by Liz Lincoln
* * *
—
Shit, Natalie was in the locker room. Quinn had really hoped to escape before she got back from the postgame press conferences with Coach and Matt, but he’d been held up talking to Clay Horton from ESPN. They wanted to do a sit-down before the Dragons’ Monday Night Football game in a few weeks. Though Quinn had referred Horton to his agent, who handled all media requests, the veteran reporter wanted to run a few ideas before Quinn before talking to his agent, Dana Otto.
Quinn had been wary of doing too much in-depth stuff with the media. Natalie’s article had left him with some trust issues. While no one knew his past the way she did—and she had at least kept that out of her article—the football world was small. They all knew his history. Inevitably they’d all read the article. So he’d avoided anything more than talking about on-the-field stories.
But Horton had ideas that could put things in a positive light. Win Quinn some respect outside the Milwaukee area. At least he was getting love from the Dragons’ rabid, loyal fans. Being the top receiver on the team went a long way.
Spitballing ideas with Clay had put Quinn behind. The locker room was clearing out, only a handful of players left. A couple reporters.
Including Natalie.
Quinn sat down outside his locker and tugged on his socks, then shoes. All the while, he watched her from the corners of his eyes. She chatted briefly with the two starting tackles, who’d both done an amazing job today protecting Matt. He hadn’t taken a single sack from Minnesota’s elite pass rush.
Tying his Nike trainers, Quinn still watched her. She was in slim gray pants that hugged her perfect ass and a red turtleneck that highlighted every curve. He wanted to cup that perfect ass in his hands and draw her down on his lap so he could kiss her the way he had two days ago.
Which was a terrible idea. But he’d barely been able to think about anything else when he wasn’t on the football field. Was that his life now, football and pining for Natalie?
Because the truth was, he couldn’t have her. For a million reasons, the most important being how badly she would hurt him again. She’d done it twice now, blindsided him. He wouldn’t set himself up for a third time.
But much as his brain knew why he should stay away, it didn’t stop his body from wanting her.
He stood, taking care on his left ankle. He’d gotten twisted up with the Vikings’ cornerback on a play in the third quarter and landed funny. Now that the adrenaline of the game had worn off, the injury was starting to hurt. Nothing some ibuprofen and an ice pack couldn’t fix, but the joint wasn’t thrilled when he tested it by putting all his weight on it.
A sensation tore through him, like tiny shards of glass shot through his veins. His hand shook as he reached for his jacket. Fucking cravings. He didn’t even particularly like narcotic painkillers, but it was such an automatic response, his body simply reacted. Meg said they would lessen over time. It hadn’t quite been two years he’d been clean and sober. And they had gotten weaker, less frequent. But even in predictable situations like this, sometimes they caught him off guard.
“You OK?”
Natalie’s gentle voice cut into the fog in his head and for once he was grateful for her interruption. It was too easy to get lost in his thoughts and start brooding over his addiction.
He shrugged his bag onto his shoulder. “Yeah, fine. Thanks.”
She frowned at him, creases marring her forehead. He had to shove his hands into his jacket pocket to keep from reaching out to smooth them.
“Mind if I walk out with you? I wanted to talk to you for a minute.”
He held out a hand, gesturing for her to precede him toward the locker room door. She gave him a tight smile and started walking. He followed.
Damn, that ass. He’d thought it was great back in college, but it had filled out just a little over the years. It was absolutely perfect. He fidgeted in his pockets, his hands wanting to grab it.
A stirring in his balls made him redirect his thoughts. He deliberately stepped too hard on his left foot so the pain would distract him.
Ow. Fuck. Dumbass.
They exited the locker room into the long, gray tunnel that led to the personnel parking area. Press had an adjacent lot. The sound of their footsteps bounced off the concrete walls, filling what would otherwise be an awkward silence. They walked side by side, almost close enough for her arm to brush his.
He noticed she was still carrying her denim jacket. “Here, I’ll hold your bag so you can put on your coat. It’s cold out.” Even with a heated field and the stadium blocking the wind, he’d been chilly on the sidelines.
She gave him another of those tight smiles as she handed over her laptop bag. “Thanks.”
He was hit with an urge, a need for one of her real smiles. He wasn’t even supposed to like her, yet he couldn’t stand the awkwardness between them today. All because of that stupid kiss.
Kisses. More than kisses. Touches. Confessions. And something else, something he couldn’t define. Something had changed Friday night and while he knew he didn’t want it, he also knew he had no power to stop it.
“Something you wanted to talk about?” he asked. As uncomfortable as she seemed around him, she must have had a reason to ask to walk out together.
She pulled her hair out of the back of her jacket, the blond waves spilling over her shoulders. It had been softer than he remembered. He wanted to slide his fingers into it—
“About the other night.” She cleared her throat. “I, um, I mean…”
She huffed out a breath on a soft exclamation that sent another stirring to his dick.
“I’m sure you think it was just as bad an idea as I do. I mean, you’re the one who stopped things and asked me to leave so I’m sure you do but I thought we should just put it out there and agree it was a mistake and that it can’t happen again.” Her words rushed out, strung together on one breath.
