Striking Heat (The Forbidden Heat #1)

Chapter 1

Chapter One

~DANNY~

I’m not sure what I’m watching right now, but it’s not a functioning team. They just look like pieces of one working in silos—the offense and the defense seem like two separate teams. With all the promo videos I saw, I thought this match would be better.

I lean forward in the blue collapsible seat, placing my elbows on my knees, trying to find something positive to write about these women.

I want to be honest, but I don’t want to crush them.

The critics might be right. We didn’t need another team in Tampa; the Orlando Pride was plenty.

The expansion of National Women’s Soccer League teams across the US is a good thing, don’t get me wrong.

But did we need another one in Tampa? What about a state that doesn’t have a team?

That’s what the critics have been saying. Hell, I wrote the same thing too.

We all think it.

We all believe it.

It’s why I’m sitting here watching the Blaze’s first opening game of the season, struggling to find something good to say.

The fans would agree with me. I think about interviewing one or two to get some of their perspectives.

Let the fans speak for themselves. Make them admit to something I don’t want to.

It’s the coward’s way out and I know it. My editor, Martin, would see right through it. He would tell me, “Danny, I sent you to that game to get your thoughts. Use your brain and don’t make someone else do your job for you.”

I scrub a hand down my face yet again and bounce my knees, watching the ball get kicked around with no clear destination.

The players don’t seem to have a game plan.

Or maybe they’re hoping to just run out the clock.

The other team is kicking their ass 3-0; I can’t blame them for wanting it to end.

Twelve minutes remain—a lot of game left to make something happen and give the fans a show.

However, those twelve minutes feel like an eternity.

At least they look sharp. The colors for Tampa are yellow and blue.

Bright, sunny, and cheery. It goes right along with the logo the owner selected, a soccer ball swirling in bright yellow and blue.

The stadium reeks of money well spent to make it look like all-stars should be playing here, rather than whatever mess is on that field.

The sections around the stadium are broken up by rows of white and blue chairs, making it look like a ribbon of white and blue going around the stadium.

This stadium could hold 2,000 people easily.

I’m not sure that many people will even come to see these women play, but there are opportunities to use it for concerts and other events to help the Blaze owners recoup some of the money spent on this place.

I take a swig of my fancy beer and set it back into the cupholder.

I do love the food vendors they chose for this place.

It’s not just your typical hot dogs, fries, pretzels, or nachos.

They even have a street taco vendor who serves a variety of nacho fixings.

Their guacamole is out of this world. A full-service bar doesn’t hurt either.

I heard one of the customers in line behind me ask for a martini.

Not my choice of drink for a sporting event, but hey, to each his own.

The ball is sent up top to the captain, Mackenzie Dixon, a rookie from Oregon.

She graduated recently from Portland State.

A Division I superstar whose name was on all the right lists.

And now she’s here serving as captain. It was a bold choice; I’ll give them that.

But Maxwell Cromwell showed by the players he chose that he isn’t like most owners.

His money speaks for itself. It’s how he was able to build and buy this type of a team.

He saw what a great investment NWSL teams are to women’s sports, and he took that chance.

It was an honorable move. But everyone questions his motives and reasoning for setting the team up in Tampa.

Maxwell isn’t nearing retirement age, so he wasn’t looking for a state with a great retirement community.

Being in his mid-fifties, he still has some active years ahead of him.

I look up at what is the owner’s box. Its windows are edged with blue and yellow twinkling lights.

Maxwell is standing there, arms crossed, watching his team play.

Beside him stands his son—his pride and joy.

The man who will eventually hold all the interest in the Blaze.

That is, if they can survive this season.

And it’s not looking great right now.

“The girls are sucking air,” Nick, my friend and photographer, says from his spot beside me.

“They are,” I agree, shaking my head. “I’m not sure what Cromwell was thinking. This is a hot mess.” Even Coach Watts looks pissed off and disappointed.

He chuckles, opening up the program we were all given when we arrived at the stadium. A special press packet that outlines all the players and their stats. “It’s a wonder they chose Nathan Watts to lead this team. He had a cushy spot in Portland. Why come all the way to Tampa?”

“Fuck if I know.” Two of these players, Mackenzie and Cassie come from Portland, so he could have easily coached them in Portland.” He’s reading that paper a lot closer than I bothered to.

Fans have already started to file out. There’s no use in being here if the home team isn’t going to pull it off, though the visiting Racing Louisville fans are sticking around. They might stay around to celebrate the victory of the inaugural match between the teams.

Everyone who invested in this team has to be pissed. There were big predictions about what these women could do.

“It’s weird, too, because they're full of Division I standouts,” Nick tells me, still reading from the booklet. “You’ve got Mackenzie Dixon at striker and Cassidy Simmons playing midfield. Both are Portland State grads.”

“Cromwell must have gotten a pretty sweet package deal for them. Especially since he got Watts,” I remark. “What else does it say?”

“You know, you could read this thing yourself,” Nick reminds me.

I flip him off in return, which doesn’t stop him from continuing. Saves me from having to read it.

“Amelia West is serving as their wall of a center-back. Based on her college stats, she’s an awesome player.” Nick points her out on the field.

I see where she’s playing. “Well, the scored goals weren’t really her fault. She can’t be everywhere on the field. Defense has to step it up.”

Nick nods. “The goalkeeper isn’t much of a wall, despite that being her nickname at UCLA.”

“What’s her name?”

“Hendrix Monroe,” he replies and then adds, “Odd name for a woman.”

