Chapter 6
BECCA
“I’m here to see Nate Sandler,” I said to the security guard at the front desk, who was scrolling through TikTok videos on his phone.
There were two assistant coaches a few feet away talking about today’s practice.
Their voices were low enough that they probably thought no one could hear.
It sounded like today’s practice hadn’t gone as smoothly as the other day.
The middle-aged man glanced up as I slid my media credentials and driver’s license across the counter.
“He’s just finishing up. The locker room is open.” He checked my name off and handed me my badge.
“Thank you.” I signed my name on the visitors log and pulled the manila folder out of my bag.
I nodded to the two men off to the side, pretending that I didn’t overhear part of their conversation.
My heels clicked on the tiled floor as I pushed through the heavy black door, reminding myself that it was perfectly normal for female reporters to be in here. Although hand delivering documents wasn’t part of my job description, but when your boss asked you to do it, you did without question.
The locker room was quieter than I expected. In fact, I didn’t even hear any voices, just the sound of running water somewhere in the distance.
I glanced around the room. Helmets, shoulder pads, and football gear were everywhere. It smelled like a sweaty sock, so I avoided touching anything.
“Nate,” I called out, speaking a little louder and clutching the brown envelope in my hand. My boss’s signature was peeking through the flaps. “The security guard at the front desk said you would be in here. I just need a signature on the contract.”
The door to the shower room opened, and a trail of steam followed. My first thought was that my boss must hate me. There was no other explanation for this.
Nate emerged, fresh from the shower. His hair was damp, with a white towel slung low around his waist.
I swallowed thickly, taking in droplets of water dripping over his sun-kissed chest and trailing down his arms.
“Well, this is new,” he said, adjusting the towel. “I didn’t realize we were doing an interview in the locker room. I thought we were meeting tomorrow.” He snatched another towel from the bench and ran it over his hair.
There was no embarrassment or modesty in his tone. In fact, he was standing there completely relaxed, as if this were no big deal.
While I, on the other hand, was doing my absolute best not to stare.
“I’m not here—” I shook my head, feeling heat crawl up the back of my neck. “It’s—this is just—” I closed my eyes in embarrassment. Jesus Christ. Get a grip. “What I mean to say is, I’m here to get your signature for the interview.”
I was usually good with words. But apparently, they seemed to get all jumbled up when standing in front of a six-foot-two pro football player wrapped in nothing but a white terrycloth towel.
Nate seemed amused. “Are you okay?”
“I’m fine. Why?”
This annoying heat shot up my neck. It was the same unsettling feeling I hadn’t been able to shake since the last practice. It threw me off more than I cared to admit.
“Because you’re stuttering, sweetheart.”
“I am not stuttering,” I said, tightening my grip on the envelope.
I totally was.
“Sounded like it to me.”
I blinked my eyes a few times, attempting to clear the masculine figure standing in front of me. “I just wasn’t expecting you to be half-naked when I came in here.”
This was a distraction I didn’t need. And I sounded like a total airhead.
He cocked his head to the side. “You are in the locker room, Becca. It’s very common to find naked men in here. What did you expect?”
Apparently, whatever progress we made the other day was gone. I thought maybe today would be easier. Instead, it felt like a step backward.
“I’ve spent time in a lot of locker rooms. This is nothing new, Nate.”
He hummed, clearly not buying it. “You sure about that?”
I inhaled, trying to choose my words carefully. This assignment was off to a great start. The man was hot and cold. I could see where he could throw his opponents off.
I held out the envelope, feeling my face burn. “My boss wanted me to deliver this in person. It’s a contract outlining boundaries, like what’s off-limits and what you’re comfortable talking about.”
He glanced at the envelope and back at me. “This isn’t typical protocol.”
“It’s not. Daphene wanted to make sure you were comfortable with the interview agreement, considering this story will cover sensitive topics.”
He dragged a hand along his jaw. “Interview agreement? That’s what you’re calling this.”
I blinked. “Excuse me?”
“I’ve never had a reporter hand-deliver paperwork to my locker room before. Maybe setting some boundaries is a good idea.”
Oh, no, he fucking didn’t.
I’ve been in worse situations than this. Walked into heated arguments and had athletes storm out of an interview because they didn’t like the questions. Even had a player give me the bird and tell me to fuck off.
Nothing rattled me. And this shouldn’t, but it did.
I was five six, maybe five seven, depending on what shoes I was wearing, and the man could probably toss me across the room without breaking a sweat. Still, I lifted my chin, ready to square off with him. “I am a professional. This would be less awkward if you weren’t half-naked.”
He tilted his head again and studied me like I was the most fascinating thing on the planet. “You are making it sound like I planned this.”
“I wouldn’t put it past you.”
A slow grin spread across his face. “I was showering, for Christ’s sake. That’s what those are there for.” He pointed over to the bathroom. “You could have easily waited outside if you wanted to.”
“You could have gotten dressed first,” I said, trying to block out how good he smelled. The scent of cedarwood and soap filled my nostrils, and I was suddenly questioning my life choices. I should have waited for him in the lobby.
“And deprive you of this view? That would be rude.”
I should have said something witty to put him in his place. Found some professional words to throw back at him to reclaim my balance, but the longer I stood there, the more awkward I felt.
