by Violet Duke
Within seconds, he was just Jackson Gray again, senior analyst of DBC Sports Network.
Inwardly, she mourned the loss. She was really starting to like the side of him that required closed doors and hushed voices.
When he launched into a quick breakdown of what was to come over the next two weeks, Leila found herself employing the nifty little trick she’d learned back in her undergrad years, during seven a.m. History 101 lectures—separating half her brain from her hand when she took notes. Her hand scribbled down notes like crazy while the detached half of her brain remained free to analyze all the differences in this version of Jackson.
His crooked grin was different, tilted to the left corner instead of the right. The tame corner. Plus, there was no accompanying gentle eyebrow quirk that made a girl wonder just how dirty his thoughts were at the moment. And his eyes…They’d tempered down from scorching to merely sizzling.
She’d miss the other Jackson, but the transition was undoubtedly for the best. This Jackson, she could be around without mentally undressing him.
Well, for the most part. The man was still gorgeous.
From across the room, he held up the selection of sweetened coffee creamers and waited patiently for her wandering brain to snap back to the conference room, without a comment or even a teasing look.
“No cream for me,” she called out finally. “But a fairly liberal pour of that sugar container, if you don’t mind. I usually stop at about two tablespoons. Or three.”
He chuckled and did exactly that.
There was something supremely attractive about watching a man doctor your coffee just so, she discovered, eyeing the shiny black mug with the iconic DBC Sports Network logo like it was filled with liquid gold.
He held it about a foot out of her reach, however, upon his return. Brow raised, he reminded her, “Your turn to tell me your reasons for hiding what you know about football.”
“The short answer? A friend of mine had some insider info about Lloyd and his mildly offensive thoughts about sideline reporters. I believe his exact words of advice for me were: ‘He can’t stand dumb bimbos, but he hates feeling like anyone knows more than him.’ ” Along with the extremely helpful: ‘He’s a boob and leg man so make that work for you and you’ll be all set.’ ”
His sharp eyes scanned her head to toe as he finally handed her the mug, handle side out to her.
Honest to God, everything the man did was so unassumingly charming. She couldn’t remember a man ever holding the business end of a piping hot mug, simply so the handle would be free for her to grab.
“So you’re telling me that these sexy business outfits aren’t your normal attire? Pity,” he teased, all friendly-like.
She flushed regardless. “Uh, no. I checked what your former sideline reporter used to wear as a wardrobe baseline. When I couldn’t find quite her level of…err, cleavage pageantry in a suit, I just threw some of my regular blouses into the dryer a few times and unbuttoned one more button than I usually do. But I skipped the colored bra that my friend maintained was Kendra’s go-to attire on the field.”
“This extremely helpful friend with all the good fashion advice wouldn’t happen to work for the Reno Outlaws, now would he?”
Startled, she glanced up. “You Facebook stalked me.”
“Are you saying you didn’t try to Facebook stalk me?”
She hesitated and then admitted, “Okay, yes, I tried. But you’re some sort of social media hermit. And you don’t have a single entry on Google. How is that possible?”
He shrugged. “I don’t like being in the spotlight. And my closest friends all live near me so social media seems redundant. So is Nick Torres the one who gave you the inside track on Lloyd? Because sadly, he was pretty dead-on.”
“Yep, that was Nick. He totally called it. He straight-out told me that Lloyd likes his on-screen girls to have ‘a certain look and energy’—which is apparently code for perky boobs and a nice butt.”
Jackson sighed. “Sorry about that. There aren’t enough excuses in the world I can offer for that man at times.”
She waved it off. “Honestly, I’m used to it. Dealt with men like him my whole life. Hell, I was raised by one.”
“Are we venturing closer to those deep, dark secrets, sunshine?”
“Well, if you Facebook stalked me, or even googled me, you already know that I’m the ‘other daughter’ of a Utah congressman.”
His lips twitched to the side. “There were a number of articles that referred to you in that way, yes.”
“So that’s my slightly less short answer. I don’t make my private life public because, insanely enough, it ends up making news somewhere—though to this day, I’m still mystified as to why anyone would care enough to know where I went for Spring Break my sophomore year, or why I was out drinking with six guys one night.”
She paused for a bit when a not-quite-hidden disgruntled look clouded over his features. Employing his own tactic of silent inquiry on him, she waited him out.
“I’ve never met a woman who didn’t have a single female friend on Facebook.”
She chose not to analyze why his nettled tone was so flattering. Instead, she answered his non-question. “I get along better with guys. I don’t have a lot in common with most girls.”
That’s when he surprised her completely. “Well, if you ever feel like making some female friends to break up the sausage fest, I have two you could call who are basically like sisters. One lives and breathes football, while the other is like you with the disproportionate male-to-female friend ratio. I can introduce you to them one day if you want.” He lifted a helpful shoulder. “I like ’em, so I assume you would too.”
Blinking, she tried to put a finger on what it was about him that kept throwing her for a loop.
