I give him a long, hard look. “I’m holding you to that.”
“You should. I want you to.” He leans back slowly in his chair. “Ready for some more good news?”
“I’m listening.”
Casey grins. “We’ve gotten the green light to expand the show to a daily format starting next month. That means we’ll be on air five days a week.”
I suck in a little breath of surprise. “Really?”
“Yup. Our ratings have been phenomenal this year—well, minus the month you were in Spain. Once you got back, our viewership not only rebounded but grew exponentially.” His grin stretches wider. “You’ve always been a hit with viewers, Emerson. You know your shit, you’ve got a great personality and you’re easy on the eyes. Once Renegades fans found out you’re the reason Reyes came to town, you cemented your place in their hearts. In case you haven’t noticed, you and Reyes are hugely popular around the world. Everywhere I look on social media, you guys are hashtag #RelationshipGoals. Your postgame kiss went viral and was still trending this morning when I checked.”
I chuckle. “So I’ve heard.”
At the start of preseason, Reyes and I made a pact to stay off social media for twenty-four hours after every game, win or lose. So when we got home yesterday, we fired up the grill and had our friends over for a pool party. It was lots of fun and relaxing, just what we both needed.
“The network execs want you to be happy,” Casey tells me. “They don’t want to lose you to ESPN or the NFL Network. So we’ll be renegotiating your contract with Molly. Of course, we also have to find you a new co-host, which means auditioning a bunch of people while Jack is on suspension. You won’t have the final say on his replacement, but you’ll definitely have a ton of input.”
I smile. “I really like Lester. He deserves a shot.”
“Agreed. That’s why he’s co-hosting today. And DeVante Spriggs will be joining you guys to brag about his new ‘assassin QB,’ who he’s been serenading on social media since yesterday.” Casey grins, rocking in his chair. “Our Team Ticker set will be getting a big makeover, and on Fridays we’ll have a live studio audience. If you’ve got any suggestions or requests—”
“I do, as a matter of fact.” I look him in the eye. “I want more autonomy with my wardrobe.”
He stops rocking, his eyes narrowing suspiciously. “How much autonomy are we talking about?”
“Complete autonomy.”
He laughs. “Good one.”
“I wasn’t joking.”
He stares at me, sees my serious expression and groans. “C’mon, Irish. You’re killing me here.”
“Sorry, but I don’t enjoy dressing like a bimbo on TV. It’s sexist and demeaning, and it hurts my credibility.”
“I disagree,” Casey argues. “Not only did you graduate from Princeton, but you also have an encyclopedic knowledge of damn near every sport ever invented. No one would be dumb enough to question your credibility—”
“And yet some do.”
“Because they’re idiots. And they’re in the minority.” Casey scowls at me. “Look, even though you’re married now, plenty of our viewers still enjoy fantasiz—” He catches himself and quickly amends, “I mean, they still want to admire your beauty while hearing you analyze the games of the week.”
I scowl. “They can’t admire me when I’m fully clothed?”
“That’s not what—”
“Look, I hear from a lot of young girls who look up to me. Girls who love sports and aspire to host their own TV shows one day. What kind of message are we sending them? That being smart and talented isn’t good enough to succeed in this business? They have to cater to the male gaze—”
“Oh, for Christ’s sake. Don’t start with that male gaze bull—” Casey breaks off in frustration, scrubs his hands down his face and tries again. “You’re young, Emerson. But you’ve been around long enough to know how this industry works. Men are visual creatures, and they enjoy eye candy. That’s just the way it is. I don’t make the rules.”
I glare at him until a dull red flush crawls up his neck.
“In the spirit of compromise,” he grumbles, “I’m willing to add more, uh, conservative outfits to your wardrobe rotation. A few more pants. Less miniskirts and low-cut tops. How does that sound?”
“It’s a start.” I study my manicure. “In the meantime, if I happen to hear from any ESPN producers—”
“Okay, okay! You can have the final say on wardrobe!”
“Really? You mean it?”
