Page 8 of The Playmaker (The Legends of Fire #1)

JAX

A ttraction blooms hot and hard when I spot her standing primly beside the team's physical therapists and staff. I flash my trademark smile—as fake as my bad boy persona—while taking in every curve of the journalist whose sole mission is to write about me.

I bite back a laugh. She hates this assignment; I love it. From my research, she's more the "athletes always have secrets" type than the "kiss athletes' asses" type. She meets my gaze with cool detachment.

She's had days to rebuild her walls since our encounter. With a five-hour flight ahead, we'll see how thick those walls really are.

"Eyes ahead," Hawk murmurs. "Coach is giving you the stink eye."

"You're the one he needs to worry about with the ladies," I counter.

"Truer words," Hawk grins. "Though there is a small room with a bed in the back of this jet, if you and the journalist wanna get cozy." He winks. I glare.

We file up the stairs and I claim a window seat.

The plane is spacious and cool, AC blasting.

I've taken hundreds of these flights over the years, but never with my own dedicated reporter.

I can't deny the rush of arousal that floods me at the sight of Avery hesitating near the entrance, looking around as if contemplating escape.

I wave obnoxiously, beckoning her to the seat opposite mine—a position that would put us knee to knee. Her full lips press together, brown eyes narrowing. She forces a smile as Coach passes her.

Her perfume hits me as she approaches and takes her seat—something light with hints of vanilla and jasmine that reminds me of the night my parents took Riley and me to a summer carnival years ago. Before everything changed. Before I became the man I am now.

I push the memory aside. No room for that now.

I open my mouth to greet her, but she has other plans.

"I hear the Phantoms won two of their three preseason games." All business, her face buried in her tablet. "That should set you up for a record-breaking season, if the West Coast games go well."

She looks at me expectantly—no smile, no scowl, just pure professional indifference. Annoying as hell.

"If you need my stats for your web series or story, Avery, you can get them from my agent." I pull out my phone, scrolling social media with feigned nonchalance. Let's see how long she plays ice queen.

Her silence speaks volumes as we ascend. She remains stubbornly mute until we reach cruising altitude. Then she makes the cutest huff.

"The story isn't about your stats."

I look up. She's still determined to be distant. I smirk. "No? Is it about the skeletons you like to find in athletes' closets?"

That brings a flash of a smile. "You've been looking into me. "

I grin. "I think we've both done some... exploring into each other."

Her cheeks flush a pretty shade of pink. "I guess I was just curious about your off-field hobbies." Her lips curve upward.

Her words hit wrong. I lean forward, voice low. "I assure you, little bench warmer, sex isn't a 'hobby' for me."

Surprise registers in her eyes before a mask slides into place. "My research into your recent love life might suggest otherwise."

The damn cheerleader story again. The headlines that painted me as just another entitled athlete with a new conquest every weekend.

If they only knew how I spend most Friday nights—helping Riley with ballet choreography or watching movies with her when her teenage friends are out partying.

The image I've cultivated keeps the press at a distance, keeps them from digging deeper. At least, it did until Avery.

She clears her throat. "I have a checklist of topics to cover during our flight." She looks pleased at the torture she's about to inflict.

I groan. "Can't you just fill in the blanks yourself?"

Her brown eyes gleam. "I could. And fiction from me might be far more scandalous than any facts you'd provide." She pauses, fingers poised over her tablet. "You sure you want to give me that much power, Jax?"

I let my eyes trail down the curves hidden beneath her suit. "That depends..."

Her breath hitches just enough to confirm she feels this fire between us.

"On what?" She looks like she's enjoying playing with danger. Anyone glancing over would notice the slight bulge in my pants and the unmistakable flush creeping up her neck.

I steeple my fingers in mock contemplation. "On positioning. Last time was a bit..."

"Limited," she finishes .

"How many times have you thought about it?" I push further, overcome by a fierce need to feel her under me, on me, surrounding me.

Laughter from my teammates jolts her back to reality. She straightens, resuming her schoolteacher demeanor.

"I don't know what you mean."

As she reaches into her bag, her knee brushes mine. She freezes. Her eyes flick to my hardening length, then up to meet my gaze.

She swallows hard, biting her bottom lip.

"Careful," I warn, my voice teasing but low. "Keep reacting like that and I'll stop believing your indifferent act."

"We can't," she says, opening her phone. "I want my job and you don't need more scandals after that cheerleader, right?" She flashes a fake smile. "Now say something nice for the camera. I'm capturing BTS for the web series."

"The boy band?" I tease, adjusting my posture, fighting my attraction.

Her eyes lift from the screen. "Behind the scenes." She stands, panning the camera across the cabin where my teammates joke with each other. "Maybe you need a private lesson or two before we proceed, so you catch up to the lingo."

Damn her. My body responds to everything she just said—and didn't say. "Avery," I manage, my voice embarrassingly husky.

She smirks innocently. "What was that? You're too busy to fit me into your after-hours calendar?" She winks. "Probably for the best."

She steps toward the guys. "Oh, Jax, your first private lesson is to review my questions," she nods at the tablet, "alone."

With another irritatingly sweet smile, she saunters off, asking who wants to give their opinion of me as a player and as a man. I groan when every single teammate volunteers, already throwing shade .

Hawk slides into Avery's vacant seat, eyeing me playfully. "So, about you and that journalist..."

I hold up the tablet like a shield. "Literally nothing. And that's what you need to tell everyone if they get ideas."

"Well, if she prints even a quarter of what those idiots are saying about you..." He trails off with a skeptical whistle.

Avery glances over, a devilish glint in her eyes. In that moment, I sense she could easily throw me under the bus—but for whatever reason, she won't. I don't trust reporters, but maybe I could learn to trust this one.

I turn back to Hawk. "She's just having fun, trying to get under my skin. It doesn't worry me."

Hawk raises his eyebrows. "I can see that. And that worries me." He leans in. "You're the only guy I know who actively avoids the press. You pretend to be something you're not just so they leave you alone."

He jerks a thumb toward Avery, now laughing at something across the aisle.

"But with this one—the one with a history of exposés—you're letting your guard down?"

"I know what I'm doing," I counter evenly, though I'm not convinced myself.

He shakes his head, standing. "It's your funeral." His eyes turn serious. "And Riley's."

I stiffen at the mention of my sister. "Fair enough."

When Hawk walks away, I glance down at the tablet, seeing Avery's questions for the first time. Standard stuff—career highlights, training regimen, game preparation. Then I see it: "Family influences on your career."

My throat tightens. The crash that took my parents happened when I was twenty-two, already drafted to the Phantoms. Riley was just ten.

The world knows my parents died, but no one knows I've been raising Riley since then.

To the public, she doesn't exist—I've made sure of it.

After what happened to Coach Thorne's family when his success made them targets, I vowed Riley would have normalcy.

Every endorsement deal, every contract negotiation includes ironclad privacy clauses. My "bad boy" image keeps the paparazzi chasing fake stories instead of the real one: that the NFL's notorious playboy spends most nights helping with algebra homework and watching dance recitals.

How can I explain this internal battle? My body craves Avery, but my mind agrees with Hawk—getting close to her is dangerous.

Then again... the saying is to keep your enemies closer . I decide then and there to keep Avery very, very close.

That's why, when her laughter fills the cabin again, I feel another jolt of desire—and jealousy. It's nothing more than strategy to protect Riley.

The unspoken lie tastes like ash in my mouth.