“Anyway, we better get started on your training. C’mon.” He opened the conference room door for her and bee-lined through all the desks and cubicles to get to his office. “I don’t have much advice other than let your work speak for itself. You don’t have to dumb yourself down to the coaches and players, and you don’t have to bust their balls or try to dazzle them with excessive knowledge, either. Don’t fake it one direction or the other. These guys deal with that shit every day in a thousand different forms. Trust me, they’ll be plenty impressed with the real you.”
And there it was. That’s what she wasn’t used to. Him simply accepting her and admiring her for being her. Talking to him was just…easy. He made her feel like she could do anything, but only if she wanted. As if he saw boundless possibilities for her but no bar she had to prove herself by reaching.
It was nice.
She was pleasantly surprised to find he spoke to everyone in that same effortlessly supportive way. From the kid delivering the mail to the slick guy she’d met yesterday who’d tooted his own horn at least a half-dozen times within the first minute of their conversation.
Leila had always felt that one of the most accurate measures of a person could be gathered by how they treated others. In this office, it was clear that folks thought Jackson stood at least ten feet tall.
And though she barely knew the guy, she was already beginning to think he did too.
Chapter 7
Jackson took a seat at his desk as he motioned for Leila to sit. “I’m sure Lloyd expects me to teach you things like the fact that the football isn’t actually made out of pigskin, but I thought we’d customize your training a little more to your strengths.” He handed her an iPad already open to the screen he wanted. “This one’s yours; already loaded it up with all our software and logged into the accounts you’ll need to access.”
He grinned when Leila fell into the chair across his desk, an awed expression on her face as she scrolled through the information in the documents on-screen. “Jackson, I’m not supposed to have access to all this info yet. I just started my probationary contract. As far as I can tell, I’m basically just supposed to ask the questions they write for me.”
> “Like I said, sunshine, I customized this training to your strengths.”
That made her pause her scrolling. “How did you know? That I knew about football, I mean. Lloyd just thought I knew enough about all the sports to get by. He never caught on the way you did.”
“Kindred spirits and all. I could see a fellow football analytical mind in you; and the Facebook commentaries you posted on your timeline about the games all last season confirmed it.” He thought back to her posts. “Clearly, you’re a stats person like I am. So why’d you go for a sideline reporter position instead of an analyst?”
“I love getting on the field and talking to the coaches and athletes. I did it for a brief stint back in college and just got hooked. Don’t get me wrong, stats always give me the answers that I’m looking for. But seeing football from the coaches’ and the athletes’ perspectives…That teaches me to think about the questions I’m looking for, and how to ask the right questions. The questions that matter.”
“Like I said,” he murmured in approval. “Kindred spirits.”
“But I thought you don’t go out in the field to analyze.”
“Not since my glory days back in high school. But what I mean by kindred is that you see football in a different way than most of the folks here. No one sees it the way I do either.”
Her eyebrows hopped up in surprise. “You’re not all about the numbers?”
“I love the numbers, live for them. My dad and I used to talk stats almost my entire life. So career-wise, becoming an analyst was a natural fit for me.”
“So what do you see when you watch football?”
A small smile crinkled the corners of his eyes. “I see the perfect plays. Like one big puzzle. I see the pieces fitting together and revealing the bigger picture. Everything the players should do, along with what they end up doing…which creates a whole different, equally moving picture.”
“So you see the before and after. The potentialities and the realities.” She shook her head. “So why are you on this side of the field? You should be up in the box coaching and analyzing for the team, not the public.”
Shrugging, he gave her a sad smile. “We all have to play the hand we’re dealt. Being on that side of the game was never in the cards for me. But no matter, I wouldn’t exchange what I have here.”
After a long pause, she said, “For what it’s worth, I think you can always change your cards.”
“Ah, and that brings us into the territory of the complicated life I told you about.”
“Your deep, dark secrets.” She nodded. “Makes sense.”
A few more moments of silence passed, and he stared at her in surprise. “You’re not going to ask?”
She gave him a smiling headshake. “Not until I’m ready to tell you mine.”
“Good answer.”
“I thought that was the right one.”
Studying her amused expression, he nodded. “You know what, grasshopper? I know it’s still your first day, but I think you’re ready to be thrown into the deep end.” He grabbed his office phone and dialed a number from memory. When it began ringing, Leila leaned forward, curious.
“Are you calling to apologize, jackass?” barked the voice on the other end.
—
Leila’s eyes practically popped out of her head. She recognized the voice from a number of ESPN phone interviews. The legendary head coach of the Arizona Hawks was notorious for phone-only interviews. If that.
And apparently, he was on a creative-name basis with Jackson.
Jackson chuckled. “Skip, by the way, you’re on speaker phone. And Leila Hart, our newest sideline reporter, is here with me.”
Silence.
Then: “So you guys finally got rid of Kendra, huh? Or did she marry some poor, unsuspecting NFL retiree and quit on you?”
Ouch. Leila winced but couldn’t help the smile that mirrored Jackson’s at the moment. Skip Harding always did tell it like it was.
“Kendra actually got poached by another network,” called out Jackson. “Which is great for us because now we have a sideline reporter who actually knows about football. Enough to give me a run for my money.”