“Yes, dammit,” Casey grits out.
“Awesome!” I whoop excitedly, clapping my hands and bouncing in my seat. “I know we don’t have ESPN’s budget or stylists, but it is possible for hosts to look good without looking slutty. A perfect example is the shirtdress I brought from home today. I got it in Barcelona when Reyes took me shopping.” I sigh at the memory. “He was so sweet and adorable, waiting patiently while I tried on one outfit after another. I could always tell which ones he really liked because . . . well, let’s just say he wasn’t afraid to show his appreciation,” I confide with a breathy little giggle, twirling my hair around my finger. “Anyhoo, the dress I’m wearing today is sexy but classy. It’s cream and black with a color-block pattern. Sooo freaking cute!”
My bimbo babble has Casey’s eyes glazing over. “Sorry,” he says when I finish. “Was there a point in there somewhere?”
I widen my eyes with exaggerated innocence. “Since you care so much about what I wear, I just assumed you were into women’s fashion?”
“Hahaha. Very funny.” He gives me a sour look and snorts. “Thank God you’ve got a brain in that pretty head of yours, Irish. I’d pull my fucking hair out if I had to listen to your airhead alter ego every day. That little act you just put on?” He shudders. “Don’t ever do that again.”
I burst out laughing.
“Seriously. You couldn’t have made your point more brilliantly.” He leans back in his chair with a smirk. “Any other demands?”
“JoEllen needs a raise,” I say unequivocally. “She’s a hard worker, and since she’s always caught in the middle of our wardrobe disputes, she deserves to be compensated for any emotional distress we unintentionally inflict upon her.”
“Seriously?”
“Seriously.”
Casey heaves a sigh of resignation. “Fine. I’ll take care of it.”
“Thank you.” I smile blithely and glance at my watch. “Well, I’d better go get ready. We can continue this discussion after I’ve consulted Molly.”
“To come up with more demands?” Casey looks and sounds so disgruntled that I have to laugh. I think Aunt Blanca would be proud of my negotiating skills. I’ll have to call and tell her I was channeling her energy.
“By the way,” Casey says as I reach the door, “let your husband know that Jack won’t be pressing charges.”
I freeze for a moment, then turn slowly around. “What are you talking about?”
Casey stares at me, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. “Did you not . . . Shit. You didn’t know.”
“Know what?”
Casey grimaces. “Jack told me he had a little altercation with Reyes.”
I tense even more. “Altercation?”
“Um, yeah.”
“When?”
“Yesterday evening.”
My mind goes into a confused spin. When did Reyes have an opportunity to . . . Halfway through the question, I remember that he and Greer ran out during the pool party to get more ice. They were gone longer than usual, come to think of it.
Casey scratches behind his ear. “After the game yesterday, Jack interviewed Reyes in the locker room and asked if he could get an exclusive for his column at the Examiner. Reyes brushed him off, but a few hours later, he called Jack to say he’d do the interview. Jack invited him over to his house so they could talk privately without getting interrupted by rabid fans. He was pretty excited, but when Reyes showed up, things didn’t go as planned. Appa
rently Reyes had heard about Jack’s comment to you during the pregame show, and he wasn’t happy about it. Words were exchanged and . . . well, let’s just say Jack is lucky not to be breathing through a tube this morning.”
“I see.” My voice has no inflection, but my heart is pounding.
“Don’t be mad at Reyes,” Casey says with a grim chuckle. “If he didn’t set Jack straight, Lester probably would have. He was pissed after the show yesterday and gave me a fucking earful.” His phone buzzes loudly on the desk, rattling the empty coffee cup beside it. “I gotta take this call. See you on the set.”
I can only nod before walking out the door.
I leave right after the taping. I don’t stick around to change my clothes or wash the heavy makeup off my face. I just grab my stuff and bolt out of there.
Forty minutes later, I stride through my front door and drop my handbag on the console table in the foyer.
“Reyes?” I call out.
There’s no answer.
I strain my ears, listening until I hear the faintest murmur of the television drifting down from the second floor.
