Tight End (The New York Nighthawks #14)

Chapter 1

RAIDEN

The lights in the damn media room were too bright.

They glared off every surface, turning the whole place into a sweatbox of tension and flashbulbs, like we were under interrogation instead of celebrating a Super Bowl win.

I sat off to the side of the elevated dais, legs spread, forearms braced on my thighs, watching the shit show unfold with my usual silence.

Reporters lined the rows like vultures, cameras flashing and voices overlapping, all of them salivating for a headline. I kept my face unreadable as Saxon took the heat up front. He didn’t need backup, but a few of us had shown up for him anyway.

Lennox leaned against the wall near the door. He was the owner of the New York Nighthawks, the football team I played tight end for.

Micah, my best friend and one of our linebackers, was farther back. Brady, Rhodes, and Nixon sat with me.

I kept my focus on Saxon, my jaw locked tight, already feeling the start of a headache crawl across the base of my skull. My muscles were coiled with restless energy that had everything to do with this circus.

I hated this shit—the lights, the fakeness, and the need to explain what shouldn’t need explaining.

But Saxon was holding the line like he always did—calm, stone-faced, his voice low and steady. PR had called this presser to kill the rumors about him and the new hire. She stood up front in a sleek dress, eight months pregnant and glowing, with a diamond ring the size of a marble on her finger.

That should’ve been enough to shut it all down. No fuel left for the fire. But the media couldn’t help themselves.

I was tuning it all out when the door opened again and something shifted in the room.

A woman entered in a rush, breathless, juggling a laptop, recorder, and what looked like a press pass she was clipping on mid-run.

She whispered something to a PR assistant, her blue eyes wide with apology, then made her way down the side aisle to an empty chair in the third row—one of the seats reserved for reporters from Empire Sports Network.

Someone must have been sick or flaked because I’d never seen her before.

She kept her head down, slipping into the seat quietly, trying to disappear.

It didn’t work.

I saw her, and everything slowed down.

Blond hair tied back in a messy bun like she hadn’t had time to do it right.

Soft tan skin, lean muscle under tight black jeans, and a black sweater that hugged her curves.

Her movements were smooth, balanced, controlled, and athletic.

Her posture gave her away. Shoulders back and head high, with the kind of confidence you couldn't fake.

I was willing to bet my next paycheck that she was an athlete or used to be one.

Her eyes scanned the room, alert and focused, not flustered by the noise or the pressure. She wasn’t some rookie. Even late, she didn’t look thrown. She was there to do a job, and she meant business.

She crossed her legs, the shift of her hips making me notice the exact way her jeans fit. My gut tightened and my cock swelled at how damn perfect they looked.

My blood went hot the moment she walked in, and now I felt it settling low and coiling with the kind of heat I hadn’t felt in a long fucking time.

I couldn't remember when a woman last sparked my interest, let alone made me feel this damn turned on.

I was shocked to find myself as hard as a fucking rock just from looking at her.

I wondered who she was and why she was here when this wasn’t her regular beat. I knew all the reporters who covered the Nighthawks, especially in smaller pressers like this one.

But I didn’t give a fuck why she was here. There was just something about her that fascinated me. I had a very strong feeling that she wasn’t just attractive. She was interesting. Rare.

My gaze stayed locked on her. I didn’t even try to hide it because I was kind of curious to see what she’d do.

At first, she didn’t flinch or squirm, but she definitely felt me watching.

Her chin tipped slightly, and she turned her head, not directly toward me, but enough that our eyes caught for the briefest second.

The moment she caught me staring, her breath hitched.

Just a tiny flicker. Her throat moved as she swallowed hard.

She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, kept her eyes forward, and adjusted her recorder like she wasn’t melting under the weight of my attention.

She tried to pretend she hadn’t noticed, but I saw the flush climbing her neck and the twitch in her fingers as she fidgeted with her pen. She was good at the mask. It was necessary in her line of work.

But I was better at spotting cracks, and I’d seen the hunger in her expression before she smoothed it over. Satisfaction surged through me. Slow and dark. She felt it too.

Then someone asked if the woman in the photo was Saxon’s type, drawing my attention back to my teammate as a deep frown shaped my lips.

I fucking hated it when reporters felt they had the right to pry into our personal lives.

I was about to jump in and tell them to back the fuck off, but Saxon beat me to it.

He answered flatly, “No.”

There was an audible pause, as if everyone was holding their breath waiting for him to elaborate. He didn’t. Like me, Saxon was a private guy. So I was shocked when another voice chimed in, pressing harder, and he didn’t even blink as he answered, “My fiancée, Ivy Fisher. She’s my type.”

Then he got up to walk out, just like that.

The room erupted, a dozen voices rising all at once. With a smirk, I shook my head and leaned back in my chair as I let the chaos roll right past me. That was the most Saxon thing he could’ve done—blunt and definitive. No room for questions.

My lips glided up into a grin when my eyes strayed back to the reporter I was having very dirty thoughts about.

She boldly met my gaze in challenge, then chuckled and asked, “What about you, Raiden? Do you have a type?”

Her voice cut clean through the chatter, loud enough to draw every head back toward the center rows. She smirked as she spoke, her confidence bleeding through the words like she’d been waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

Laughter rippled through the room. PR shifted uncomfortably, probably regretting ever letting her in. I stayed still, leaned back in my chair with my ankle on my opposite knee, one arm draped across the backrest beside me.

