Seduced by the Football Player
Copyright 2013 Dez Burke
Chapter One
Of all the ways to waste a perfectly good evening! Beth, my newspaper’s feature editor said she ’ d kill to take my place. Right now, I ’ d happily let her kill me . I can think of at least a hundred things I ’ d rather be doing tonight.
The hotel is fancy; I must admit. And Panther Sports have laid out a good spread, with a finger buffet and more champagne than the journalists could ever hope to drink in one night.
The cynical side of me suggests that the organizers believe drunk journalists will write about the evening more favorably. Rolling my eyes, I accept a glass from a roaming waiter. It ’ s only T-shirts and baseball caps, I think to myself, as I sip the slightly warm liquid.
If I ’ m honest, it ’ s not just the nature of the assignment that ’ s put me in such a bad mood, although that ’ s definitely part of it; after all, this is hardly Pulitzer prize-winning fodder.
But no, what makes this the true evening in hell is the familiar face who is now making his way onto the makeshift elevated stage. Chris Hays is wearing a tight pair of dark jeans, a blue T-shirt with the red Atlanta Eagles logo stretched across his broad chest, and the blindingly white pair of sneakers that Panther Sports have asked him to model.
At a little over six and a half feet, Chris towers above the emcee, who’s just announced him. His skin is clear and flawless, not seeming to have aged at all since the last time I saw him. His smile is wide and sincere, reaching his eyes, as he lifts a hand to the applauding crowd.
With a champagne flute still in hand, I’m unable to join in. I want to turn away; to go back to the buffet and yet I can’t bring myself to take my eyes from him. I’ve avoided watching any of his games since he turned pro, not that it’s helped.
Since he signed with the Atlanta Eagles ten months ago, he’s been just about the hottest property in the sport. With commercial contracts for everything from deodorant to soft drinks, he’s been incredibly hard to miss. When he’s not on TV, there’s a double-page spread in a magazine.
And, even after all these years, every single time I see his face, those feelings rush to the surface: Stupid, adolescent emotions that make me feel idiotic and gauche.
Even now, I can feel my cheeks turn a gentle shade of pink. For God’s sake, I tell myself, you’re not fifteen any more. And he’s just a guy, just one of billions of guys in the world, no more special than anyone else. The logical part of my brain knows all this to be true. However, the stubborn longevity of my inner teenager refuses to hear his name without sighing like a Victorian maiden.
Draining my glass, I force my stilettoed feet toward the bar for a refill, running a hand through my slightly wavy black hair as I walk.
“Refill?” the barman asks, fiddling with the bowtie around his neck, which is obviously unfamiliar to him.
“Thanks,” I nod, my eyes rebelling against my better judgment and drifting once more to the podium on which Chris stands. Casually, he smiles and poses for a phalanx of photographers. He doesn’t seem bothered by the repeated flashes that bombard his eyes, and I realize he must be used to it by now.
“He’s something, isn’t he?” the barman nudges, placing a fresh champagne glass in front of me with a subtle clink.
“Huh?” I mumble, taking a moment to register that he’s spoken. “Oh, yeah,” I add. “He’s definitely something.” As I distractedly agree, my gaze returns to Chris’s grin, the same one he’d flashed me some eight years ago.
Chapter Two
It’s strange what the brain will cling to and what it will unceremoniously dismiss. Four years of high school math and I couldn’t tell you much of what I learned in that class. However, the moment Chris Hays walked in, placing himself in the chair on my right, is seared into my memory.
All eyes were on him:
Copyright 2013 Dez Burke
Chapter One
Of all the ways to waste a perfectly good evening! Beth, my newspaper’s feature editor said she ’ d kill to take my place. Right now, I ’ d happily let her kill me . I can think of at least a hundred things I ’ d rather be doing tonight.
The hotel is fancy; I must admit. And Panther Sports have laid out a good spread, with a finger buffet and more champagne than the journalists could ever hope to drink in one night.
The cynical side of me suggests that the organizers believe drunk journalists will write about the evening more favorably. Rolling my eyes, I accept a glass from a roaming waiter. It ’ s only T-shirts and baseball caps, I think to myself, as I sip the slightly warm liquid.
If I ’ m honest, it ’ s not just the nature of the assignment that ’ s put me in such a bad mood, although that ’ s definitely part of it; after all, this is hardly Pulitzer prize-winning fodder.
But no, what makes this the true evening in hell is the familiar face who is now making his way onto the makeshift elevated stage. Chris Hays is wearing a tight pair of dark jeans, a blue T-shirt with the red Atlanta Eagles logo stretched across his broad chest, and the blindingly white pair of sneakers that Panther Sports have asked him to model.
At a little over six and a half feet, Chris towers above the emcee, who’s just announced him. His skin is clear and flawless, not seeming to have aged at all since the last time I saw him. His smile is wide and sincere, reaching his eyes, as he lifts a hand to the applauding crowd.
With a champagne flute still in hand, I’m unable to join in. I want to turn away; to go back to the buffet and yet I can’t bring myself to take my eyes from him. I’ve avoided watching any of his games since he turned pro, not that it’s helped.
Since he signed with the Atlanta Eagles ten months ago, he’s been just about the hottest property in the sport. With commercial contracts for everything from deodorant to soft drinks, he’s been incredibly hard to miss. When he’s not on TV, there’s a double-page spread in a magazine.
And, even after all these years, every single time I see his face, those feelings rush to the surface: Stupid, adolescent emotions that make me feel idiotic and gauche.
Even now, I can feel my cheeks turn a gentle shade of pink. For God’s sake, I tell myself, you’re not fifteen any more. And he’s just a guy, just one of billions of guys in the world, no more special than anyone else. The logical part of my brain knows all this to be true. However, the stubborn longevity of my inner teenager refuses to hear his name without sighing like a Victorian maiden.
Draining my glass, I force my stilettoed feet toward the bar for a refill, running a hand through my slightly wavy black hair as I walk.
“Refill?” the barman asks, fiddling with the bowtie around his neck, which is obviously unfamiliar to him.
“Thanks,” I nod, my eyes rebelling against my better judgment and drifting once more to the podium on which Chris stands. Casually, he smiles and poses for a phalanx of photographers. He doesn’t seem bothered by the repeated flashes that bombard his eyes, and I realize he must be used to it by now.
“He’s something, isn’t he?” the barman nudges, placing a fresh champagne glass in front of me with a subtle clink.
“Huh?” I mumble, taking a moment to register that he’s spoken. “Oh, yeah,” I add. “He’s definitely something.” As I distractedly agree, my gaze returns to Chris’s grin, the same one he’d flashed me some eight years ago.
Chapter Two
It’s strange what the brain will cling to and what it will unceremoniously dismiss. Four years of high school math and I couldn’t tell you much of what I learned in that class. However, the moment Chris Hays walked in, placing himself in the chair on my right, is seared into my memory.
All eyes were on him:
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