by Amy Brent
“So, Jane,” he said, “what does a girl like you do when you're not writing about the exciting world of national finance?”
I had to stop and think about the question for a moment. “Not much, actually,” I said. “I haven't had much of a social life for a while now.”
“Too busy with work?”
“Maybe.” I shrugged. I didn't want to admit the truth, that I was too afraid to put myself back out there. The mistakes of my past relationship kept playing in my mind. It made it hard to socialize. It didn't help that all of my friends were single and they always wanted to go out to bars and clubs, hoping to pick up guys. I barely spent time with them these days because I didn't want to be part of that scene anymore.
“You need to get out more,” Hal said. “A woman as bold and strong as you could go out there and rock someone's world. I know you could rock mine.”
I glanced at him over the rim of my glass. He had this cute little smile, full of confidence, but in a quiet sort of way. “You think I'm bold?” I asked.
“You certainly didn't pull your punches in the interview.” He smirked, then took another sip of his drink. “It's not often I meet a woman who knows how to carry herself so well. You look like someone who takes whatever assets you have and makes the very best use of them.”
He looked down at my “assets” and my face heated up. I'd worn a low-cut shirt to show off my generous cleavage. Being a big girl meant I had some very generous blessings in that department, and I wasn't afraid to use that to my advantage. When men were attracted to me, it made it easier to get them to talk during an interview.
“You're a charmer,” I said. “But I'm afraid you're barking up the wrong tree, Hal Masterson.”
“Why's that?” he asked, grinning as if it were a challenge. “You afraid I can't handle you?”
“You think you can?”
“Well,” he eyed me from head to toe, and he looked like he liked what he saw, “you're definitely a whole lot of woman. I like that. Real women are supposed to have curves. The kind a man can hold onto all night long.”
I lowered my eyes and swallowed hard. The images Hal was bringing to mind were certainly compelling. And he was certainly a nice-looking, healthy man. But I couldn't let myself consider such things. “I'm not looking to get involved with anyone right now.”
He sighed. A pout formed on his cute mouth. “That is a real shame, Jane. A real shame.”
We had a few more drinks. Hal eased off on the flirting a bit, but just a bit. I could tell that I had his attention, and under different circumstances, I would have enjoyed that. But aside from my personal baggage, there was the simple fact that he was the subject of a story, someone I had interviewed and planned to write frankly about. I made it a point never to get too close to the people I wrote about. His feelings could end up being hurt, since the article I had in mind was none too flattering. It wouldn't do to get too close to him, only to have it all crash and burn because of my writing.
After we chatted for a while and had dinner, it was starting to get late. I still didn't know where I was going to be spending the night. When we left the bar, Hal stopped in the hall and shoved his hands in his pockets. “So, Jane,” he said. “You need a place to stay tonight, right?”
I looked across the lobby. The snow had piled up even higher. There was no way of getting home tonight. I supposed that I could try walking to another hotel, but trudging through knee-deep snow at this time of night didn't seem like a very smart idea.
“Listen,” he said. “You can stay in my room.” When I opened my mouth to protest, he held up a hand. “No funny business. I mean, I'd be all over you if you were willing. You're one fine woman, and I'd consider myself lucky to spend the night with you. But what you need is a place to sleep, and I've got a room. You can have the bed. I'll have the hotel staff send up a rollaway mattress for me to sleep on.”
“You don't have to do that, Hal.”
“Yes,” he said, “I do. What kind of guy would I be if I left a lady out in the cold?”
His smile was genuine. He'd turned off the flirtation and the charm, and he was simply offering me a place to stay for the night. I couldn't help but smile.
“All right, Mr. Masterson,” I said. “You've got yourself a deal.”
We went up to the room. Hal let me use the shower first, while he spoke to the hotel staff about getting a rollaway mattress and some extra pillows, towels, and bathrobes. I found all the amenities I needed: little travel-size containers of shampoo, conditioner, toothpaste, and so on. I decided to treat the night like a little vacation. It was a hell of a nice hotel, and the room had a king size bed, a mini-bar, and a huge flat-screen TV.
