Chapter 5
BECCA
I shouldn’t have been this nervous. It was ridiculous, irrational, and completely inappropriate.
Yet, here I was, standing on the edge of the practice field, fidgeting with my badge as it blew in the wind, with the sounds of whistles blowing and shouting coming from the field.
I scanned the turf, and there was Nate, running drills with a focus and determination that made it hard for me to look away.
I tried to pay attention to the plays rather than be impressed by how well he moved his body.
I could see why so many women swooned over him.
It wasn’t just because he was easy on the eyes.
He carried himself with confidence, and there was something magnetic about him.
I told myself I was here in a professional capacity, but the tingles running down my spine said otherwise.
I loved my job, but I was nervous about spending so much time with him. Until now, I had never considered that this could turn out to be an epic mistake.
He continued shouting out commands, which could be heard over the thumping music coming from the sideline, when he turned and caught me staring.
Perfect. Not awkward at all.
The corner of his mouth lifted. It wasn’t even subtle because a few players followed his smirk.
I opened my notebook, giving myself something to do, even though I didn’t plan on writing or reading a damn thing.
I looked up as he ran another play, catching the extra bounce in his step. He seemed to run faster, throw longer, and, if I wasn’t mistaken, he was showing off a little. Every time he took a snap, he threw another completed pass, acting as if he had something to prove.
“Go left,” he yelled to one of his receivers. “Corner pocket.”
The guy flew down the field as the ball spiraled through the air. He jumped just as the ball fell gently into his hands.
Everyone went nuts, and the coaches seemed impressed. I had to hand it to Nate; he looked pretty damn good out there.
The offense huddled in a circle to go over the next play. They were all chirping at each other and laughing. Doing their usual trash-talk.
“He’s showing off for you.”
I turned, not realizing that Coach Mac was standing there. Great! He saw me watching him.
“His arm looks good,” I said, squinting my eyes against the blinding sun.
His eyes flicked back to the field. “I heard you are interviewing him.”
“That is correct.”
He placed his hands on his hips. “What’s the angle?”
I blinked at him, trying to figure out where he was going with this.
“There is no angle. It’s just a standard interview. Nothing too heavy.”
He hummed like he wasn’t sure if he believed me. What was his deal? “I’m trying to keep him focused this year. That last game wasn’t great.”
Coach Mac was old-school. He’s built a reputation on discipline, loyalty, and winning seasons.
He was the kind of coach where you straightened up when he walked into a room.
People respected him, even though they didn’t always like him.
He was known more for his temper than his charm.
If he had a soft side, I’d never seen it.
“I’m aware.”
“Good,” he said, pulling on his baseball cap. “Because I don’t want him dragged back into it. We’re trying to move forward here.”
My gaze sharpened instantly. There was no friendliness in his tone. In fact, there was a warning hiding underneath it. My guard went up immediately. “That’s not what this interview is about.”
He nodded. “Just keep it positive. I need Nate locked in; he has enough noise around him already.”
I followed his gaze to where Nate threw another perfect pass.
Coach Mac walked away, but I stood there watching him.
That whole conversation felt off. Almost like a warning, and it only made me more curious.
I’d been around long enough to know when someone was trying to steer me away from a story.
And coaches didn’t usually warn reporters unless there was something they didn’t want us to find out.
“All right, showoff,” one of the players called out.
Even with his helmet on, I could still see Nate’s grin. I tried not to smile but failed.
I shifted on my feet, watching him command the next two plays. He threw long, he ran fast, and I could feel his confidence every time he sidestepped a defender and completed the play.
One of the linemen called out, “Are there cameras rolling somewhere, or are you just trying to make us look bad on purpose?”
“Relax,” he shot back. “I’m just warming up.”
“How about saving some of that juice for Sunday?” another player shouted.
He gripped the football in his hands. “Don’t worry, there’ll be plenty left for Sunday.”
Practice continued, and I lost track of time. He kept throwing balls, and on the rare occasions he would miss, he would shrug it off and sprint back to the middle. His teammates, however, let him know whenever he screwed up.