Skip grunted from the other end of the phone line, not in disbelief, but simply in his token gruffness that he was well known for. “Nice to meet you, miss.”
Leila knew that she should probably verbally genuflect and tell him how much of an honor it was to meet him. Or even bombard him with a hurricane of football facts to prove herself. But before these wise thoughts filtered in, her mouth opened and replied simply with, “Likewise,” and then the first question that popped into her head: “So what did Jackson do that requires an apology? Not that I doubt his doing a whole crap ton of things that would require many, many apologies. But I’m just trying to gauge if he pisses you off at nearly the same levels he does me. Professional curiosity.”
Leila felt her own eyes widen to the size of saucers.
That did not just happen.
Jackson was staring back at her in surprise as well, a wholly approving expression lighting his features.
After a stunned moment of silence over the phone line, Skip abruptly broke out into a loud, appreciative belly laugh—a sound she was positive that most of the Arizona Hawks personnel had never been lucky enough to hear. “Well, if you’re as pretty as you sound, I’m sure he’s pissing you off way more than he is me. My pretty years are a bit behind me.”
Leila had to pinch herself. Holy moly. Skip Harding had just cracked a joke. She pinched herself again to make sure she wasn’t caught in an evil dream loop where her dream self was really dreaming.
Skip’s gruff voice crackled over the phone line again: “As for what he did to me, basically, Mary Freaking Poppins here decided to be a show-off and somehow manage the impossible feat of getting my grandkids to go down for a nap right after their birthday party last weekend…which ended up leaving them wide awake all. Night. Long.”
“Some people were just born with a good storytelling voice,” defended Jackson, grinning and now outright laughing. At Skip Harding.
Leila didn’t have the balls for such a thing.
“You’re an evil little jackass,” returned the grumpy voice on the phone. “Maggie and I must’ve watched three hours straight of Barney, and that show about the little bald kid. I think somewhere in there was a pig and maybe a monkey, it was all a blur.”
Leila was losing the battle against not laughing. The mental image of the great Skip Harding watching a purple dinosaur dancing around was priceless.
“Okay, well, if you’re not going to have the decency to apologize, I’m hanging up to do some painful GM ass-kissing. By the way, I’m having a barbecue next weekend; you coming?”
Leila put her chin on her hand and awaited Jackson’s reply.
“You. The one who’s prettier than me. I’m talking to you, not the jackass. You coming to my barbecue?”
Her eyes rounded while Jackson’s danced with amusement. Somehow, by some unnamed miracle, she was able to answer in a relatively normal voice. “Yes. Yes, of course.”
“Good. Then you can bring the jackass with you.”
Then the line went dead.
Leila stared at Jackson, half-expecting him to jump out and yell, “Gotcha!” to prove this was some cruel but still utterly fabulous prank.
“He liked you,” stated Jackson, grinning his approval as he scribbled down a number on a Post-it. “Do you run?”
She blinked and tried to catch up to the next crazy segue…and failed magnificently. “Excuse me?”
“I asked if you run.”
“If someone’s chasing me,” she replied honestly.
Jackson chuckled again. “Call me at this number tonight to finalize the time and place. It’ll probably be early, and it’ll probably be somewhere around Cactus Creek. Bring your shoes. Lyle Peterson is in town visiting family and he’s a fitness freak. I’m going jogging with him tomorrow morning, and so are you.”
Leila
stared at him. “Lyle Peterson. As in Lyle Peterson the Scouting Guru?” she asked in an awed whisper.
“One and the same. He’s a good contact for you to make.” He checked the clock. “Shit, I have a presentation in an hour. I’ve got to get some work done. Our office assistant will take care of setting up your schedule. Let me know if you have any questions. Otherwise, I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
Leila stood to leave, but stopped, needing to say something. “Jackson?”
“Mmm?” he asked as he booted up his computer.
“I can see it, too.”
He turned his full attention back to her and gave her a questioning look.
“The picture you had for your life by now? I can see it, too. I think you’d make an amazing husband and father.”
She saw a turbulent wave of emotions pass over his features, before he murmured quietly, “So it’s not just football you see differently from everyone else.” His eyes ran over the length of her from head to toe, as if seeing something more than a mere sideline reporter standing before him.
More of what, she couldn’t name.
Just…more.
Though she felt a lightning bolt of jealousy over the idea of him getting married and having kids, the sadness in his eyes at that moment made her wish it so for him.
Just…maybe after she got over this massive crush she was developing on the man.
Chapter 8
Over the next few weeks, Leila took to her new job like fish to water. She quickly got used to Lloyd continuing to be a mildly chauvinistic and yet still basically good-hearted boss. A more potatoes than meat sort of producer. Slightly better than what she’d imagined coming into the job, but for the most part, pretty on-point with her assumptions.
Now Jackson, on the other hand…
He was continuing to prove himself to be far more than what she’d expected.
From what Leila could gather, the man knew the names of every single co-worker’s family members. In the entire building. He brought in extra doughnuts for the morning janitor because he knew those were her favorites. And he wrote a long sympathy card for Nancy in payroll when he found out her dog had passed away. Basically, he made everyone feel important and checked to make sure that they were all doing okay.