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JAMIE

I don’t know where I got my charm from.

My father’s idea of flirting comes in the form of caveman grunts and threatening glares, and my brother . . . well, let’s just say that the apple didn’t fall far from the tree.

It could be a natural-born gift, and I was the only one in three Bateman men who was blessed with it. Yeah, that sounds about right.

“With the season over the halfway mark now, can you tell me what your main focus is when it comes to improving your game for the last half?”

The blonde bombshell of a reporter along today’s sidelines extends her small microphone in my direction, waiting for a reply. I flash a lopsided grin and use the microphone as an excuse to lean closer. With my mouth hovering over it, I brush the back of her hand with my knuckles.

“Are you hinting at my game needing to be improved, Jas? Because I can assure you that it’s still as good as it’s always been,” I tease.

The apples of her cheeks burn bright beneath her makeup as she shoves my arm. “That’s not what I meant, Jamieson, and you know it. ”

“It’s Jamie, babe,” I remind her.

“You’re a flirt, Jamie . Now, answer my question before my boss replaces me with Edgar again.”

I suck air through my teeth and give her hand a final touch before backing up. “Not being able to see your beautiful face on the sideline every practice would be a crime.”

“So, let’s try this again. With the season over the halfway mark now, can you tell me what your main focus is when it comes to improving your game for the last half?”

Pawing at my jersey, I peel it up my chest to wipe at the sweat sticking to my throat. The final week of the August heat is in full swing, and our two-hour practice only finished a handful of minutes ago.

Jas’s eyes wander to my abdomen, wide and hot, and I swallow a knowing laugh before answering her question correctly this time.

“I’ve been working a lot with our receivers coach on my footwork and timing to make sure I’m where I need to be more often for our QB. That’s definitely been a big focus for me this year.”

I’m the top-paid wide receiver in the CFL, but that doesn’t mean shit if I’m not fast enough to beat out a solid defense and get a ball in my hands. I’ve lost track of how many extra hours I’ve put in the last few months, striving to be better.

“Have you noticed a difference so far? Has your chemistry with Jaxon Hayes changed this season? It appears that he’s searching for you more often than he maybe previously would have.”

Releasing my jersey, I absorb the question and think twice about my answer. Media training has been a blessing when it comes to pain-in-the-ass reporters, but sometimes, I’d love to be as honest as I want with the good ones. Censoring myself for the good of the team is more difficult than one would think, even if I don’t have anything necessarily bad to say.

It doesn’t help when we keep getting asked the same questions. That’s if more than the same two reporters come to talk to us. It’s like the Pythons have been shoved to the bottom of the Must Interview list the past two seasons.

“Been watching me often, Jas?”

She blinks and snaps her eyes up my body to my face. They tighten at the corners. “Everyone has. Your new contract sent the fans a bit haywire. There’s a spotlight on you right now.”

“There already was. Now, everyone just has another reason to stare besides my outrageous talent.”

“I guess we’ll see during Saturday’s game. Are you excited to face Edmonton?” she asks, trying to keep control of the interview.

“I’m ready. The team’s ready.”

“So are we. Thank you for taking the time today, and good luck Saturday.”

I tip my chin and wink before leaving her at the sideline and jogging away from the other reporter hounding Zach Mercer, our best defensive tackle. Back when I first joined the team, we didn’t allow on-field interviews before, after, or during practices, but Coach has been as pressured from upstairs about the media as the players have been.

We’re supposed to be focused, not eyeing the cameras at the sidelines. But according to the owner of the BC Pythons, we’re not involved enough. We’ve dropped down the list of in-demand teams with potential players, fans, and the media. Considering our rebuild team status, nobody gives two flying shits about us. We’re to do everything we can to change that as soon as possible, and that goes beyond playing better.

Personally, I just don’t have the time for them. If I’m not playing, I’m at the gym or with my family. The media has never been a priority for me, regardless of how much I love to see my handsome face onscreen.

“Bateman!” Jaxon Hayes, my QB, uses his scorning father shout to grab my attention from where he’s avoiding the media down the field. “Over the shoulder!”

There’s no point in going to meet him. Instead, I fit my helmet back over my head and go to my starting mark. Coach is watching alongside the reporters when I get into position, stressfully pulling at the end of his mustache. A beat later, his whistle blows, and I’m moving.

Hayes lets the football loose in a perfect spiral that I track as I take off down the field. I pump my legs beneath me as I steady my breaths and smack my gloved hands together. Adrenaline burns my blood as I take the curve of my route and snatch the ball from the air, cradling it in my hands.

“Show-off!” Chase Hudson, my favourite wide receiver besides myself, yells before booing like an ass.

He’s standing beside Jaxon, pointing accusingly at me as I jog over to them, panting. The running felt good an hour ago. Now, not so much.

“I wasn’t showing off, Chase. I’m just that much better than you,” I say through a toothy grin.

Sweat glistens off his dark skin as he rolls his brown eyes at me. “In your fucking dreams.”

