Page 13 of The Playmaker (The Legends of Fire #1)

AVERY

W atching Jax on the field was exhilarating.

Each time he caught the ball, my heart leaped into my throat.

I feel connected to him in ways I know I shouldn't.

My job is to root out secrets and his is to maintain whatever image he wants for the media.

In the locker room after the game, I ask my requisite questions but try to stay lowkey, avoiding his eyes.

The truth is, I liked sex with him last night.

A lot. Too much. He's just the type of guy who could swoop in, steal a girl's heart, and then fly away without a backwards look.

All athletes are this way. My dad did it to my mom and me, picking the good life over the boring responsibilities of raising a child and being there for a wife.

I've spent years building walls to protect myself from men like him, yet here I am, letting one in.

I slide a little lower in the staff car as we tail the players' SUVs from LA to the next city, the next game.

I hope in this new hotel, I'm not stuck in a room next to Jax.

It's too tempting. Too torturous to pretend I don't want something that I think I do want.

Too dangerous to admit that "just sex" might be the biggest lie I've told myself in years .

I text Pen and give her G-rated updates about my trip so far, reading her replies all about her latest restaurant reviews.

I feel like I've been gone for more than a few days because so much has happened for me emotionally.

And that's the problem—emotions get you in trouble.

Especially where Jax the Phantoms' wide receiver is concerned.

I've gotten to know a few of the PR staff and lower level coaching team during my trip.

While at first everyone seemed wary of me—I do have a reputation as an exposé writing journalist, after all—by the end of that five day trip, we feel like friends.

So much so that after the Phantoms win their third away game in a row, I decide not to go back to my hotel room as I had been doing but instead go out with the staff.

I heard the team is going out to a private club, so why not also head out to blow off some steam?

Dan, one of the lower level coaches who seems like a happily married guy in his fifties raises his beer in a toast to a winning team with their eyes on the Super Bowl. I lift my vodka tonic in solidarity.

"How excited are you to get back to real life before our next roadie?" Sam, a junior coach asks him, and they both laugh like there's an inside joke to be had somewhere between them. I look around the bar for someone nearby to talk to, but Dan's next words stop me cold.

"You mean back to a stale marriage and kids who just want me for their allowance?" Dan scoffs. "I do what I need to do to keep them all happy, but you know how it goes. It's hard to stay satisfied when the flame has died out."

I feel intensely uncomfortable and attempt to walk away, my father's face flashing in my memory. This is exactly the kind of talk I overheard as a child—men justifying their selfishness.

"Avery, you married, engaged, or happily divorced?" Sam asks me, drawing me into their conversation.

I force a smile. "None of the above. "

Dan puts a hand on his heart. "Smart girl.

I wish I could go back in time and do things differently.

" He seems sincere but I catch his eye roaming around the room.

It ticks me off. I bet his wife is back home with the kids behaving herself while he's eyeing everything in here with double Ds under the age of twenty five.

"How long you been with your wife?" I ask, unable to keep the edge from my voice.

"Long enough." He takes a swallow of his beer. "I love her with all my heart." That sounds like mockery.

Sam nudges me with his arm. "You know who really has it good?

" He winks at me. "The players. Damn. I've seen men kiss their wives goodbye with saintly loyalty at the start of a road trip only to slip their ring off at the club after a win.

No one cares. No one nags them. They're not even expected to be faithful. "

"To each their own." I don't judge anyone other than myself. But still, this is the part of athlete culture that tore my family apart when my dad walked out. It hurts. A lot. It's the reason I became a journalist—to expose the ugly truth behind the glamour.

I start to wonder what kind of "club" the guys are in tonight, and if I've been more than a little stupid hooking up with the nation's most popular wide receiver. My appetite for a good time lost, I start to make my way out of the place, intent on getting an Uber back to the hotel.

On the way out, I see a few of the dancers just arriving. Not the blonde Jax was rumored to have hooked up with.

"Oh my God, Giselle always gets asked to go clubbing with the guys. It's so unfair," one girl whines as they survey the upscale bar.