I chuckle. “I feel bad for these women. Every one of them seems like they were a standout at one point or another in their career. That doesn’t mean it’s going to go well here, you know?”

“Be sure to be kinder about that in your write-up.” Nick takes a sip of his beer.

“I saw an interview where Dixon said how exciting it was to join a team that was being built from the ground up. I wonder if the 3-0 loss still has her feeling that way.”

“Probably not,” Nick replies, rising as the buzzer sounds. “Thankfully that’s over.”

We both applaud, but there’s not much coming from the other fans.

There are only a few Tampa fans hanging out.

Most of them have kids, and their little girls, wearing soccer jerseys from what looks like a local soccer club, are waiting to catch a glimpse of the professionals.

None of them are wearing Blaze jerseys, which doesn’t really surprise me.

There are only a few veteran NWSL players on the team, and none of them made a splash today.

“Are we going to wait around for interviews?” Nick asks. “I think I got enough pictures, but I can get one or two in the pressroom, if you want.”

I nod. “Yeah, Martin is going to require it. I should see if any of them regret agreeing to play for the Blaze.”

“Don’t be an asshole.” Nick chuckles. “That game didn’t hold much promise, though,” Nick concedes, like he knows I might be right to ask.

“I know. Sure, they’re new, but I expected a bit more than that.” I sigh. “Think I should still ask them about their goals for the season? Or should it be more of a ‘how do you plan to survive’?”

We both laugh.

“It’s probably better if you stick to your normal MO and rip them to shreds.” Nick motions for me to start heading out of the aisle.

I make my way through the long halls that lead to the field, my press pass secured around my neck.

I run a hand through my dark hair and hope to god someone is in a talking mood when I finally reach them.

The halls are lined with yellow and blue stripes—team colors all the way down.

I swear I can still smell the fresh paint.

There’s a stage for the players to sit on, with a microphone table in front of them that has a tablecloth with the Blaze logo displayed prominently in the center.

Below, chairs are lined up in rows, with an aisle down the middle.

I sink into one of them and listen as the other reporters are busy talking amongst themselves.

“Nice digs,” Nick says beside me, his tone mocking.

The girls keep us waiting, like all teams do. The coaches probably had a lot to say after that performance. The doors off to the side of the stage open and Coach Watts, Dixon, and Monroe come in to talk with us. Brand-new little deer brought in for the slaughter.

I sit back and watch Dixon answer a reporter’s question.

Monroe is sitting there like a dog that’s been kicked one too many times and is terrified that one of the questions could be about her performance.

Mine won’t be. I’m focused on Dixon. I turn my gaze back to her, as she’s still speaking, answering her questions with a tight smile.

I haven’t been listening, so I have no idea what question she is answering.

I wonder if it’s as unfriendly as my questions are going to be. Because that’s what I’m known for. Being a hard-ass reporter who has stared right at athletes like Tom Brady and asked, “Why the hell are you still playing football, man?”

It was a mean question, but it got the attention of many sports outlets and landed me a job with the Tampa Bay Times, a top-notch paper in Florida.

Through all the changes with social media taking over, they’re always finding ways to be inventive.

We’re exploding in our online presence, and the paper even lets me take to TikTok to spout my thoughts on sports teams. The public eats that up.

I raise my hand and wait to be recognizes me so that I may ask her my questions. When the woman in a blue pantsuit finally gets to me, Dixon bites her lip. She must have heard of me.

“Go ahead, Mr. Taylor,” the suit says.

I stand and smile at her. “Thank you,” I reply sweetly. I want the office staff to still think favorably of me. However, I doubt Ms. Dixon will once I’m done with her.

“Are you still excited to come to the Tampa Bay Blaze after that performance tonight?” I ask her.

“What do you mean?” she stammers out, looking to the suit for help. “I’m sorry, I’m going to need more.”

Her tone is small and unsure. I almost don’t want to do this to her, but I will.

“After the performance you just put on out there. Do you still think you and this team have much promise? I mean, you’re the striker, am I right?” I wait for her to nod. “Can’t be good for the one responsible for scoring to not even get one shot off on goal.”

I sit back down because I don’t actually anticipate her having a good answer for my question. The new ones never do. There’s a rumble in the crowd; whether they agree with my question or not, I have them talking. And they might be just as interested in my question as I am.

“Well, sir—sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” she sputters out.

“Taylor. Danny Taylor,” I reply, standing again, my smug smile in place.

“Mr. Taylor, it’s not just my job to score.

” She sits up straighter like she’s more prepared now to answer.

“This is only the first game. You shouldn’t be so quick to be so dismissive of us.

We are going to find our rhythm and show you just what this team is made of.

So, give us all a minute before you speak so disrespectfully about my team. ”

I love the way her jaw juts out in defiance, and I love that she challenged me. I don’t doubt that she will, with that determination.

“I guess Tampa will just have to wait and see if you can deliver,” I shoot back. I don’t miss the way she glares at me.

The next reporter is called on, and it’s a question for Monroe. If my question would have been for her, I doubt she would have been able to answer.

Dixon’s blue eyes are locked on my dark brown ones. The front office woman places a hand on her shoulder, and her attention turns away from me. They exchange a few words, and Dixon gets up to leave the room. The press conference is over.

A few of the reporters shout out, “Mac, Mac.”

It dawns on me that when I did my research on this team, there were several articles that called her “Mac Attack.” Grinning ear to ear, I realize I have the perfect title for my article. She may hate that name by the time I’m done with her.