Chapter 11
brYCE
M r. Osterman stands next to me while we watch the Chicago Grizzlies practice. He demanded that he come with me on my first day, which I hate because it makes me feel as though I brought my daddy to work with me.
They’re running drills with the running backs and wide receivers. Cooper looks great out of the pocket.
“So, I talked with Shelly earlier this morning, and she wasn’t aware that you were so close with the guys who live in The Den.”
I look at him from the corner of my eye. “The Den?”
“You didn’t know? The place where Cooper, Damon, and Miles live. It’s always had Grizzlies players in and out of there, and of course, a lot of women have made their way through there as well. They refer to it as The Den.” He laughs, but I don’t find it funny.
“How endearing. That has to be Damon’s doing.”
Speak of the devil, the man makes a great catch in the end zone and sticks out his tongue as he runs by me, saying something about how great he is. That man’s ego is way too inflated for his own good .
“I think Creed started the nickname actually. You know he retired last year.”
Who does he think he’s talking to? As if I wouldn’t know about Creed’s retirement. He was one of the best tight ends in the league. He had the reputation of having a revolving door of women, but that’s not unlike a lot of professional athletes.
“Yeah, I’m aware. So, Miles took his spot.”
“Yep.”
“I’d bet that Cooper Rice and Miles Cavanaugh don’t refer to their place as The Den, nor do I think they’ll have women in and out of there. Now, Damon I can’t really speak for.”
Miles is on the sidelines, talking with the defensive coach and getting ready to come in. I can’t wait to see him in action. He really has improved his game this season.
“I don’t know. When players start making a name for themselves, and getting recognized by more than just diehard fans, they change. I wouldn’t put it past either of them to start bringing women home, plus with Damon there…”
For the life of me, I have no idea why we’re talking about The Den when my articles will be about them as players.
“Doubtful, but I guess you never know.” Coming from a girl with a father who was never satisfied with just one woman, I can’t really say it with finality.
“Anyway, Shelly really wants to stay abreast of what you’re writing and what you’re learning in interviews, so I figure a weekly meeting. Just so when she returns, she’s not lost.”
His reminder that this position is only temporary sits like spoiled milk in my stomach. I better prove myself here so I can get in with another national team.
“Okay.” I don’t much like the idea of giving Shelly all my notes. The last thing I want is her dictating the tone of my articles and what I should explore.
“Don’t think much of it. She’s just working on a more in- depth piece for the end of the season. You have complete say in your weekly articles.”
I nod, jotting down notes on the players I’m watching and what they’re doing that I think will help the team this year. “Sure.”
He claps when Damon and Miles are head-to-head on a ball Cooper throws to the end zone. Both of them miss it and it bounces out toward the stands. Miles jogs to get it and throws it to the coach. He shakes his head at himself.
“Cavanaugh always that hard on himself?” Mr. Osterman asks me.
“From what I’ve seen, he is. I think he’s kind of a perfectionist.”
He blows out a breath and rears back. “You can’t be a perfectionist and a professional athlete. You’ll constantly feel like you’re a failure.”
I agree with my boss. But before I can say that, Ronnie Michaels walks over, and I stare at his bare feet for a moment, thinking I’m seeing things, but nope. Khaki pants, an orange polo, and bare feet. Interesting look for the team’s general manager.
“Billy Boy,” he says to Mr. Osterman, who sticks out his hand for a handshake and manly hug where they compete for who can pat the other’s back harder.
“Ronnie, the team looks amazing. I was just telling Bryce here how we should do an article on you and your ability to put together winning teams.”
Um… no, he wasn’t, but I smile and nod anyway. I hate lying, but this is my job, my livelihood. “He was.”
“You’re too kind. But I did work hard. Grabbing Cavanaugh last year was just the start, then we got lucky with those draft picks.”
“I was going to ask what you were thinking, taking a safety in the fifth round when you just got Miles.”
Mr. Osterman stiffens beside me and gives me a side-eye. I guess they just want a pretty face to stand here and shove rainbows up their asses for them to shit out later.
“Never mind?—”
“No, it’s a great question, but I’d like my answer to be off the record,” Ronnie says.
I move my pen away from my notebook.
“Our second string safety has a knee problem. I’m not sure he’ll make the season without surgery. He’s trying to delay it until the off-season, but we’re not sure what will happen. Plus, you know Cavanaugh.”
I school my features. Miles is way better on his off days than that kid they drafted.
In fact, the kid should really be a cornerback, not a safety, but I keep my opinion to myself because I like my job and don’t want to be fired on my first day covering the Grizzlies.
“I guess that’s why you’re so brilliant. ”
“Now that stays between us, you hear me?” He laughs, a throaty, husky one that sounds like he’s a three-pack-a-day smoker.
“I promise,” I say.
“And don’t tempt my players, BB,” Ronnie says, looking right at me.
“Of course not,” Mr. Osterman quickly responds.
My eyebrows damn near hit my hairline. “Excuse me?”
“You’re an attractive woman. Young. Sometimes the players… well, you know.”
I want to say I don’t and force him to enlighten me, but I know exactly what he’s saying.
“I gave the same warning to Shelly when she came onboard. Not sure she understood,” Ronnie says.
“Well, Bryce here is the consummate professional.”
