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HEAVY ON THE DIRTY

Emma

I had one goal.

Do. Not. Suck.

But it wasn’t that simple.

It also wasn’t easy.

And, quite honestly, not sucking was hard. I’m the third string for a reason. I’m new, young, and never worked in sports.

The stakes could not have been higher.

And, not to toot my own horn, but I killed it.

A new job at a new station, working in a new department, in a not-so-new city.

After years of doing my time bouncing around jobs in the smallest markets in the country, I got a big break.

Huge.

I’m back in the District.

I’m home.

Well, home is actually an hour west in the boonies but unless I want to be a counselor, work at a winery, or do scary secret stuff off the grid, there are no jobs there for me.

For the last few years, I’ve waded through the trenches. Literally.

I trudged through feet of snow and fought blizzards as a community reporter in small-town South Dakota. In the summer, I reported on bison and motorcycle rallies.

After that, I thought I was going to die of heat exhaustion in southern Arizona when I focused on important issues to the community like filling local jobs. It wasn’t because people didn’t want to work, it was because there was a lack of housing.

And trust me, I felt the pinch when I moved there. I had to rent the small room over Mr. Coolidge’s diner. It wasn’t even a real apartment. But when I got the job and couldn’t find a place to live, he offered it to me when I might or might not have broken down in tears while sitting in one of his booths while eating a stack of fluffy pancakes.

It was not my proudest moment, but at least I ended up with a modest room to rent.

I miss talking to Mr. Coolidge, even though I smelled like bacon the whole time I lived there.

Then there was my last job in a small town in southeast Kansas. Ask me if I dreamed of riding with tornado chasers when I decided to major in broadcast journalism.

The answer to that would be a big, fat no.

Never crossed my mind.

Definitely not something Emerson Hollingsworth had on her bucket list to live life to its fullest.

But that’s how it goes in this profession. You have to be willing to bounce around smaller markets and hope for your big break. Heck, I would’ve been fine with a mid-size break where I didn’t have to trek through snow, sweat my ass off, or run from twisters.

Working in a major market is a dream I knew I wouldn’t attain for a long time.

But I got my break.

A big one.

I landed an interview at the highest-rated station in one of the biggest markets in the country.

Washington, D.C.

A talent agent reached out to me after seeing my posts on social media. The job was for a sideline reporter in their sports department.

Okay, so a few important things to know about me … never have I played sports—past or present. I can confidently state that joining a team of any kind will not be in my future. My brother, Levi, is the one who excels in that area.

Who am I kidding? Levi shined in every area. He still does.

Perfect freaking Levi.

But I do not enjoy sweating, running, or hiking up a hill. I’ll make exceptions for escaping a wild buffalo or an F-5 tornado.

I do enjoy a good power walk. I can tear up a mall with the best of them. Take me to an outlet, and I’m straight-up fire. I’ll trailblaze it like the best of them.

Get out of my way. I’m on a mission.

That’s beside the point.

The point is I landed an interview at WDCN Channel 8 in the District!

Washington-freaking-D.C.

Getting an interview is one thing. I never thought I would land the position. I used the interview as an excuse to go home, see my family, and love on my niece and nephews.

Apparently making a mall my bitch isn’t my only talent. I got the job.

I started two weeks ago and didn’t have time to look for an apartment, so I moved back into my high school bedroom, living with my dad and stepmom in the boonies.

My first few assignments were exactly what I expected. High school basketball games and a scandal at a small local college where a female professor was having affairs with her male students in exchange for better grades.

Note the multiple.

I excelled at that assignment. Who knew all my hours of watching brAVO for the drama would come in handy? My questions were spot on and direct without being aggressive.

My producer was impressed.

I thought high school sports and low-level athletics drama would be my life until I did my time for a few years. What I didn’t know is that my time would only consist of fourteen days.

All I can say is God bless the flu. Amen.

Every string ahead of me went down hard. Like they couldn’t get out of bed kind of hard.

I should have felt bad.

Really, I should’ve.

But I didn’t. Timing is everything. It sucked to be them. It also sucked that they all went out for happy hour and didn’t invite the new girl.

Hello.

That would be me.

That was a blessing in disguise. I was as healthy as a horse, and they were at home, feverish, and coughing up a lung.

And that is how I got this opportunity—my big break.

