Page 3 of The Playmaker (The Legends of Fire #1)
AVERY
“ C ould you look any less excited to be here?
" Pen nudges me with her elbow, almost spilling my overpriced champagne.
"I'm thrilled," I deadpan, scanning the glittering rooftop party against Manhattan's skyline.
The summer breeze carries laughter and the unmistakable scent of money and power.
"Nothing says 'career advancement' like watching millionaire athletes get drunk on a Tuesday. "
Pen rolls her eyes, her glasses reflecting the lights of the Empire State Building.
"This is the Players' Association Summer Gala.
Everyone who matters in sports media is here.
" She gestures around the expansive rooftop of the Overstory.
"Including your boss, who's watching you sulk instead of networking. "
I sigh, knowing she's right. Ann, my editor at NY Sports Mag, pulled strings for me to be here. I prefer writing scathing exposés about ego-fueled athletes from the safety of my laptop, where they can't flash practiced smiles that make women forget they're walking red flags.
"Fine." I smooth my emerald green dress—borrowed from Pen—and plaster on my best professional smile. "But if one more retired quarterback asks if I 'actually watch the games,' I'm jumping off this roof."
"That's the spirit," Pen laughs, then her attention shifts to the buffet table. "Is that Emma Daniels? I have to talk to her about her menu for the blog." Before I can respond, she weaves through the crowd with the determination of a heat-seeking missile.
I drain my champagne and set the glass on a passing server’s tray, suddenly realizing how exposed I feel without my human shield.
Ann catches my eye from across the room, effortlessly holding court with what looks like the entire defensive line of the Giants.
She waves me over with a sharp, insistent motion that brooks no argument.
Great. Just what I need— being the awkward writer surrounded by men paid millions to tackle each other.
"Avery!" Ann calls as I reluctantly approach. "I was just telling these gentlemen about your piece on concussion protocols."
The largest man—whose bicep might be the size of my torso—extends a hand. "Isaiah Coleman. That article made my wife cry. In a good way."
"Thanks," I manage, surprised by the genuine appreciation in his eyes. "I just reported what I saw."
"What you saw was the league trying to sweep brain damage under the rug," another player says, his voice low. "Not many writers have the guts to call that out."
Ann beams at me like a proud parent. "Avery doesn't lack courage. Just social skills." The players laugh, heat creeping up my neck. Ann doesn’t sugarcoat anything.
"Speaking of courage," Ann continues, lowering her voice. "The commissioner just walked in."
All heads turn toward the entrance where Richard Keller, NFL Commissioner and notorious hardass, surveys the room like a general inspecting troops. His presence instantly shifts the atmosphere—conversations quiet, smiles forced, backs straight.
"Think he read your article?" Coleman asks, amusement dancing in his eyes.
"If he did, I doubt I'm on his Christmas list." Ann's hand lands on my shoulder, her grip strong. "Actually, Avery, this is perfect timing. I want you to introduce yourself."
I nearly choke. "You want me to walk up to the man I called negligent and corrupt in print last month?"
"Exactly." Ann’s eyes sparkle with mischief. "The magazine needs access for the upcoming season, and you need to show you can do more than hide behind your keyboard."
"I don't hide?—"
"You're wearing the expression of someone contemplating jumping into the Hudson rather than making small talk," she interrupts.
Before I can protest further, she gently pushes me toward the commissioner. I glance back wanting Pen, but she’s deep in conversation with the chef, gesturing enthusiastically.
My heart hammers as I navigate through clusters of people. Commissioner Keller stands alone, his expensive suit and rigid posture radiating authority.
"Mr. Commissioner," I say, extending my hand. "Avery Monroe, NY Sports Mag."
His eyes narrow slightly as recognition dawns, his handshake cool and brief. "Ah, Ms. Monroe. Your work has been... memorable."
"That's one way to put it." I force myself to maintain eye contact. "I'd use other words, but we're at a charity event."
His smile doesn't reach his eyes. "Do you enjoy burning bridges, or is it just a cultivated talent?"
Heat rises to my face—embarrassment mixed with indignation. "I shine light in dark corners."
