laughed. Again. Suddenly, she realized how easily Brad amused her. And had her forgetting her work. Damn. She stiffened, reality taking hold. Brad could star in her nighttime fantasies, but that was it. Already the Jack Ass competition was questioning her talent and alluding to her being hired to seduce stories out of the players. The last thing she needed was to give those nasty speculations any basis in truth.
Raising her notepad, Amanda showed Brad what she had written. “Will rip the seams off the asshole’s ball,” she recited Tony’s quote. “I might need to leave off the nasty names he used, though.”
They shared a smile, the mutual attraction dancing in the air between them, but Amanda forced herself to be sober. She needed to get her interview with him, then move on before the other players slipped away.
She noticed the necklace around Brad’s neck and a story idea formed. “A lucky charm?” she asked, knowing baseball players were the most superstitious of athletes, though she’d known a few football players who’d give them a run for their money.
His brow furrowed. “Lucky charm?”
“The necklace.” She leaned closer, trying to see it again but pulled back to avoid another trip down lust lane. “Is that a Longhorn? As in, the University of Texas mascot?”
His hand went to the charm. “Yeah,” he said. “My mom gave it to me on the day of my first college game.” His serious expression was replaced by the cocky one he had been wearing. “I did a fine job of warming the bench to celebrate. My butt was downright smoking by the time I finally got a chance to prove myself.”
What about his father? He hadn’t said his parents had given him the necklace. Interesting…He had such a playboy image, hearing him talk about his mother surprised Amanda. Intrigued—from a strictly journalistic standpoint, of course—she wanted to know more. Fans gobbled up personal info about the players.
“You’ve done more than prove yourself since.” She didn’t mean her words as a compliment. They were simply a fact. During his twelve years in the majors, he’d become a near legend. Amanda didn’t give him time to respond, her mind racing ahead with her story idea. “Have you worn the necklace all this time?”
He reached up and touched the charm again. “Every single day.”
“So is it lucky?” Amanda asked. “Kind of like Michael Jordan’s college shorts he wore beneath his game shorts?”
He shook his head and shut the locker, leaning against it as he crossed his arms in front of his nice, broad chest. “Oh, no,” he said. “Don’t go making me superstitious. You want superstitious, you want our center fielder.”
Her mind scanned the roster she’d studied so intently before her job interview. “You mean Riley Walker?”
“Very impressive,” Brad said. “I like a girl who does her homework.”
She gave him a warning look, refusing to get pulled back into his flirtation. “Tell me about Riley.”
He ran a hand over his stubble-darkened jaw. “He rubs some kind of oil on his glove before every game. One night he couldn’t find it, and he had the entire team emptying their lockers searching for the damn stuff. It was pure craziness.”
“What kind of oil? Like a leather lubricant?”
Brad shook his head. “Honestly, I don’t know what the hell it is. Some peppermint-scented stuff. A Gypsy chick he dated in college fed him some junk about it creating a shield against bad omens. He really thinks he can’t play without it.”
Amanda could imagine the frayed tempers that must have been flying around the night of the missing magic oil. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll print this and make Riley mad?”
“I’m hoping you will.” Brad grinned. “Bastard owes me two hundred bucks.”
“I see,” Amanda said, leaning against the closed locker beside his, wondering if the outstanding debt meant Riley had a gambling problem. “Surely, he has the money.”
“Oh, he has the money,” he said. “He just doesn’t want to pay up.”
Amanda accepted that answer…for now. Still, she scribbled a note about Riley. Couldn’t hurt to see what his history looked like. She then needled Brad for a quote on the next week’s game.
“Can you pitch a third shutout in a row?” she asked. “That would be your first.”
“Only game day will answer that question, but I feel good. My arm is healthy. The team is strong.” He lowered his voice. “Have drinks with me after the game, and I’ll give you an exclusive.”
Drinks. An exclusive. A hot kiss. Sounded good to her.
What didn’t sound good, however, was risking her reputation. As good as he no doubt was, Brad Rogers was not worth compromising a career that had scarcely begun. Besides, there was his comment on his arm being healthy. It wasn’t. She’d recognized the little signs of injury while he was on the field. The way he flexed his fingers. The way he discreetly rotated his shoulder. He had a weakness and he was hiding it. Why?
Sticking the pencil behind her ear, she managed to smile. “A tempting offer, but no.” With true regret, she added, “I can’t, and you know it.”
His eyes narrowed on her face, his expression guarded but intense. “Too bad. Would have been fun.”
“Yeah,” she said, “but some things just can’t be.”
She paused, debating what to say to him, even as she told herself to walk away. But the truth was, his secret injury bothered her because she’d done the same thing. She’d pretended her knee was okay to pursue a shot at swimming in the Olympics. That choice had cost her her career.
Amanda waited until one of the players passed, then made sure her voice was low. “Ice that arm.”
His eyes flashed with surprise. Surprise that told her she was right. When he said nothing, Amanda didn’t know what to do. She started to leave, not sure she should have said anything.
His hand snaked out and shackled her wrist. She rotated to face him. “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said through gritted teeth.
She shrugged, not wanting to make him any tenser than he already was. “My father is an NFL team doctor and my sister is—”
“My arm is fine,” he insisted, an edge to his tone this time.
“Okay,” she said, but added in a whisper, “Ice it, Brad.” She thought of all the things she’d heard her father say to players. The sooner he got his muscles nice and cold, the better. “Don’t wait.” Realizing where his thoughts must be going, she said, “This isn’t about a story. I won’t report it. You have my word.”
He stared at her a moment, those blue eyes probing, looking for the truth, for proof he could trust her. Without another word, he let go of her and gave her a nod.
She left him then, but she felt his eyes on her. And, lord help her, it took every ounce of willpower to keep her attention from drifting to him. He’d earned a spot in her column for being so hot on the field.
He’d