Once I was cleaned up, I checked the TV for news about the storm, while Hal took his turn in the shower. It looked like everything would be cleared up by morning, which was good. I didn't want to be stuck here any longer than I had to, no matter how nice it was.
“Thanks again, Hal,” I said as I settled in for the night. “I really appreciate this.”
“No problem at all,” he said. “It's the least I can do for a lady, especially one as sweet and lovely as yourself.”
I turned off the light and lay in the bed, staring at the ceiling in the darkness. I half-expected Hal to come over and try to put the moves on me, but he didn't. He was a perfect gentleman. He deserved a lot more credit than I'd given him, it seemed.
Hal filled my dreams that night. In my dreams, he wasn't a gentleman at all. He was rough and assertive, the way I liked it, taking me to his bed and giving me what I needed. My body grew warm and I writhed beneath the sheets, feeling his dream kisses as if they were real. In that place halfway between sleep and wakefulness, I heard myself moan, and a distant part of me wondered if Hal had heard. A deeper part of me wanted him to.
I woke in a sweat in the early hours before dawn, filled with need. Hal lay sleeping on the rollaway mattress across the room. I rose from the bed and walked over to him, looking down at him. The sheets hung halfway off of him. He wore only a pair of silk pajama bottoms. His bare chest was covered in hard muscles, and with his shirt off I saw that his tattoos extended across his torso as well.
I reached out and touched them, sliding my fingers across the tribal designs. He stirred softly, letting out a soft moan in his sleep. My fingers kept moving, tracing across his muscles, feeling the warmth of his skin. I knew that this was a bad idea. We had a working relationship, and I wasn't in a place in my life to be ready for romance. But in that moment, I didn't care.
I pulled down the sheets and slipped my hand into his pajama pants. He gasped in his sleep, but he didn't stay asleep for long. “Jane?” he whispered as he woke to my tender touches.
“Shh, baby,” I whispered back, climbing on top of him. “I know you wanted this.”
“God yes,” he said. “But...are you sure?”
I stroked him to show him just how sure I was. He reached up and touched me, his hands sliding over my curves. He slipped his hands under my shirt, then pulled it off. “So soft,” he whispered, leaning up to bury his face between my breasts. “Soft and warm, just like a woman should be.”
“You want to feel the way a real woman feels?” I asked.
“Oh yes.”
I could tell just how much he wanted it, and I was ready to give it to him. I slid him inside of me and he gasped, grabbing my ample hips. He gently guided my movements as I rode him, taking my time, enjoying every moment of it. We melded into one another, his firm hands gripping my buttocks, his lips seeking my neck, my breasts. The rollaway mattress squeaked beneath us, shifting with our movements as they became more frantic and energetic. Then he grabbed my hips tight and gasped as climax overcame him
We moved to the bed for a second round, then fell asleep in each other's arms. I drifted off to sleep, thinking that this little “vacation” was turning out pretty damn good after all.
* * *
In the morning I was up and getting dressed before Hal had even woken. When he
woke up, he sat up in the bed and looked me over. A blissful grin was on his lips, as he was no doubt reliving our experiences from the night before. “Good morning, beautiful,” he said.
I didn't look at him. “Good morning.”
“In a rush to head out?” he asked, the grin fading from his lips. He got up and went over to the window, peeking out through the curtains to look at the street below. “Looks like they've plowed. You won't have to worry about being stuck here. But I'd like it if you'd stay for breakfast.”
“I really can't,” I said.
He stepped over to me and put his arms around me, then kissed my shoulder. “Why not?”
“Because this was a mistake.”
He pulled away, a hurt look on his face. “What? Why?”
“Because,” I said. I huffed and searched for my jacket. “Because of who you are. Because I'm not in a good place right now. I...”