My attention is momentarily drawn to the field where Miles schools Damon, picking the ball off right before it hits his hands. Damon falls to his knees and screams, then jogs back to do the play all over again .
“Is that right? Good for her then.” Ronnie puts out his hand. “Good to see you, Billy Boy, and BB, I’ll be seeing you around.”
I wave.
After Ronnie’s a good distance away, pretending to box a player with a few jabs to the abdomen, Mr. Osterman clears his throat. “You’ll have to go along with the BB thing the same as I do with Billy Boy.”
“I know. Not the most unique, but I’ll be fine. I know who allows us access to the team. No worries, Mr. Osterman.”
He nods like a proud dad. “That’s why I like you, Bryce. You get it. You’ll do great here.”
“I hope so.”
“Just make sure that whatever relationship you have with Miles and Cooper, you keep it out of your articles. Don’t let them off easy because they’re your friends.”
I hold my notepad to my chest and turn to face him. “I’ve known Cooper since college, but I’m not friends with Miles. We were in the same social circle back in San Francisco, and I had no problem conveying the player I thought he was, so you have no worries there.”
“I’m glad.” He glances at his old-school metal watch. “I’m gonna head back to the office. You’re fine here?”
“I am.” I nod. “I’ll keep you updated on my article for this week.”
“Perfect.” His eyes widen, and his arms reach toward me, but I’m plowed over by a large body, taken down to the grass. “Bryce, are you okay?”
I look up from the grass, and the reflection off Mr. Osterman’s bald head blinds me. I put my hand over my eyes. “I think so.”
“Shit, I’m sorry, Bryce.” Miles. Fucking Miles’s voice. “My bad. I didn’t see you standing there.”
I accept his hand and stand, then look down at my grass-stained ivory pantsuit. “You really didn’t see me? ”
I don’t buy it at all.
“I was so worried about getting the ball.” He spins the ball in the air. He doesn’t look apologetic in the least.
“You okay?” Mr. Osterman asks.
Even though my ankle is killing me, I nod. I must’ve twisted it or something when Miles ran into me. “I’m good. Please don’t let me hold you up.”
The sports physician comes over with his first aid kit, not even glancing over at me. “Everyone okay here? Miles, did you hurt yourself?”
“Um… he’s, like, two hundred thirty pounds of pure muscle. I’m five-three and mostly made of carbs.”
Miles laughs.
“Yes, ma’am.” He must be an intern or something because he looks so young. “Are you hurt at all?”
“Honestly, my ankle hurts.”
“Oh, that’s not good,” the kid says, staring down as though it should be turned the other way if it’s hurting. “I’ll take a look at it.”
I’m not sure of this kid’s qualifications, but Miles must read my mind because he squats down in front of me.
“What are you doing?” I ask.
“I’m taking you into the sports med office. Dr. Calvin can help you.”
“You want to give me a piggyback ride?”
“Would you rather I pick you up bride style? I mean, if you want to pretend it’s our wedding night, I’m game.”
The kid’s eyebrows furrow.
“You should go get checked out,” Mr. Osterman says.
I climb onto Miles’s back. “Keep your smartass comments to yourself,” I murmur so just he can hear.
He laughs and stands to his full height, his arms hooking around my legs. After a quick goodbye to my boss, he heads off toward the tunnel.
“If I kick you, will you go faster?” I ask .
“If you kick me, I’ll buck you off.”
“Duly noted. It’s on the record that you hit me at practice.”
“I didn’t see you.” He’s so serious, it makes me laugh.
Once we’re in the tunnel and alone, I inhale Miles’s scent.
I can’t help myself. He’s sweaty but still smells fresh somehow.
The ends of his dark hair are damp with sweat, and his back is hot beneath me.
Memories of that night surface, my fingers feeling the dampness and sheen to his skin from the exertion of thrusting in and out of me or holding me against the wall as he drilled into me over and over again.
“I’m just joking. Thanks for the ride.”
When we reach the physician’s area, he sets me gently on an exam table. “Dr. Calvin, we have an injury.”
A man with glasses resting on the tip of his nose and a head full of gray hair comes out of his office. He examines the situation and quickly figures out it’s me. “You hurt her on her first day?” He slips off my shoe.
“And he ruined my pantsuit.”
The doctor shakes his head and looks at Miles. “Bull in a china shop, huh?”
We all laugh, and Miles bites the inside of his lip. He shifts his weight from side to side.
“Go, Miles, I’ll be fine,” I say.
His forehead wrinkles.
“Go back to practice. Dr. Calvin will take care of me. I’ll be fine.”
“Are you sure? I can stay.”
This is a part of Miles that I love, the kind and considerate side of him.
“I’m fine.”
He sighs. “I’ll see you after practice then.” He steps forward as though he might kiss me or something, but then turns and jogs out of the room.
I’m lying down ten minutes later, icing my ankle, when the kid from the medical team comes in. He hands me a vanilla and chocolate swirl cone.
“This is from Miles,” he says.
I wish I could fight the smile on my face, but Miles is making me feel like a little kid. I got a boo-boo, so he got me an ice cream. Damn that man, sometimes he’s too hard to resist.
“Smart man,” Dr. Calvin says.
I lick the ice cream cone and nod.
He sure is.