He grinned. Very little had rattled her back in college, and it was clear she’d only gotten more confident over the years. And as much as he agreed with her, he loved that he got to her. That he threw her as off balance as she threw him.
They’d reached the door. Before they stepped out into the cold, he wrapped his hand around her upper arm and turned her toward him. Her blue gaze lifted to his and it punched him in the chest. But he refused to let her effect on him show, keeping the grin on his face.
“I can agree we shouldn’t do it again.” He dropped his voice low, leaning in so she wouldn’t miss his words. He had no idea why he was doing this instead of simply agreeing and getting the hell out of there. The only possible explanation was that he made bad choices where Natalie was concerned. But he loved the excitement teasing along his skin as he watched her eyes widen and her nostrils flare. Only football came close to exciting him the way she did.
Her lips parted and it was so tempting to lean down and taste her. The craving for her was stronger than the one he’d had back in the locker room. But she was right. They couldn’t go there again.
That didn’t stop him from saying, “But, Natalie, kissing you is never a mistake.”
Chapter 11
More emails, more interviews, more video clips to review, more posts to edit and post. Work work work work: it never ended. Multitasking was Natalie’s way of life. She was currently driving across town to the research labs run by Matt Baxter’s wife, Celia. Their annual fundraiser dinner was next week, and in preparation for that, Natalie was doing a follow-up on the long-form article she’d done in April, talking with Marcus James’s fiancée. Bree Novak was a medical physicist and one of the Baxter Center’s top scientists. She was going to update Natalie on any developments in CTE—chronic traumatic encephalopathy—research, the brain disease that had devastated so many former football players and other athletes.
As she pulled into the parking lot of the Ba
xter Center, she dictated more to-do-list items to her phone. The list was already ridiculously long, ever expanding. Once out of the car, she typed as she walked, making notes about what to ask Bree and for other articles she had to write. Reluctantly she noted to ask Bree for a few details about her and Marcus James’s wedding plans. Because Ellen would never forgive her if she didn’t.
The security guard buzzed Natalie in and she followed his directions through the halls until she found Bree’s lab and office.
The scientist was bent over a laptop when Natalie entered, typing away. She was about the same age as Natalie, with long dark hair streaked with Dragons blue.
“Hey, Bree. Don’t stop what you’re doing,” Natalie said by way of greeting. “I can wait if you have stuff to finish.”
Bree looked up, tossing her hair over her shoulder with a smile. “I’ll just be a couple minutes. Have a seat.” She gestured to the two chairs that faced the desk in the back corner of the lab.
Natalie settled herself down and immediately pulled out her Bullet Journal and favorite pens. She flipped to a clean page and used the blue pen to make more notes about the article. All her work-related stuff was in blue, since the Dragons’ colors were blue and gold. And she’d yet to find a yellow pen that showed up on her cream paper.
A few minutes later, Bree joined her, dropping into the chair across from Natalie with a sigh. “It never ends, does it? I thought grad school was a lot of work, but shit, there is always something to do here. I feel like I could work 24/7 and still not catch up with my to-do list.”
Natalie flipped to a different page in her journal, her paper task list—she’d transfer the stuff she’d put in her phone later—that spanned the two-page spread. Only four items were crossed off. She held it up for Bree to see. “I don’t know whatever you could mean.”
Bree laughed. “Nice to know it’s not just my job.”
“My best friend is a teacher and on our suburb’s common council. Her task list puts mine to shame.” They needed to get right to the point, then. Natalie certainly didn’t have time to talk to Bree all day, and from the sound of it, neither did Bree. “Let’s talk about how your research is coming. With the benefit next week, I want to do a follow-up article Monday to post before the dinner, then I’ll do one about the benefit itself on Tuesday.”
Bree spent the next half hour explaining the latest work and discoveries the lab had done since Bree and Natalie last talked seven months ago. Natalie had taken enough science in college to understand they were making amazing progress in CTE research, hopefully moving closer to being able to detect it in living brains. So far, the tau proteins that were indicative of CTE were not visible on any imaging, so a definitive diagnosis could only be made postmortem. A major goal of the Baxter Center was to improve imaging technology to detect the proteins while the patient was still alive. As the senior medical physicist, imaging technology was Bree’s wheelhouse.
She claimed they were getting closer. Excellent news for the Baxter Center and for all players of contact sports.
“In fact, we just got some funding to pursue another research angle,” Bree told Natalie after she had summarized all their latest research findings. “It’s one of the big announcements Celia has for Monday night, so I won’t say any more.”
Natalie chuckled, grinning. “No exclusive for me?”
Bree smiled back. “Sorry. Boss’s orders.”
Natalie nodded. She understood. “It sounds like you’ve already done some amazing things in less than a year.”
Bree sat forward, propping her chin on her hands. “We really have. And you can put this humblebrag quote in there. We have done fucking amazing work. We’ve got great people working here, and we’re led by someone very much motivated to learn about this disease before it touches her personally. I think it helps having our director married to—well, sort of, since they’re separated but…Anyway, she still has a vested interest. I know some people think science should be more pure, research for research’s sake. But I think having personal motivation and drive is what sets us apart. We care about athletes and we want the best for them.”