“This is completely inappropriate,” I reminded him. If he thought he could intimidate me or, God forbid, charm me into submission, he was mistaken.
“What? You standing here, staring at me like a piece of meat you want to sample? Yeah, I couldn’t agree more.”
I groaned under my breath, hating that my body reacted to him before my brain could shut it down. “Do you think this is funny?”
He chuckled, walked over to his locker to grab a clean shirt, and held it out. “Do you mind looking away for a minute so I can get dressed?” He paused. “Unless you want a peek.”
I scowled. I couldn’t believe I actually had to interview this jerk over the next few weeks. “You shouldn’t say stuff like that.”
“Relax,” he said dryly. “I was kidding.”
“Well, it’s not funny.”
I spun around and stared at a blank wall. My face burned at the sound of rustling fabric behind me. I closed my eyes, forcing myself not to think of him naked. But with every second that ticked by, my pulse would pound harder and harder.
When he slammed his locker and told me it was safe to turn around I was relieved to see him with clothes on.
I took a deep breath, reminding myself I was here for work. If I wanted things to go well, I needed to smooth over some of this tension. It felt as though I was losing control of the situation, and that never sat well with me.
“Listen, I’m sorry for catching you off guard. I realized I needed your signature before we can get started.”
Nate stared at me for a beat, and I swear the temperature in the room went up about fifty degrees.
“You came all the way back here just to get my signature?” His eyes dropped to the manila envelope. “You know, you could have just emailed me, right?”
“You’re right. I could have, but then you could have ignored it.”
He chuckled. “That’s smart thinking.”
“I wasn’t giving you a chance to blow me off.”
“You don’t mess around, do you?”
“I can’t afford to.”
This wasn’t usually how I conducted interviews.
The truth was, this article could make or break my reporting career, so I didn’t want to do anything to jeopardize it.
This wasn’t the type of journalism I wanted to do forever, but Daphene didn’t give me this assignment because it was easy.
She gave it to me so I could demonstrate that I was capable of reporting more than just game notes and postgame questions.
He took the envelope and started poring over the document. “Gotta pen?”
“As a matter of fact, I do.” I nodded and dug a pen out of my bag and handed it to him.
His fingers brushed against mine, and the hint of something in his eyes caught me off guard.
I watched as his thumb traced over the edges of the papers. Every little sound made my pulse hum louder. His movements were unhurried. I needed him to hurry up, because I wasn’t sure how much longer I could stand here without making it obvious how unsettled I felt.
“Everything looks fine,” he said, scanning over the documents. “Next time, send this to my lawyer first, and no more shower surprises. People could talk, you know. And I have a reputation to protect.”
I gritted my teeth. “I’ll do what I can, and maybe you should consider getting dressed beforehand next time.”
He grinned. “Can’t promise that.”
I shifted my weight, feeling satisfied that the paperwork was signed and secured.
“Thank you for signing this, and I’m sorry for interrupting your shower.”
“You caught me at the end. I was done anyway. You’re good.”
I stepped back, forcing a smile into place. “Well, I won’t keep you.”
He lifted a brow. “We’re done?”
“Yeah.” I tilted my head. “Is there anything you want to add?”
“Nah, it’s been a long day. My brain is fried. Just making sure I didn’t miss anything.”
“Did you have a good practice? You have a big game coming up.”
He shrugged. “It was all right. Coach ran us a little hard today.”
The conversation I overheard in the lobby replayed in my head. One of the assistant coaches had mentioned Nate’s throwing was inconsistent, and a few of his receivers ran the wrong routes. I could sense the pressure was sneaking up on him. Which was why he probably stayed longer than everyone else.
“Do you feel ready for Sunday?”
New York was the rival team in their division. They would be playing their first game away from home. It was going to be a tough matchup.
He leaned back against his locker, crossing his arms. “Did we look ready to you?”
“You guys looked as ready as you can be, but I know expectations are high, so I’m sure you’re feeling the pressure.”
“Pressure comes with the job description.”
“I guess that’s why they pay you the big bucks.”
Maybe it was the exhaustion on his face, or the way practice felt off today, but Nate seemed tired.
Not physically, but mentally. I found myself staring at him longer than necessary.
Like how his muscles flexed when he folded his arms, the way his damp hair curled at the ends, and the faint stubble along his jaw.
There was a slight slump in his shoulders. A small scratch on his temple and bruising along his biceps. His posture was relaxed. He wasn’t fooling me, though.
It was a subtle reminder of how physical the job really was.
These guys took a beating. Every snap was contact, every game left a mark, and they were expected to show up every day and pretend that their bodies weren’t paying the price.
Football wasn’t just about strategy and strength.
It was a brutal sport. On top of all that, they had to smile for the cameras, answer questions, and please their fans.
They put on a brave front and pretended everything was perfect, like nothing bothered them.
I forced my gaze away and stepped back. “I’ll let you get on with your day. Thanks again for agreeing to this.”
He gave me a faint smile. “I’ll see you on Thursday.”
As I stepped out into the hallway, my heart was still racing.
Nate wasn’t the first athlete I ever interviewed and probably wouldn’t be my last. Yet, as I pushed through the door, walking briskly to my car, I couldn’t shake the feeling that this was going to be harder than expected.
It felt like I was already crossing into territory that would be difficult to navigate.