"I bet the rumors of her and Jax are totally true." The other girl tosses her brown hair over her shoulder. "She did say she was going clubbing with him and the guys tonight."

My stomach twists into a painful knot. The rational part of my brain reminds me I have no claim on him, but my heart doesn't seem to care about rationality.

Jaxon has been minding his business since that first night in LA, and I thought it was just so he could perform well on the field.

I didn't know it could be because he'd had his fun with me and now.

..I feel sick. I feel used. I feel incredibly stupid.

In a world of fame, power, and privilege, it would be unreasonable to expect anyone to behave in moderate ways.

I remember all too well now why I don't trust athletes.

I somberly get in my Uber and ride back to the hotel, watching the city lights blur through the window like the boundaries I promised myself I'd never cross again.

"Fun night?" Dan asks me. "I noticed you left early."

"Just went back to the hotel." We're standing in the little line that forms outside the jet once the players are on board.

"Meh. Same. Look. I know you heard us say a lot last night but...it was just that. Talk. Got it?"

I nod, thinking he's worried I'm going to write about him in a story or something. Everyone thinks their life is the most important one in the world; I've learned that the hard way in this line of work.

We board the plane and I see an empty seat across from Jax again. His eyes meet mine and something flickers there—not eager, not resistant, not smoldering. Just... guarded. Like he's built a wall overnight that matches my own. I stop by his seat, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"I heard from Ann...I have a few questions for you, if you don't mind?" I say feebly, anxiety building up. Ugh! This is exactly why hooking up with someone you have to work with is dumb. It makes everything awkward.

"Of course. Please, sit."

His ultra politeness rakes against my nerves like nails on a chalkboard. I definitely can't stand this guy all over again. The cool professionalism is worse than anger—it's indifference, and it cuts deeper than I expected.

I sit and pull out my tablet. "Thank you." I match him vibe for vibe. "The first draft I've been working on all week is approved. But still missing details." I look at him as he looks at his phone. Rude. "It's for the web series."

"Right."

Fine. He wants to be terse, then I'll get straight to the point. "It's about your upbringing."

He isn't aware how much time I spent trying to find what is not findable online.

Anything about his early years or his parents—all scrubbed from the internet.

I know Riley isn't any of the newer flings he's been speculated to be with.

But maybe Riley is an older fling, part of the past he's paid top dollar, I bet, to make disappear.

He shrugs, looking at me. Still, his gaze isn't cold or anything. It's perfectly professional...so why does that hurt so much? I swallow hard, trying to get a grip on emotions I shouldn't be feeling.

"I couldn't find anything, well, interesting, I guess about it. Just that you were raised in private schools, were an all star in high school football, and that you were drafted young into the NFL. And that you lost your parents. But no details or anything."

"I don't think you need any more than that. It all sounds adequate."

"Yes, it is, but it's also already been said before. By everyone from the Kansas Star quarterly magazine to ESPN." I bite back frustration. "Is there anything else you want to tell me that is a bit deeper than all that?"

"If I wasn't willing to tell ESPN anything deeper, why do you think I'll tell you?"

I look for signs of anger but all I get from him is an honest look that cuts straight through me. Wow. He really means that, doesn't he? I mean, it's a great point. But it feels like a knife to the heart after everything we shared...right?

You were the one who told him it was just sex, my unhelpful brain reminds me. It's not his fault if he moved on. I told him to. Shit! I'm an idiot.

"Don't worry about it," I say, standing hastily, the entire area around him feeling icy cold all of a sudden.

He doesn't try to keep me with him, politely handing me my bag as I pick up my phone and tablet. I notice he keeps his fingers away from mine as if he's promised himself no physical contact with me. As if whatever happened between us has been locked away in some vault labeled "mistake."

Biting back tears of regret, I find an empty seat in an isolated corner and pretend to work the rest of the flight. But all I can think about is how I'm terrified of ending up like my mother—broken by a man who never cared enough to stay.