I climb the stairs, turn right and head down the long corridor. I pass four spacious bedrooms and a darkened home theater before turning a corner to reach the large game room.
Reyes is stretched out on the big oversize couch taking a nap, his hands tucked beneath his head. He’s wearing long black athletic shorts and a sleeveless gray T-shirt that shows off his thickly muscled biceps and sexy tufts of hair under his arms. The playbook he’d been studying is lying facedown and open on his chest.
I stand there for a moment, soaking him in for as long as I can. Which won’t be long. He’s a light sleeper, prone to waking up at the slightest sound. It’s like he’s always alert to any threat of danger, always ready to defend his family and home. His mother once told me that his dad is the same way. Which means the protective instinct is stamped into his DNA.
Which means he’ll probably never change.
He’s been protecting you from bullies since you were kids. Why would that change now that he’s your husband?
I sigh inwardly.
“What’re you plotting over there?” Reyes rumbles without opening his eyes.
I grin wryly. “I’ll never be able to sneak up on you, will I?”
“Never.”
Chuckling softly, I toe off my heels and pad barefoot across the room to the couch.
Reyes’s eyes open, coming sleepily into focus as he gazes up at me. “Hey, you.”
“Hey, yourself.” I scoop the thick binder off his chest and hold it up. “Slacking on the job?”
He chuckles softly.
I’m kidding, of course. He memorized the Renegades’ playbook within days of joining the team. He watches hours of game film every week, maniacally dissecting every play in preparation for the next opponent. His name and the word slacking don’t belong in the same stratosphere.
I set the playbook on the floor and squat beside the couch, running my fingers through Reyes’s tousled hair as he stretches and yawns.
Across the room, the humongous television is tuned to an open-heart surgery on the Discovery Health Channel. Because the screen is so massive and the colors are so vivid, the pumping organ appears to be coming right through the TV.
“Eww. Look at all that blood.” I shudder with revulsion. “Why can’t you watch ESPN like normal professional athletes? Especially on a day when you’re being lionized on every single sports show?”
Reyes chuckles, scrubbing his hands over his stubbled face. “You know I love watching surgeries.”
“Sweetheart, the only thing you were watching was your eyelids,” I tease.
He smiles, thumbing the curve of my jaw. “How’d the taping go?”
“Good.” I grin. “DeVante was a fun guest. He couldn’t stop raving about you. I’m surprised he hasn’t sent you flowers and candy.”
Reyes chuckles again. “He’s not giving himself enough credit. He’s a stud receiver with great hands and explosive speed. I’m damn lucky to have him in my arsenal.”
“I totally agree. He just needed the right quarterback to come along and help him shine.” I smile, watching Reyes’s face as I casually announce, “Lester co-hosted with me today. Jack got suspended, and his contract won’t be renewed.”
“Really?” Reyes’s eyes glitter with dark satisfaction. “Good.”
“It is good. He created a toxic work environment, so I’m not sorry to see him go.” I search Reyes’s face. “Is there something you’d like to share with me?”
His jaw tightens just enough to tell me he knows exactly what I’m talking about. But he doesn’t respond.
I push to my feet, folding my arms under my breasts. “Casey told me you went over to Jack’s house. Under false pretenses, I might add—”
“What false pretenses? He invited me over there.”
“For an interview you had no intention of granting.” I give him a stern look. “What happened?”
He scowls. “I went over there to warn him to stop disrespecting my wife. After I said what I had to say, he scraped up a little courage and spouted off some dickwad comment I couldn’t let slide. So I punched him. I only hit him a few times before Greer pulled me back.”
“A few times?” I groan. “Baby, I’ve seen the kind of damage you can do with just one punch!”
His eyes flash a warning at me. “If you think I’m going to apologize for laying hands on that motherfucker, you’re out of your damn mind.”