I scribbled notes in my notebook, reminding myself that I was here for work. I was observing him, which was totally normal, right?
Except every time he would drop back, flex his body, and throw the ball, my heart would do this annoying little flutter.
Eventually, the practice ended, the helmets came off, and they jogged toward the locker room.
Nate clapped someone on the back and broke away from the group.
He strode toward me, looking way too good for a man who was sweaty and breathing hard.
“I didn’t realize we were going to have an audience today,” he said, taking his gloves off.
“Do you always show off like that?”
He feigned innocence. “I was just doing my job. Ma’am.”
I rolled my eyes. “Did you seriously just ‘ma’am’ me?”
He wiped his hands on the towel, completely ignoring my question. “What did you think? How did we look out there?”
It was a good practice, and he knew it.
I shrugged. “Not bad.”
He chuckled. “Are you always this generous with praise?”
“I didn’t take you for someone who needed validation.”
There was a beat of silence, and I was suddenly aware of how close we were standing. He glanced around and then back at me. “I thought this was a closed practice today.”
I could smell his soap under his sweat, so I cleared my throat, hoping to get my brain to start working on business again. “It is. I just came from the front office. I got clearance to do the interview. They gave me permission to come down onto the field and talk to you.”
He tilted his head to the side and studied me. I was dressed the same way I always was—dark pants, a silk shirt with a blazer, and heels. I always tried to look professional because these players had a tendency to flirt with pretty young reporters. It was my way of establishing boundaries.
“What exactly am I signing up for? You mentioned a one-on-one.”
I gave him my biggest, most reassuring smile. “Just some in-depth conversation,” I said, hoping to reassure him that it would be a quick, easy assignment. I would ask a few questions, and then we would both go our separate ways.
He laughed quietly. “Are you going to grill me as usual?”
“I promise to give you a glowing write-up as long as you give me something good to work with.” I kept my tone light even though my pulse picked up.
Seeing how the last few interactions went, I was surprised he wasn’t asking me to beg. I was totally prepared for him to give me a hard time.
He studied me as if trying to decide if he could believe me or not. I could sense his apprehension. He was probably wondering how much control he would have over the article.
A group of his teammates jogged past us. They were loud, and a few were watching us.
He glanced at the field and back at me, motioning with his finger. “Follow me.”
He led me toward the building. His strides were quick, making it hard for me to keep up.
The tunnel to the locker rooms buzzed with staff and players. Nate didn’t slow until we reached the owner’s lounge overlooking the field. It was much quieter up here and tucked away from all the noise. He grabbed water from the fridge and led me to a small, round table.
“What’s the timeframe for this article?” he asked, seeming all business while sliding his tall frame into one of the chairs. “You mentioned working around my schedule. Are you looking to meet more than once?”
“Yes.” I set my bag along the back of the chair. “I need to have the interview completed within four weeks. We can meet around practices, games, whatever works best for you.”
Daphene thought it would be best if we conducted shorter, more frequent conversations that occurred over a few weeks. It would allow Nate to feel more in control of the process and less stressed about what he should and shouldn’t say. With game day so close, he needed his focus to be on the field.
He rested his arms on the table. “Walk me through this. Explain to me exactly what this looks like. Are you going to follow me around like those HBO guys?”
“No,” I said quickly. “More like meeting up once a week for a friendly, focused conversation. The goal of this article isn’t to intrude on your personal life. It’s to understand you. The fans want to know more about you as a person. Not just the guy who can throw a ball around.”
He smirked. “Is that what I do? Throw a ball around?”
I laughed. “You know what I mean.”
He leaned back and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “I don’t like people knowing too much about my personal life. So, what’s the point?”
Joe’s warning about Nate being a private person seeped into my brain. I would not allow any concern he might have had to stand in my way. This assignment was too important to me.
“This interview will give you an opportunity to show the world who you really are. It’s your chance to show the fans and the critics you are so much more than just a headline filled with stats.”
He pressed his lips together. “Becca, forgive me, but you’re not known for asking soft questions. You press and don’t go easy on people. I’m not saying that I don’t trust you, but it makes me cautious, and I have to take that into consideration.”