My gaze didn’t move.

Neither did hers.

The heat between us climbed another few notches. I could see her chest rising with each breath, her lips slightly parted as if she hadn’t expected me to actually look at her. To see beneath her mask.

I let the silence stretch long enough to make the air crackle. Let everyone else lean in to hear what I’d say.

Then I spoke, my voice low and even. “I do now.”

There was a pause, and I could feel her brace for whatever came next.

“Smart. Bold. Blond hair. Probably a former athlete. Sitting in the third row.”

That got them. The room lit up again with laughter, a few reporters nudging each other while the poor PR girl looked ready to dissolve into the floor.

The woman—whatever her name was—flushed deeper. But I admired her control because she didn’t break. Not all the way. She shifted her shoulders, straightened her spine, and cleared her throat before chirping, “I’ll be sure to let Dave know.”

I smiled and inclined my head to congratulate her for her smart remark. Dave was the reporter who would normally be perched in that seat. And he was indeed blond, outspoken, and a former hockey player.

“I’d like to add ‘sassy’ to my list,” I drawled. “Trust me, that in no way describes Dave.”

She couldn’t argue with that. Dave was all the other attributes I’d spouted, but he was also serious in a way that bordered on overdramatic.

Her eyes danced, and her mouth tightened, as if she was suppressing a smile.

But I was disappointed when she didn’t continue our banter.

Instead, she launched into a new question—this one intelligent and clearly well-researched.

It showed that she knew what the hell she was talking about, even if football wasn’t her regular beat. I respected that.

I still didn’t stop looking at her when I answered.

Honestly, I was amazed I said something that made sense, because all I could think about was the blush in her cheeks. The way her eyes dropped for half a second too long. How her body had reacted to mine like she knew exactly how it would feel to straddle my lap and ride me into the seat.

Fucking hell, I needed to shove off these thoughts before I had to stand and walk out of the room. Or I’d be giving the press a different kind of show.

Still, I leaned back again, my arms folded, and my eyes never leaving her face.

Yeah, I hadn’t felt this kind of pull in a damn long time.

And I sure as hell wasn’t about to ignore it.

The media room thinned out quickly once the press conference ended. Reporters scattered to file their sound bites, and players peeled off toward the exit. But I didn’t move. I had eyes on one thing only.

She stood near the far wall, tucking her tablet into her bag, with her body turned just enough that the curve of her ass tightened the back of her jeans and molded to her spectacular derriere.

When she glanced up and caught me watching, her breath caught in her throat, then her tongue swept across her bottom lip, leaving it glistening and so fucking kissable.

I pushed off the wall and closed the space between us in a few long strides, catching her wrist before she could bolt like I knew she was thinking about doing.

Her brows shot up as I tugged her down the hallway off to the side. Away from cameras and out of the direct line of chaos. She came willingly even though her eyes narrowed with suspicion.

When I pushed her gently against a wall, color flared in her cheeks, and her nipples pebbled against the thin fabric of her sweater. I’d already been hard since the moment I saw her, but I was fucking granite now.

The narrow hallway was dimly lit and empty. I pressed a hand to the wall beside her head, letting my body block hers completely. She swallowed hard, tilting her head back to meet my eyes, but her chin was still lifted like she wasn’t about to let me get away with anything.

Fuck, she was even more gorgeous up close. Compared to my six-foot-four height, she was petite, but I could see that she was lean and strong. Her curves were still mouthwatering and would fit perfectly against my body.

“You planning to take me up against this wall, Mr. Shaffer?”

Her dry question made me smirk.

“Not unless you ask me real nice.”

My voice came out lower and rougher than I intended.

Her nostrils flared, and her tongue darted out to wet her lips again. It took everything I had to hold back my groan.

I dragged my eyes from her mouth—full and pink—to her badge, dangling from a lanyard between her incredible tits.

“Have dinner with me, Marissa.” It was more a demand than a question.

The surprise on her face was quickly replaced with suspicion. “How do you know my name?”

I flicked the badge with my thumb.

“Oh. Right.” Her voice was sheepish, and her cheeks went pink again. That blush looked good on her, though. I couldn’t wait to find out just how much of her body would be that same color when I made her come.

Her deep blue eyes lifted to mine. “Is this how you get dates? Tell a woman she’s your type so she swoons and drops her panties right there on the floor?”

“Off the record?” I smirked.

She rolled her eyes and scoffed. “Duh. No one would believe I had this ridiculous conversation with you anyway. I’m nobody.”

That hit wrong. “Not to me.”

Her brows pulled together like she wasn’t sure whether to be touched or call me out for being full of shit. “You don’t even know me.”

“Exactly.” I dipped in just close enough to tuck a loose curl behind her ear. “That’s why you should have dinner with me.”

Her lips parted like she wanted to argue. Instead, she just stood there staring up at me, her eyes unsure and her breathing shallow as hell.

I tucked a loose piece of hair behind her ear and added, “Please?”

Her shoulders dropped half an inch, and her expression softened. Then she finally agreed. “Okay.”

I didn’t wait for her to change her mind. I laced my fingers through hers and started walking her toward the side exit. She followed without protest, our joined hands swinging between us like it was the most natural thing in the world.

When we reached the door, I glanced over my shoulder at her. “And to answer your question, I’ve never told another woman she’s my type. I didn’t have one before you.”