“I’m not—” I stop myself, look up at the ceiling and count to five before continuing. “Jack is a complete piece of shit. Believe me, I’ve wanted to kick him in the balls plenty of times. God knows he deserved it. But you’re an NFL quarterback, Reyes. You’re not only the face of the Renegades franchise, you’re arguably the most popular player in the league right now. You can’t go around assaulting people—”
“If they have it coming, then fuck yeah, I can!” He pushes himself up on one elbow, a brief wince of pain flashing across his face.
“What’s wrong?” I ask worriedly.
“Nothing.” He scowls at me. “That smarmy asshole has been harassing you for months, Emerson. When I asked you about him that day after my interview, you denied there was a problem. Remember that?”
Defensiveness prickles my spine. “Obviously I was lying. If you recall, we weren’t on good terms at the time.”
His scowl deepens at the memory.
“Look, I don’t want to know what Jack said to set you off—”
“I wouldn’t tell you, anyway,” Reyes grumbles darkly. “And just for the record, I took Greer with me to make sure I didn’t kill the bastard.”
“Was that your idea?” I challenge. “Or did Greer overhear you on the phone with Jack and insist on going with you?”
Reyes’s surly expression answers my question. “The point is, he was there to restrain me if necessary. Doesn’t that count for something?”
“No.”
“No?”
I bite my lip to suppress a smile. “Maybe.”
He glowers at me.
“Look, all I’m saying is that I don’t want you going around beating people up. You could really hurt someone—or even yourself. I mean, what if you broke your hand? There goes the season. Or what if Jack decided to press charges? What if you got arrested and thrown in jail?” I soften my tone, almost pleading now. “I know things happen in the heat of the moment. But you don’t always have to resort to violence to resolve conflicts.”
His jaw moves from side to side as if he’s at war with himself. I know he is.
I sigh. “Promise me you’ll at least try to exercise restraint in the future.”
He gives me the longest look, the silence dragging out before he inclines his head tersely. It’s the barest of concessions, but I’ll take what I can get.
I smile tenderly, tracing the muscular contour of his bicep. “Thank you for defending my honor. I probably should
have led with that, but please know I’m grateful.”
Watching me from under his black lashes, he begins sliding his hand under my shirtdress. He has fresh calluses from yesterday’s game. The rough scrape against my skin spreads goose bumps over my body and hardens my nipples.
He murmurs, “I didn’t see you get dressed this morning—”
“Because you were downstairs with an ESPN camera crew preparing for your morning round of interviews.”
His eyes gleam at my somewhat petulant tone. “I’m coming on your show on Wednesday,” he reminds me as his hand kneads my outer thigh, causing my toes to curl against the hardwood floor. “What color are your panties?”
Biting my bottom lip, I slowly drag my dress up my legs to expose my black lace thong.
A low, approving rumble vibrates in his chest. “Get on top of me.”
“So bossy,” I say with a coy laugh, straddling him on the couch. It’s wide enough that I can plant both knees on either side of his hips.
He reaches up and cradles my head in his big hands, his eyes taking a slow perusal of my face. “You mean everything to me,” he says huskily. “I’ll do anything to keep you safe.”
“I know, baby. You always have and I love you so, so much for that. I just want you to be careful, that’s all.” I give him a wryly crooked smile. “One jailbird in the family is enough.”
He doesn’t even crack a smile. His simmering golden eyes and the stubborn set of his jaw make me sigh in defeat.
“Let me have a look at you.”
He eases back against the couch, staring up at me as I slowly lift his shirt. There’s a large purplish bruise on his right side from yesterday’s game.
I shake my head and cluck my tongue, cooing sympathetically, “Poor baby.”
“I’ll live,” he grunts.
“Such a tough guy.” Tucking one side of my hair behind my ear, I lean down and gently kiss his discolored flesh.
He sucks in a breath, his abs contracting under my lips.
My eyes flick up to his. “Did that hurt?”
“No. Do it again.”
I smile and brush my lips over the bruise, then start trailing soft kisses across his chest, running my fingers over his hard muscles as he groans with pleasure.
Get Over You (Dare Me Book 1) Page 38