Emma Hollingsworth, sideline sports reporter at the game in Las Vegas.

The biggest game of all the games. The one with the best commercials and extended halftime show that seems to divide our country on if it’s good or not. And our home team, the Washington Founders, earned a spot to play in it.

The game was close. It came down to the very last second. The quarterback had to zip around so many players, the world was beside themselves. And when he dove into the point zone, the entire stadium erupted.

End zone. Whatever.

The secret element to this story is that I don’t speak football.

Despite the fact I was freaking out in my head, I never let on that I’m as clueless as I am.

Dad and Levi gave me a crash course on the game the night before I flew out. I was so nervous about my big break, it was hard to focus.

This brings us full circle.

I wasn’t invited to happy hour, the bitch and asshole gang are on their deathbeds because karma is king, and I am in Vegas and just reported on the sidelines of the biggest game of the year.

It’s worth mentioning twice, the stakes could not have been higher.

So, yeah, I will toot my own horn. I killed it.

I set aside my sheer aversion to running and raced through the celebrating giants to the winning quarterback, Brett Sullivan. I thought I was going to die, but I was on a mission and got there before anyone else.

Even my cameraman was impressed.

Sullivan was sweaty and acted as surprised as the rest of the world that he scored the winning … eh, points. He was also an absolute joy to interview. There’s a boyish charm to him that was easy to mesh with. He was so ecstatic, he gave me a hug after I congratulated him and before he ran off to find his mom. He even swung me around in circles so fast it made me dizzy

Heck, I was having the best time.

My producer was figuratively kissing my ass. I can only hope that my cliquey coworkers spiked a collective fever when they watched it.

“Fuck, that was exciting. You’re the shit to work with, Hollingsworth. After all this time, today has to be a top five for me, and I’m ancient compared to you.”

Ross is my partner in crime and fellow track team member. All I had to do is run with my microphone and cheat sheet of football terms and questions. He had to keep up with me while lugging his big-ass camera.

And we’re riding that high together. We walk through the front doors of Nebula. It’s owned by the Black Resorts and is by far the ritziest in Vegas. It’s not on the Strip. I’m not used to staying at places like this for work, and Ross said this is unusual. But the station wants us to stay where the Founders are staying, so here we are.

I pluck another piece of confetti from my hair, slip it into my pocket to keep as a souvenir, and glance over at Ross. “Today was the best day. I still can’t believe it happened. Thank you for making me look good.”

Ross is a veteran. He’s been behind the camera for more than two decades. I was worried about traveling with someone I’d never worked with before, but he’s been nice and supportive and not at all cliquey.

“Your secret is safe with me. I’d never know you’re clueless about football. You’re a natural, Emma.” He hikes his enormous equipment bag up his shoulder. He should be tired. He’s been hauling it around all day. “I’m hitting it. I’m exhausted. You want me to walk you to your room?”

“Thank you, but I’m good. I’ve never seen a place with this much security and cameras everywhere.” We start to part ways when I call back to him, “And thank you for not telling anyone back at work that I’m clueless about the game. The mean team would have a heyday with that.”

He laughs and presses the button for the elevator. “Never. They’re fucking annoying, and I’m too old to gossip. You earned your stripes tonight, no matter if you know what a touchback is or not.”

I roll my eyes. “Hey, I will never forget what a touchback is for the rest of my life.”

“Don’t lose all your money in one spot,” he warns as he steps into the elevator.

The doors close before I have the chance to tell him that I couldn’t gamble if I wanted to. I finally have a decent salary and have put myself on an aggressive savings plan to buy a condo close to the District. As much as I love being close to my family again, I don’t want to commute that far.

But what I will do is buy myself a drink to celebrate not sucking.

I stuff my credentials in my backpack before setting it at my feet as I settle on a barstool. It’s late. We stayed at the stadium until the teams came out of the locker rooms. I was able to talk to a few more players, but I’m glad I got to Brett Sullivan when I did. He was a sought-after man, and there was no way to get anywhere near him again. He was swarmed with national correspondents.

I wave the bartender down when he glances my way.

“Welcome to Nebula. What can I get started for you?”

I think for a moment before settling on something I rarely have. “A dirty martini, please. Heavy on the dirty.”

He smirks. “The dirtier the better. Coming right up.”

