Page 11

Chapter 10

Lia

Brooks

did you decide on Chicago?

Me

why are you so curious?

professional reasons

also pizza reasons

listen, it’d be a travesty not to eat the best pizza in chicago

if you’re going that is

are you even home yet?

plane landed when I texted you

Butterflies flutter and hit the edges of my ribs when I think about Brooks turning his phone off airplane mode and immediately texting me. I don’t know much about him, outside of basketball stats, and only managed to fall into a rabbit hole of his past girlfriends once since our dinner, but I want to know more.

It’s my second week with the Jags and the team has had three away games, which kept them on the road for the entire week. I wasn’t expected to go to any of these so I could meet the rest of the media team and get used to the Jags processes. Plus, I was able to grab a few bartending shifts and make some extra cash—never a bad thing.

I also spent some time researching the ethics for someone in my position who dates a player from the franchise they work for. I was hoping someone would point out a law, or a court case, where it would paint my decision in black and white. No such luck as I sit here in a world of gray, thinking about the series of events.

Here’s the thing: I want to go out with Brooks Pittman. Again. I want his mouth on me. His hands. I want to press into his body like I did outside my apartment. Put my hands on his broad chest, his wide shoulders.

let me know what you decide

sleep good

I want to tell him to drive over. Or to drop his address. But I don’t. Instead, I go with the most vanilla and safest of responses.

you too

Don’t mind me, I’m just over here being the most boring person on the planet. I scoff and put my phone somewhere I can’t see it. My fingers touch a patch of skin on my forearm until they find the roughest part behind my elbow. I rub lotion into the spots—the sanitizer water at the bar is probably the culprit. I catch my reflection in the bathroom mirror and notice a few red spots in the corner of my eyes. Leaning forward, I see some of the same dry skin on my lash line.

I wash my face twice, once with a balm cleanser and then with a gel, before reaching for my go-to moisturizer. My skin has always been sensitive, and this helps keep it hydrated without any agitation. I even put a few dabs on the dry spots on my arms.

Before climbing into bed, I roll out my yoga mat to do a few flows before bed. My hands and wrists have been sore, most likely from bartending, and I feel my best when I keep moving my body.

Once my muscles are happily fatigued and my lids are heavy, I roll the mat and crawl into bed. I try to hold on to the tired feeling, to fall asleep quick, but my heart races thinking about Brooks.

The way he looks at me.

The way I seem to be on his mind.

The way I want him even when it’d be better not to.

Today, my job is to film content at shoot around. Using a handheld Nikon, I get stills and video of Brooks doing the typical drills before he splits from the team to work with a specialist.

It’s like an obstacle course—different levels of short boxes, mats and circles. The coach demonstrates, without breaking a sweat or needing to stop talking, how Brooks should be able to get through it all on one leg and then the other.

“Piece of cake,” Brooks brags, clearly in my direction.

Brooks starts with his strong side, the knee that wasn’t surgically repaired, and he gets stuck trying to tap in and out of a rope shaped like an oval on the court. When he puts the other leg on the court, he smiles at the camera and goes back to the beginning.

“This is tougher than the ones we’ve done before, Brooks. Plus, you might be tired from the game last night. Try it again.” The coach claps his shoulder and encourages him to keep going. My heart hangs in the space in my chest, wondering if this embarrasses him. Should I keep filming? I mean, even if it’s filmed, we don’t have to use it. I guess that’s the whole reason we’re doing this—it’s all about the ups and downs.

Brooks gets hung up at the same spot, but getting farther around the circle before falling back and putting both feet on the court. He takes a short walk, hands on his head, but the smile doesn’t leave his face.

I take a chance and decide to jump in. “I don’t want whatever cake you were talking about.” I pull the camera down so he can see my teasing smirk.

Brooks lets out a laugh, his strong shoulders moving, “It’s harder than it looks.”

“Okay, Mister ‘Piece of cake.’” I roll my eyes and turn them back to the screen, still recording.

“If it looks so easy, why don’t you try?” Brooks walks forward, his hands now resting on his hips, the sweat on his chest dampening his lilac Jags practice shirt.

I look at the coach to see if this is against the rules. I’m not sure I signed a physical waiver when it came to my Jags paperwork, but who cares.

“Can you record this for me? Want to make sure we document how the new hire outworks the professional athlete.” I offer a friendly wink before handing the point and shoot camera to a staff member.

I do a few quick stretches as I stand at the start of the drill, envisioning the path I’ll take to reach the end. “Ready to see how it’s done?” I call playfully.

Brooks laughs and tilts his chin to the ceiling as some of his teammates look over from their own practice circuit.

I look for the red light on the camera, making sure we’re recording. There are two ways this could go, and both are great content opportunities. The first is I don’t get through the drill, and Brooks gloats and laughs with the staff and maybe some of the guys. The second, and what I think will happen, is I get through the entire drill and we get to watch Brooks’ reaction on camera.

“Whatever you say, Lia.” He rests his arms on his knees, bending down a little like he’s trying to get a better look.

Fuck, he can look at me like that any time.

I take a deep breath and start the drill. My core is strong and holds me up, thanks to the hours of yoga and standing behind the bar, while I move through the rope and lines on the court. I’m light on my feet and thankful for the shoes I picked out today—comfortable but cute sneakers.

When I hit the point at which Brooks struggled, I can feel his eyes on me. I thought he’d try to psych me out or startle me with cheering, but he keeps quiet as I pass the part he got stuck on.

The rest of the shapes and tapping in and outside of the tape on one leg fly by, and at least I got further than Brooks. It’s only by a few seconds and I tap onto the court. Before I can say a single thing, the specialists start clapping and cheering for me. I know they’re embellishing because of the camera, but it’s going to be absolutely perfect footage.

“She schooled you on the first try!” one of them cheers while Brooks walks to me, clapping his hands slowly.

Guys offer me high fives, which I take, and a sense of belonging is right within my grasp. I’m not just going to be the media girl; I’m turning into Lia . This is the sort of feeling which warms you from inside your chest to the top of your skin.

Brooks is the last one to offer a high five and he steps in closer than anyone else. “Impressive. I wonder if I should start doing yoga?” He pulls one lip into a lop-sided grin, and fuck, it could end me. That grin should be a crime .

I wonder if he practices that smirk. It’s like what we’ve all read about in romance books or watched Disney princes and princesses do our whole lives. Brooks Pittman has it down—and I mean all the way down.

“You should.” The roof of my mouth is like sandpaper.

“Only if you’re teaching me.” Brooks drags out the ‘you’ from the middle of the sentence.

“I am a yoga teacher. That could be arranged.” I realize I’m only a few inches away from him, the space full of sparklers and zips of energy. “Think you can handle it?” I tease, pushing a finger into his chest and feeling his muscles.

Brooks leans closer until it’s only our shared breath separating us. This is too close for colleagues, but I can’t move. I try to say something but when I open my mouth, there’s nothing. He breathes out and his eyes jump from mine to my mouth and back again.

I’m the one who can’t handle it. He’s leaning in and I’m hopeful that if there is a god of knees, they’re looking down on me, willing my wobbly excuses to keep myself standing.

The squeak of basketball shoes on the court yanks us back to the present and each of us take a step back, putting more room between us.

I look around. Did anyone see that tiny moment? Am I going to get in trouble before I even get to do anything? Relief washes over me when I notice everyone doing their own thing, including the person with the camera, which hangs around his neck.

Close call. And from what I can tell, I fear that won’t be the only one.