Natalie scribbled furiously to get the whole quote. Fortunately she had her phone’s recording app going so she could review Bree’s words for accuracy.
“That’s not to say other scientists aren’t passionate about their work or don’t care. Just that, well, Celia and I have a personal investment in addition to that.”
Bree waited while Natalie finished writing. Once she had the words mostly down, Natalie closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath. She cursed Ellen for making her ask the next question. Because these sorts of articles were no longer optional-but-encouraged. They were now mandatory.
When she dreamed, once upon a time, of being an NFL reporter, not once had she envisioned asking the question on her tongue. But she opened her eyes, looked at Bree with a smile she knew came off more apologetic than anything else, and asked, “Speaking of Marcus, I have to ask about the engagement. Have you started any plans yet?”
Bree pulled back, obviously startled by the question. She tilted her head and frowned. “Really?”
Natalie liked Bree. And because her frustration level was reaching its limit, she couldn’t keep herself from saying, “I know it’s not what you really want to talk about. It’s not what I want to write about. But it’s what my bosses want. They want these kinds of articles to run alongside the football stuff.”
Last week, Natalie had spent time going through the data she had access to. She’d even emailed one of their people who did site analytics as his primary function and asked for additional data. And there was no evidence the gossip articles were bringing more traffic to their site. Readership rate was the lowest of any category. And when they had demographic data on the users, it didn’t support Ellen’s insistence that women wanted the content about wives and girlfriends and weddings and romance.
But when Natalie had shown the data to Ellen, she’d dismissed it. Natalie was to write the articles and that was that. All the more reason she had to work her ass off to get one of the two promotions opening up after the season. Then she would have more autonomy over her stories. A cruel irony that she had to write what felt like puff pieces so she could stop writing puff pieces.
Bree gave Natalie a sympathetic look. “That sucks. I’m sorry.”
“Thank you.” Natalie doodled a figure eight on her paper, something to keep her hand occupied. “I promise, the article with substance will be about the research. I’ll give your wedding plans just enough words to appease my boss and that’s it.”
Was it wrong to wish her boss and mentor was still the woman Natalie used to believe her to be instead of the woman she actually was? Natalie had preferred the illusion so much more.
“We haven’t done much planning yet. It’ll probably be in April or May, before offseason workouts pick up too much.” Bree made a facial shrug. “Probably have it here in Milwaukee. I don’t feel a particular need to go to my hometown, and neither does Marcus. My best friend Raina will be my maid of honor and Jaron Edmonds will be best man. I’m assuming Jaron Junior will be a ring bearer. That’s pretty much all we’ve got.”
Natalie could squeeze six hundred words out of that. Hopefully.
“Is that good? I haven’t had any time to do shit like look for a location or try on dresses. I think Raina and I are going to go dress browsing sometime around Thanksgiving. She’s engaged too, so we can multitask.”
Natalie nodded. “This should be enough. And maybe could”—she hated even asking, felt like a voyeur—“I get a picture of your ring to include?”
Bree quirked her eyebrows but agreed. They spent a few minutes finding a good backdrop and lighting, and Natalie used her phone’s camera. It would have to be good enough for Ellen and her bosses, because Natalie wasn’t devoting more time to it. Brain trauma research was far mor
e important to her than what designer Bree would wear.
Natalie was just switching back to her recording app when she heard footsteps behind her. She turned in her chair as Bree said, “Hey, Celia. You know Natalie Griffith, right?”
“Sure, hi.” Celia held out her hand.
Natalie shook it, Celia’s grip firm. The woman herself looked tired, with circles under her eyes that her concealer only partially hid. It couldn’t be easy being director of a research institute and a single mom to twin babies, one with extra needs. Talk about a to-do list that never ended. Natalie would hate to see what Celia Baxter’s looked like.
“That’s actually why I came in,” Celia said as she took the chair next to Natalie’s. “I don’t know if this fits in with what you’re writing about Bree, but I figured if you can’t use the information I have in that article, maybe you’d want to do a separate one. Or not.”
“Absolutely. That would be great. The more I have to work with, the stronger an article I’ll have.” Natalie turned toward Celia and moved her phone so it would pick up the other woman’s words.
Celia talked for a few minutes about the upcoming benefit dinner. Natalie was attending, along with the reporter for the Milwaukee Journal Sentinel. They were the only press invited. There would, of course, be several Dragons players there beside Matt, whose foundation was the main supporter of the Center.
That had to be really messy right now, with the two of them separated. But if she didn’t want to write about wedding locations, Natalie really didn’t want to get into the politics of running a research initiative with an estranged husband. She’d probably quit if Ellen asked her to dig into the Baxters’ marriage.
“We have a couple big announcements to make about new donors.” Celia gave a sly smile, and for a moment her green eyes lit up, sparking with mischief. “But of course I can’t tell you more than that until next Monday.”