"Poetic." He takes a sip of his whiskey. "And naive. "
"Truth often is." I straighten my spine, determined not to be intimidated."I'm not here to argue—I actually recognize and appreciate the work you've done on player safety this year."
His eyebrows rise slightly, perhaps surprised at my diplomacy. "Public pressure accelerates change. Though I suspect you'll find our new protocols insufficient as well."
I open my mouth when a sudden shift in energy draws everyone's gaze. Heads turn. The crowd parts, and I understand why—Jaxon Carter has arrived.
The air electrifies. Even if I didn't recognize the star wide receiver from billboards, his presence commands attention.
He towers over most guests, clad in a tailored charcoal suit that probably costs more than three months of my rent.
Dark hair styled effortlessly, the famous sleeve tattoos peeking from under his cuffs.
"Speaking of problems," Commissioner Keller mutters, his expression souring. "Your magazine should do an exposé on him next. The man's a walking PR disaster."
Carter flashes his trademark grin at a group of women drawn toward him like moths to a flame. Everything about him screams entitled athlete—the precise type I love to take down in print.
"What's he done now?" I ask, my professional curiosity piqued.
"Besides showing up late to an event honoring him as Offensive Player of the Year?" Keller shakes his head. "It's the attitude. Last week he nearly brawled with his quarterback at practice."
I mentally file this information away, already composing potential headlines.
"Sounds like typical star athlete behavior."
"It's more than that. The league needs role models, not liabilities." Keller leans in, lowering his voice. "Between us, I'm concerned about his off-field activities. There are rumors..." He stops as Carter approaches, clapping a hand on Keller's shoulder casually.
"Commissioner! Sorry I'm late. Traffic was murder." "Carter's voice is deep and smooth, with just enough grit to make women weak in the knees."
"Mr. Carter." Keller's tone could freeze hell. "Punctuality isn't in your playbook, I see."
Carter laughs, unfazed. "I'm saving my timing for the field." His gaze shifts to me, and I feel an unexpected jolt when those green eyes lock with mine, something electric shooting down my spine.
Recognition flashes across his face, along with a slow, knowing smile. “Well, if it isn’t the bench warmer with the sharpest tongue in New York.”
My brows lift. “You remembered.”
“Hard to forget someone who questions my love life in front of a dozen cameras.” His voice dips lower, just for me. “You always come in this hot, or was I just lucky?”
“Luck has nothing to do with it.” I meet his gaze evenly. “I just call it like I see it. And I saw an overpaid wide receiver with a PR problem.”
He huffs a quiet laugh. “And here I thought the green dress meant you came in peace.”
I take a sip of my champagne. “Don’t mistake couture for surrender.”
“The guys with three concussions liked your article,” he says, gaze flicking over me with that same quiet fire from the locker room. “Management? Not so much.”
Before I can respond, Keller clears his throat. “If you’ll excuse me, I should greet the other honorees.” He levels Jaxon with a pointed look. “Try not to make headlines tonight, Carter.”
As Keller walks away, the air seems to thicken between us. Jax steps closer, not touching me, but close enough that my breath hitches .
“So what is it tonight, Monroe?” he murmurs. “Work? Pleasure? Or still deciding whether I’m worth the risk?”
“I haven’t decided if you’re a story... or a cautionary tale,” I say.
His eyes flick to my mouth, just for a second. “You’ll have to get closer to figure that out.”
I ignore the heat creeping up my neck. “Just don’t flatter yourself. This is a charity gala. I didn’t come here to chase down clichés.”
His smirk turns downright sinful. “Good. Because I’m not one. I’m the playmaker, remember?”
My pulse stutters. Damn him. That nickname has way too many layers when he says it like that.
Before I can decide whether to laugh or throw my drink at him, someone from the league taps his shoulder. He leans in, his lips nearly brushing my ear.
“Stay close, Monroe. Something tells me we’re just getting started.”
Then he’s gone, swallowed by the glittering crowd, leaving behind the scent of cedarwood, arrogance, and something dangerously close to temptation.
“Careful,” Pen says, suddenly at my elbow. “You looked two seconds away from dragging him into a coat closet.”
I don’t look at her. “Please. He’s exactly the kind of man I write about.”
“Yeah.” She sips her wine. “And now you’re looking at him like you want to write on him.”