Page 1 of The Playmaker (The Legends of Fire #1)

AVERY

" D on't sound so serious on camera. Don't get lipstick on your teeth. And most of all do not ask that wide receiver about his hookup rumors with the blonde cheerleader." I run through my manager's checklist without missing a beat.

I live for moments like this.

My bestie Pen and I stride through the NFL Phantoms stadium's press entrance—her ogling the towering banners of sweaty football gods lining the walls, me envisioning my name on an ESPN badge. My job at the digital magazine pays the bills, but I crave more.

"Do make out with that hunk of prime beef," Pen purrs at a poster of NYC's most eligible bachelor, wide receiver Jaxon Carter.

I give his photo a clinical assessment. "Not my type."

No athlete will ever be my type. And yes, I have my reasons.

Pen nudges me. "More for me, then." She winks.

Despite myself, I feel the raw magnetism of Jaxon's broad shoulders and sculpted arms leap off the poster. Tall, dark, and dangerous? Hard pass .

Pen pivots for another eyeful of Jaxon, nearly colliding with Juan.

"Whenever you two finish drooling over the eye candy..." Juan, my cameraman, makes a gagging sound. "Avery, we have a job to do."

Pen jabs a finger into his skinny arm. "Be nice to my bestie, or I'll rewrite my review of your family restaurant from 'mouth-watering' and 'divine' to 'dry as the Sahara' and 'would not recommend.'"

Juan laughs. "The way you inhaled those enchiladas, nobody would believe they weren't 'divine.'"

As we pause in the corridor, several coaches walk by trailing cologne and authority. Pen breathes it in like oxygen, then turns to me with pleading eyes.

"Trade jobs today? You rate the stadium's new food vendor, and I'll handle your interviews?"

Juan snorts. "You'd miss free food you can critique?"

"I never critique—I evaluate," Pen corrects.

I leave them bickering and slip into the Phantoms' "game day" locker room where other press are setting up. The space gleams with polished wood, perfect lighting, and pristine uniforms hanging beneath brass nameplates.

Spoiled , I think, the only judgment I'll allow myself about pro athletes. After what my dad did...well, never mind that now.

The press crowds the middle of the U-shaped locker area. I spot an unclaimed space dead center—jackpot. I weave between packed reporters and claim my territory.

Why is everyone staring like I've lost my mind?

Murmurs and gasps ripple through the room. I search for Juan, finding him in the corner with wide eyes, silently urging me to move.

Then it hits me.

Shit .

Those men in suits were staff. The players are coming in now—right through this deliberately open area.

Too late to retreat. The first player approaches.

It's him.

And God help me, I can't look away.

Cheerleader-hookup-hottie.

A wide receiver with a body so perfectly sculpted lesser mortals would swoon into those arms. Not me.

My gaze betrays me, dropping to his Gucci belt. To his hips. The raw power there...

No. I won't go there.

I force my eyes up to meet emerald green, and everything inside me freezes, then burns.

The tabloids devour this man daily. He is...magnificent.

Raw masculinity radiates from him as he pauses above me. I should look away but remain trapped in his gravitational pull.

My hatred solidifies when his full lips curve into a slow, arrogant smirk that makes my body betray me. But it's his eyes—cool, guarded—that snap me back to reality.

"I didn't know we had a new bench warmer."

Even his voice is infuriatingly sexy. I finally register his meaning—I'm blocking his path.

I meet his gaze with manufactured indifference, praying this blunder won't cost my job.

"You wish I would warm your bench," I snap, then flush at my own innuendo.

He stops, his chest nearly touching mine, his heat scorching the air between us.

I swallow hard but stand taller. My dad taught me one valuable lesson before walking out: nobody stands up for you but you.

My hardened nipples brush his chest. For a heartbeat, interest flickers in his eyes before that impenetrable wall returns .

"Here," a female reporter murmurs behind me. "There's room."

So much for holding my ground. The buzz of players chatting with reporters reminds me they're waiting because of me.

I step back but maintain eye contact with Jaxon Carter. I refuse to let him think he's won.