I looked up at him. My heart ached at the pain in his eyes. I reached up and caressed his cheek. “It was nice, Hal. It really was. But we have different lives, from different worlds.”
“That doesn't mean...”
“Yes, it does,” I said. “I'm sorry, Hal.”
I gathered my things and hurried out the door before he could try to change my mind. I didn't want to regret what we'd done. It had been a wonderful experience. But now, in the light of day, I had to remember all of the reasons that it had been a bad idea. I had a life to get back to, and it was a life that this billionaire football player had no place in.
I went back home, my car trudging through the snowy roads amidst all the backed-up traffic. Plows passed by me here and there, and the main roads were mostly clear, but a lot of local roads were still covered in a few inches of slush. When I finally got over the bridge and back home, my back was sore from being in the car for so long. Though the workout I'd gotten the night before might have been a contributing factor.
I spent the next few days working from home, typing up both the Jonas GMS story and the separate story on Hal Masterson. I obviously left out any details of what had happened between Hal and I, focusing purely on the financial aspects. I was none too flattering. My story painted Hal as a lucky man who'd stumbled into his fortune, making his millions off the hard-working backs of people like Brett Jonas. I gave him credit where credit was due: his investments had surely helped the Jonas Corporation to grow, and without the money they would never have achieved the success that they had. But Brett Jonas and her family had done the hard work, and Hal had simply gotten rich off of it.
Which was not to mention how overpaid Hal was as an NFL quarterback. I ripped right into the economics of sports player salaries and how ridiculous it was that fans were charged ridiculous prices for tickets, food, and merchandise at the games, while the people who worked at the snack bars were paid little more than minimum wage, and the rest went to the players. It was a scathing review of the football industry specifically, and the sports business as a whole
I sincerely hoped that Hal would never read it.
I emailed the final drafts to Jim down at the office so he could look them over. A few days later, when I was back at the office, he called me in to go over the stories.
“Well,” Jim said, looking over the pages I'd sent him, “I'll say this, you sure didn't pull your punches.”
“I'm a reporter,” I said, standing in front of his desk with my arms crossed. “It's my job to tell it like it is.”
“You're right,” he said. “And I like what you did here. I've got a few edits—you were a bit harsher than you needed to be, and I want to give these a more neutral tone—but all in all you've done good work. I'd like you to expand on this. Do some more research into the goings-on in the sports world. Research the economics of it. Ticket prices, those crazy high markups on beer and hot dogs, that sort of thing.”
“Jim...”
“Come on, Jane,” he said. “This is good stuff. I want to see more of it.”
I had no interest in having any more involvement in the sports world, but it seemed like I was stuck with it. At least I'd found an angle that I could embrace, attacking the economic disparity between the overpaid players and their underpaid concession stand workers. People always talked about how the workers at places like Walmart and McDonald's were underpaid, many of them barely able to live off their minimum wage salaries. I could draw on that area, lay out some parallels, and write some compelling pieces on the subject.
I went back to my office to see what else I could come up with. While I was sitting there, my phone rang. It was Hal. Again. He'd called more than a dozen times in the last few days, but I'd ignored every call. I couldn't deal with getting involved in another relationship right now. But I also knew I didn't have it in me to hear the heartache in his voice when I shot him down. The easiest solution, even if it was the cowardly solution, was to ignore his calls until he moved on. I was sure that soon enough, he'd find some nice young honey among his fans, and he'd forget all about me.
A few weeks later, our lead sports writer, Frank Gafferty, stuck his head into my office and said, “I think you broke Hal Masterson.”
I turned towards him, my face going pale. Did he know what happened between Hal and I? How had he found out?
“He blew his last three games,” Frank said, stepping into my office. “Reports are he's been distracted. Everyone's saying it's because of that article you wrote.”
I felt a wave of relief wash over me. If it was about the article, then no one would know that I'd slept with Hal. “He's that broken up over my article?”