“Figured we should give them something to gawk at while they’re here. Maybe they’ll give you a spot on their lame podcasts with that catch,” Jaxon huffs out.

Our QB grabs the ball from my hands and grips it tight in his. Standing two inches taller than me at six four, he runs a hand through his sandy-blond hair and nudges his chin toward the sidelines where the reporters linger.

“It’s such a waste of time doing interviews. What did she ask you about, anyway?”

Coach negotiated for the hours during which the media should be allowed on the field but was only given so much leeway. So, now they show up in pairs whenever the hell they want to, and we’re forced to entertain them. It’s been taxing on the team.

I steal a glance at Coach when he glares down at his clipboard and stalks in the opposite direction of the reporter heading his way. It’ll be a tense locker room in a few minutes, and that’s not my favourite environment by a long shot.

“She wanted to talk about you, actually,” I say, propping my hands on my hips. “Our chemistry and the shock of my contract.”

Hayes scowls. “They make it seem like I hated you last season.”

Chase barks a laugh. “In reality, you’re just a grumpy motherfucker and used to take that attitude on the field with you.”

Jaxon launches the football down the field and into the arms of a running back lingering near Coach after being done with his interview.

“Fuck off.”

I pull my helmet off and shake my hair out, droplets of sweat flinging. Jaxon shoves me aside and leads us down the field toward the entrance to the stadium.

“Hey, you’re better now. That’s what counts,” I offer.

Chase blows a kiss at the receiver coach as we pass. “You’re still an asshole, Jax, but at least you drop the hole for game day.”

“Nothing like the Pythons’ QB dropping his hole on the sidelines.” I let loose a loud laugh, leaning into Chase’s side. “Maybe that’s why we’ve been punished with the media. We’re cleaning up your filthy messes.”

Jaxon curses us out and jogs away. We run after him, both of us laughing too hard to stand properly. A loud, intimidating-as-hell voice cuts through our laughter.

“Bateman! Get back here, will you?”

Chase sucks in a sharp breath, glancing over his shoulder. “The fuck did you do, J?”

“Other than flirt with the pretty reporter? Nothing.”

“Of course you did,” Jaxon grumbles. “You know Coach’s got eyes in the back of his head.”

I shift my body to face the players on the team heading our way. “It was harmless! There’s no rule about not flirting that I know of. ”

“Ready to get spanked, Bateman?” Zach asks mid-stride, his long blond hair tied in a bun behind his head.

“I’ve always liked a bit of spanking.”

He barks a laugh and passes me with a smack on my ass. “Make sure you let Graham Warren know that.”

“Wait, you’re talking?—”

“About the owner? Yup. He joined Coach a couple’a minutes ago.”

“Shit,” I curse before pivoting and taking off back down the field.

For Coach to be staying after practice is saying something. He’s not the type to stay longer than necessary, and after getting to know him over the last three years, I can safely say that he would have told the owner of the team exactly that if it weren’t for something non-negotiable.

I’ve never met a guy so desperate to leave once time is up than Coach. I always wondered if he had a wife at home or something, but there’s never been a ring on his finger.

Graham Warren, the owner of the BC Pythons football team, looks exactly how one would imagine a forty-five-year-old white dude with more money than I’d ever know what to do with. He’s shorter than me for a change, with silver hair cropped short and Botox keeping his frown lines from becoming permanent.

Standing rigid on a football field in a full navy suit and glossy black shoes, he stares at me with expectance. Like he’s already prepared for me to agree to whatever it is he’s planning on asking me.

I clear my throat, smoothing a hand down the front of my jersey. “What’s up?”

Coach tugs at his mustache, checking me over. For someone in their mid-thirties, he looks as young as I do. And his casual clothes make him stand out beside Graham. He looks a bit more human.

“You looked good out there today,” he tells me .

Suspicion ripples through me. “Yeah? My releases were a bit lagged.”

“Slightly. But I’m not concerned.”

“Thanks. Were you down watching practice today?” I ask Graham, searching for the reason he’s here but not trying to be obvious about it.

“No. I came down a few moments ago and wanted to catch you before you left.”

“You’re just in time, then.”

Coach taps his clipboard to his thigh and turns to Graham. “Do you want to go up to your office to talk about this?”

“That might be best,” Graham agrees, focusing on me.

Even with my bulk, the way he’s looking in my direction has me feeling like a kid again.

I hang behind the two men the entire way through the field and into the stadium. Coach attempts to create conversation in the elevator, but I’m not up for chatting, and neither is Graham.

Once we step into the large office, I work to keep my limbs loose despite their desire to tighten up. “Alright. Let’s hear it.”

Graham Warren unbuttons his suit jacket and sits behind his desk, swallowing the chair with his huge frame. From what I know about him, he never played football and was handed his father’s Pythons legacy when he passed a few years back, but with his intimidating-as-fuck height and hulk shoulders, he’d have been useful on D.

“I’ll keep this short, Jamieson. Have you ever considered getting married?”