His eyes narrow. "Watch yourself," he warns, just loud enough for me to hear.

I scoff silently. No, buddy, you watch yourself. Juan whispers urgently that we can't stay here.

"Shush," I hiss. Having survived this chest-to-chest standoff, I'm not budging.

The major networks fire questions at Jaxon about last season's Super Bowl run and training camp. I study him critically. Stoic. Stern. Borderline rude. Classic bad-boy reputation.

Juan nudges me. "You're next."

Jaxon's hard gaze locks onto mine as he ignores the camera. I can't resist. He wants to play bored? I'll throw him a curveball.

"Avery Monroe, NY Sports Mag," I say with honeyed sweetness.

His eyes glitter with challenge.

"I'm wondering how you'll manage all your off-field hobbies now that the season's started." I rush ahead before courage fails. "I hear a certain team cheerleader kept you busy in the off-season. Is that true?" I smile, all teeth. The exact question I was forbidden to ask.

His voice deepens. "Avery Monroe with NY Sports Mag?" The way he says it makes my stomach plummet. He looks far too pleased to answer my taboo question.

"Yes," I breathe.

"I can assure you that even in the off-season, no one warms my bench. "

His heated gaze holds mine like we share a secret. I maintain my composure while my insides flutter traitorously.

"I focus on what matters—community events for kids, charity galas, and staying in peak condition for my team."

Damn him. He transformed my ambush into a PR masterclass. I can't stand this man!

"But those photos... your fans would love to know if you've found love." I press on, recklessly.

"Maybe keep your eyes on the preseason games, Ms. Monroe, instead of your nose in rumors of my..." he pauses as his gaze travels my body, "love life."

I shiver as silence blankets the room. Am I... aroused by him? I can't even admit it to myself.

Juan coughs awkwardly. Eventually, smaller outlets get their questions, but Jaxon's eyes never lose that knowing smirk.

Finally, it ends. But being in front, Juan and I are trapped until the room empties from the back.

"You really want to get fired, don't you?" Juan mutters, shaking his head.

I can't explain it to him. He wouldn't understand. Nearby, a team executive chats with an ESPN journalist.

"Great work today. We're trying something new—having select journalists shadow our players for part of the season. Inside access. You'll hear from us if you're chosen."

My shoulders slump. That could have been me if I'd controlled my mouth. But exposés on ego-inflated athletes are my specialty anyway. I'd never be picked for an insider program.

"Finally," Juan says as the crowd thins enough for us to exit. "Let's find Pen and score some free food."

I sense him before I see him. An unwelcome flutter surges through me.

"See you around, bench warmer," he murmurs for my ears only .

I refuse to let him affect me. Looking into that infuriatingly handsome face, I reply with practiced nonchalance, "Nah, I'll be too busy putting my nose in your love life, remember?"

Instead of acknowledging my clever comeback, he laughs dryly and—the audacity—winks.

I watch him stride toward the side of the room, all coiled power and confidence.

Maybe it's a little sexy that he has an actual personality.

I steal one final glance on my way out.

Interesting. He's smiling down at a teenage girl, his arrogant facade completely gone. Perhaps Jaxon Carter has both personality and heart after all.

As I push through the exit doors, my phone buzzes with a text from my editor.

How'd it go? Get anything juicy on Carter?

I hesitate, my thumbs hovering over the screen.

The truth? I got nothing but attitude and a confusing tangle of attraction I absolutely refuse to acknowledge.

I'd walked in planning to hate him on principle—the way I hate all athletes with their perfect lives and inflated egos.

But that glimpse of gentleness with the teen girl nags at me.

There's a story here. Not the cheerleader hookup fluff piece, but something deeper. Something hidden behind those guarded green eyes.

Working on something big, I text back. Give me time.

I have no idea what I'm doing, but one thing's certain—Jaxon Carter is not the simple playboy the media portrays. And despite every instinct warning me to stay away, I'm going to find out who he really is.

Even if it means getting dangerously close to the bench I swore I'd never warm.