“That's what they're saying.” Frank shrugged. “Word from the locker rooms is he talks about you all the time. Can't seem to get you off his mind. It's screwed up his concentration. People are screaming for your head.”
“My head?”
“They blame you for the team losing,” Frank said. “You know how sports fans can get. If Hal said his Fruit of the Looms were bad luck, his fans would be forming a mob to torch the underwear factory. I've checked some of the bigger online forums. They're smearing your name, saying you're trying to destroy football.”
I rolled my eyes and snorted. I couldn't care less what a bunch of rabid sports fans thought. “All that means is that my writing is getting a lot of attention,” I said. “They can smear me all they want. You can't pay for that kind of publicity.”
After Frank left, though, I couldn't help but wonder if my article was really the reason Hal was so distraught. None of his fans could know what had happened between Hal and I. What if, I thought, he was losing his games because he couldn't get me off his mind?
Had the man really fallen for me?
* * *
I finally decided I had to call Hal. Not because I wanted to. Not because I was ready to. But because I missed my period.
Three home pregnancy tests later, I was convinced of the truth. There was no avoiding it. Hal had been on my mind for weeks, and now I was out of excuses. I picked up the phone and found Hal's number. He still hadn't given up on me, as evidenced by the missed calls I still got every few days. He'd also sent flowers, chocolates, and a giant pink teddy bear to my office. My coworkers had been talking about it for weeks, trying to figure out who the mystery man was who was sending me so many gifts. I never let them see the name on the card.
I was ready to dial the number, but I couldn't make myself hit the call button. This sort of news really couldn't be delivered over the phone.
I'd have to talk to him in person.
I checked the schedule of Hal's games. Next Sunday, he was playing in New York. That was about a two hour drive from where I lived, but I could manage. I wasn't sure how I'd get in to see him once I was there, but I knew I had to do it this way. He deserved to hear the news from me face to face.
I spent the days before the game going over what I planned to say, over and over again. I couldn't find a way to get the words straight in my head, which was funny, considering that I was a writer. I thought about writing it
all down so I could organize my thoughts, but that was too impersonal.
When Sunday finally arrived, I left early to beat the traffic, driving upstate towards New York. I got there with plenty of time before the game. I searched through the stadium, which held only small handfuls of people this early in the day, until I found a “Player's Only” area guarded by a large man wearing a black shirt that read “SECURITY across the back. I walked up to him and told him I was here to see Hal Masterson.
“Sorry, ma'am,” he said. “No fans beyond this point.”
“I'm not a fan,” I said. I pulled out my press ID badge and showed it to him.
“No press, either,” he said. “There's a press box reserved for...”
He paused and read the name on my ID. “You're Jane Edison?”
The scowl on his face told me that he knew about my scathing article and the effect I'd had on Hal.
“Just a moment,” he said. He stepped to the side and spoke into a radio. I couldn't make out what was being said, but I heard an angry tone coming from the voice at the other end.
Before the security guard said anything to me, the door behind him opened and Hal came bursting out. “Jane,” he said, breathless. It looked like he'd run all the way here. “I'm so glad to see you.”
I looked him over. He was only half-dressed for the game, his chest bare and glistening with sweat. He drew some looks from the other people in the stadium, a few of them whispering his name.
The security guard stepped up and leaned close. “Mr. Masterson...”
Hal glanced at the man, then looked around at the fans ogling him. He took my hand and said, “Come with me.”
He led me through the door and down a hall that lead to the locker rooms. He pulled me into a room to one side, filled with equipment for physical therapy.
As soon as we were in there, he kissed me.
He didn't stop at just a kiss. His arms reached around me, caressing my generous curves. I held myself stiff for a moment, then melted into his embrace. I'd wanted this, even when I'd tried to deny it. I still felt like I was a mess, that I would screw up any chance we might have at a real relationship. But I was aching for his touch.