some getting used to, but I’m nothing if not a team player and excellent colleague.
“Oh wow, congratulations. You didn’t mention it last weekend,” I admit.
She shrugs, pulling the shoulder of her gray cardigan up over her skin as it keeps falling, and I notice a small red and blue flag keychain dangling from the strap of her bag. I take a mental picture of it so I can look up which flag it is later.
“That night wasn’t about me.”
Jesus, she’s pretty, smart, and humble? This must be what they mean when they say God gives his hardest battles to his strongest soldiers. Because how the hell am I supposed to stop thinking about her?
“I’ve got to run. But I’ll see you around, I guess.” Her shoulders rise and fall as she softly smiles.
“Sure,” I say, stepping to the side as she begins to walk away. Because sure is the only word I can form as I melt at the sight of her dimples.
I keep heading down the long hallway to Coach’s office, but hear her call out before she approaches the elevators.
“Hey, Twelve?”
I turn around at the sound of her voice.
“I’ve watched your film.” Her head nods up and down and she turns her lips up into a soft smile. “Pretty good for a third-rounder.”
And my chest swells.