“Well, if it isn’t little Emma Hollingsworth.”

That voice.

There’s no way I’d ever mistake it for someone else. It’s cocky and deep. And sexy as hell.

One of a kind.

My spine straightens, and I twist faster than a Kansas tornado.

When our eyes lock, I shouldn’t be surprised.

And still, the shock of seeing him overwhelms me.

Here. In Vegas.

At Nebula.

On the night of the biggest game of the year.

“Jack Hale.” His name slips through my lips on a whisper.

Tall, broad, and his thick dark hair is perfectly styled. He looks like he walked off the cover of a magazine created to make the regular people jealous.

His dress shirt is open at the neck. His suit is blue, modern, and he wears it well. It’s a touch brighter than navy, and somehow it makes his eyes shine brighter in the moody bar.

There’s always been something about his bright blues. Combined with his sexy smirk, the two combined scream I’m up to no good and you should join me.

We don’t get to choose our eyes. I didn’t get the interesting hazel shade that Dad and Levi share. Mine are the color of freshly turned dirt.

Boring. Basic. They don’t scream anything.

It’s been years since I’ve seen him. Jack looks as good as ever.

He spreads his sharp jacket without one wrinkle in it so he can slide his hands into his trouser pockets. He cocks his head and doesn’t hide the fact he’s taking me in from my boring eyes to my even more boring, yet comfortable, shoes. He shakes his head when his blues focus on my browns. “It’s been a long time. You’re all grown up.”

I shake my head. “The last time I saw you was at my college graduation party. I was plenty grown up then. You flew by so fast, you made my head spin.”

He shrugs a shoulder as he approaches me to claim the barstool next to mine. “I’m a busy guy.”

I swivel to face the bar. “You didn’t say a word to me. You talked to Levi and left.”

He throws me a smirk. “You remember every detail. And here I thought Levi got all the brains. If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were a martyr in your own love story.”

I roll my eyes. “Hardly. You know better.”

“I’m shitting you.” His knee bumps mine under the bar. “Sort of. Don’t get me started on your drama-queen days in high school.”

“Once an asshole, always an asshole,” I say through a smile.

“Your martini.” The bartender sets my glass down on the napkin in front of me. “Dirtier than ever.”

“Just how I like her,” Jack adds and lifts his chin to the bartender. “Manhattan.”

“ Please ,” I add and turn to Jack. “So you are still an asshole.”

The bartender shoots me a concerned frown. “Are you good? Say the word, and I’ll have this guy thrown out before you can blink. Mr. Black doesn’t stand for women being harassed.”

Jack leans back and puts his hands out. “Whoa. I’ve known her since before she was in a training bra. In fact, I knew her when she was in diapers. If anyone knows there’s no bite to my assholeness, it’s her.” Jack turns his gaze to me when the bartender’s frown deepens. “Em, throw me a lifeline.”

I wave my hand up and down, motioning to all that is Jack Hale and speak to the only man in my presence with manners—the Nebula bartender. “I appreciate you. Despite the fact he has horrible manners and just talked about my training bra, he’s right. He has no bite.”

Jack gives the bartender a ridiculous mini bow from where he sits. “A Manhattan, please .”

I’m not sure the bartender is buying it. He glares at Jack before turning back to me. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

Jack leans to me, and I feel his deep timbre as his breath brushes the skin on my ear. “Damn. The Black Resorts are my favorite. If you get me kicked out, I’ll never forgive you.”

“Never being forgiven by Jack Hale?” I pick up my martini and look at him as I take a sip. Mmm. Salty and bold, just the way I like it. “Whatever will I do with my life?”

“Exactly. How you’ve made it this long in my absence is nothing short of a miracle.” His gaze angles down to my drink before his blue eyes focus back on mine. “Who knew I’d find Emerson Hollingsworth in Sin City all by herself only to learn she likes it dirty.”

I lift my glass to him. “Extra on the dirty. And this is one of the best I’ve ever had.”

“The best you’ve ever had, my ass. How dare you say that when I sit in your presence.”

“In your dreams.”

He clutches his chest as if I just stabbed a dagger through his heart. “How did you know?”

“Jack Hale is a dreamer?” I mock a surprised expression. “I thought you only created your own realities.”

“Some of us have no choice. Not all of us have a Daddy Asa.”

