Chapter 19
My eyes can’t focus long enough on one thing as my mind jumps back and forth between the signed items, the spare chair, the grin on Liam’s face, and his massive hand making the Sharpie look like something Santa’s tiny elves would use.
“Happy to keep you on your toes.” He smiles again before he turns back to what he was doing.
“Yeah.” I let out a soft chuckle. “Okay, well, sorry to bother you,” I say, ushering myself out.
“Never a bother, Dem.”
I quickly dart down the hall and as far from the locker room as possible.
In looking for the athletic trainer, I stumbled upon Liam doing another kind thing that resulted in butterflies in my stomach.
A man being a generous, decent human shouldn’t turn me into a pile of mush—but lately that’s how every interaction with Liam is ending.
He seriously stays late to sign things for his teammates? Disbelief wants to cloud my mind, but I saw it firsthand. He had a pile—a large one—of things with his quick signature.
I’ve learned over the years that Liam is a team player, but there’s absolutely nothing that says the athletes have to sign autographs.
In fact, there are often cases where the players have to be mindful of what they’re signing.
Sometimes if they have contractual obligations—that often limits their ability.
With every step I take, the pain in my hip intensifies.
Who knows what the hell happened, but that was my reason for needing to see Kelsea today.
I just got back from a quick forty-eight-hour trip to Los Angeles, and when I woke up this morning—insanely jetlagged, might I add—it was killing me.
The internet was helpful in some remedies, but I figured chatting with an actual professional, rather than just people on the internet, might be best.
Plus, I try to limit my time online anyway. I understand it’s part of life now and it isn’t going anywhere, but I still hate that it can take up so much of our time.
Blocking out the noise and comments from strangers online is easier said than done. The comments that make me laugh the most, though, are those that come from men bitching about the game recaps I do. Little do they know, I’m just repeating—word for word, usually—what the coach has told me.
One of my favorite comments I’ve ever seen was about how terrible my broadcast was, but my outfit was “pretty good.” Cheryl and I had a laugh about that one.
Being in reporting can be hard. Being a woman in reporting is even harder. But being a woman in sports reporting? I might as well have a sign on my chest that says please question everything I say.
I love my job and I always have. My team is incredible, and every single player and coach I work with are wonderful. But you’ll always have the people on the outside who hate everything you do, especially when you do it well. And to those people, I raise my perfectly polished middle finger.
I watch the final play of the game as Mason Baker drills a forty-one-yard field goal to break the tie and secure the first win of the season for the Knights.
Holy shit, what a game that was. Talk about a season-opener.
The time winds down, and I make sure I’m prepped and ready to grab Liam on the field for a quick postgame report. I spot him as he’s walking away from the sidelines, hands clapping together before pointing at his kicker and smiling.
His pads make him look so much bulkier than he truly is. He doesn’t seem that tall from a distance, but when he gets closer, his six-foot-two frame starts to show. He has a towel in one hand that he wipes his brow with once he approaches me.
We have a minute before we’re live, and instead of standing in silence, I opt for a quick compliment. Because, honestly? His finesse on the field today was damn near magical. He’s got to be feeling good after those stats.
“Feeling good today, Twelve?” A smile passes over my face as I ask.
Liam closes some of the professional distance between us with an easy step forward, leaning down just the slightest bit toward my ear. “Always good with you, baby.”
Baby? I swivel my head in his direction and notice he’s already back to his three-feet buffer stance.
Why’d he call me baby? And why’d I kind of enjoy it?
It wouldn’t be my first pick as a term of endearment, but rolling off his lips it actually makes me like it.
But it’s adrenaline. That has to be it. Full-fledged, great win kind of adrenaline that’s coursing through his veins.
Because in no universe would Liam call me baby on a football field, moments before I need to conduct an interview.
I’m thankful he didn’t do it while we were live—I can only imagine the color my cheeks turned after that exchange.
One of the guys on the camera crew points to me, giving the go ahead, and I begin.
“And there you have it. A wild one to start the season, what a back and forth game that was. After starting your first two possessions three and out, what’d you say to the guys to get them fired up?”
Liam’s eye black is smeared almost down to his chin from sweat.
But he stands next to me in a red and black jersey with a smile as guys come up behind him during the interview and slap his shoulders.
He doesn’t take his focus off our conversation, and I note the small scrape on his throwing hand when he runs it through his sweat-soaked hair. A battle wound, I’m sure.
“Four quarters, sixty minutes. Plenty of time to hang in there and fight, and that’s exactly what this team did. I’m so proud of our guys. Everyone stepped up when we needed them to.” Liam’s tongue quickly coats his lips and he gives someone on the field a quick nod.
“Do you think this game kind of sets the tone for the season? It was a tough-fought battle.”
“Yeah, I mean, our mission here is to win. It’s what we want to do and something we know we’re capable of.
It wasn’t perfect, I’m sure when we get into the tape on Monday we’ll see plenty of things to clean up.
I know a few of my reads could have been better.
But it’s a good day when we win the game. ”
“For sure. Congrats, Liam. Thank you.”
“Thank you,” he says as he pivots away from me.
As if he knows my eyes are still on him, he turns quickly, giving me a quick smile and a wink.
What the hell is happening? First, he makes me breakfast—which was actually incredible and I even looked up how to remake it myself—then he calls me baby, and now he’s winking at me?
How am I supposed to be annoyed by him in these conditions?
As I’m walking away from the field and to the exit, all I’m thinking is at least I don’t have to see him tomorrow.
But then the reminder that he’s my neighbor creeps in, and I blow out a very, very audible sigh.