I pick up the tall-stemmed crystal. “You were always afraid of my dad.”

He rolls his eyes. “Who wasn’t? Or should I ask, who isn’t? I always thought your dad was a badass, but he proved it the day he bagged Keelie Lockhart now Hollingsworth. She was fucking fire back in high school.”

I cringe. “Do you really have to describe it like that? How do you think I felt back in the day when my dad hooked up with my much younger counselor. And with all the other stuff I was going through? It was horrific. I was a freshman when it happened, and it was the talk of the school. Levi was oblivious. He was too busy falling in love and planning out his life at the ripe old age of eighteen.”

“How long are you going to play the victim, Em?”

“It’s something you never get over,” I mutter. “It’s a good thing I know better than to take anything you say seriously.”

“Hey, I can be serious.” He motions to himself. “Look at me now. One does not go from driving the Love Machine to staying at a Black Resorts property without being serious.”

“Manhattan.” We both turn back to the bar when a highball appears in front of Jack with a clank. The bartender shoots Jack one more glare before turning to me. “You okay?”

I do everything I can to appease him. “I’m fine. This guy is my older brother’s best friend. If he throws a frog at me, you can ban him for life.”

The bartender barely looks convinced as he moves on to another patron a few seats down.

“My mom would kill me if I threw a frog at a woman. I was raised better than that,” Jack mutters.

“I know you were, and yet you still threw frogs at me,” I tell him the truth. “It’s your mouth that gets you in trouble.”

He picks up his glass with amber liquid and puts it to his full lips. “I’ve never had any complaints. I can demonstrate if you’d like, but that’ll get us both kicked out of the Nebula bar.”

“Oh, I’ve heard.”

He shrugs. “My reputation precedes me. Trust me when I say, nothing has been embellished. I’ll lay my hand on the Bible to attest every word is true.”

“Still larger than life. You and Levi are so different, but you managed to run the school.”

He takes another sip. “I let Levi ride my coattails.”

I roll my eyes. He knows that’s not true. “How you two were ever best friends, I’ll never know.”

Jack turns to me with his glass in his hand. He rests one arm on the bar and the other on the back of my barstool. His legs are wide. He’s completely open to me.

“Levi needed me back in the day. I was the yin to his yang. The defense to his quarterback. The Laverne to his Shirley.”

“I’ve never watched it, but I suppose you’re right.”

He leans in closer. “You’ve never seen Laverne & Shirley ? My grandma made me watch that shit when we lived with her.”

Jack has been in my life for as long as I can remember. He and Levi have been best friends since before preschool—which means I’ve known him my entire life.

Levi is a doctor now.

Not just a doctor. A neurosurgeon.

I always said that Levi would heal the world and Jack would charm it.

I was so right.

Don’t get me wrong. Jack is no slouch. After college, he went to law school and became a sports and entertainment attorney. But he doesn’t practice law. He wheels and deals for athletes. The last I heard from Levi, he’s made his niche in pro football.

I shift in my seat to angle myself to him and lift my drink. “Here’s to a lifetime of friendship and Laverne & Shirley —however they represent you and my older brother.”

Before he clinks his glass with mine, he adds, “And annoying little sisters who used to tell on us when we weren’t doing anything wrong.”

“Jack Hale, not doing anything wrong. That’s a lie and you know it.”

He smirks because he knows.

His glass clinks with mine, and before I bring my dirty drink to my lips, he downs the contents of his.

All of a sudden, the bartender appears out of nowhere. He must realize Jack isn’t here to torment me and asks, “Another round?”

Jack looks to me and hikes a brow.

I take a bigger sip before I answer. “Sure. Why not?”

Jack lifts his chin to the bartender. “And a menu, please .”

The bartender disappears, and Jack turns back to me. “I’m tired of talking about Levi. I want to talk about you.”

I lick my lips. “What about me?”

“I’m here because my client played tonight. What I don’t know is how Emma Hollingsworth landed a job as a sideline sports reporter for WDCN. And what I really want to know is when did you start running? I want to know everything there is to know about the grown-up Emerson Hollingsworth.”

I toss back the last swallow of my dirty martini, lick my lips, and slide an olive off the toothpick.

Jack Hale.

No.

The Jack Hale.

What the hell am I doing?