Liv Milline’s family name is practically synonymous with IML
baseball. Yet despite her love for the game and her dreams of becoming a
baseball scout--her father holds one, ironclad rule: No baseball for Olivia.
Her one loophole? Playing sports reporter for Texas State
Tech.
Chasing similar dreams, Liv attempts to befriend Breslin.
But the amazingly talented, pain in her aperture has only two words to say
whenever she's around: “No comment.”
When a lapse in judgment catches Breslin in a real-world rundown, jeopardizing
his probation and scholarship, his only choice may be to rely on Liv--the
aggravating, attractive, relentless reporter, chasing her latest headline.
I threw my glove in my locker and grabbed my backpack from the hook. I imagined myself bounding out of the room, but my legs barely managed more than a shuffle.
Still, I must have been moving a bit too fast because, the next thing I knew, Rally Girl was on the ground, phone skittering across the tile.
And I was the asshole. Shit.
She sat on her rear in the center of the hallway, rubbed her hip and winced. Fuck, is she going to claim I injured her—to get back at me for earlier? I glanced behind me at the locker room door. She can follow me. I looked at the exit door. I’d have to step over her. That would be ridiculous. I had more integrity than that.
Still . . .
She hissed through clenched teeth.
“You . . .” Dammit, what was her name? I had not been paying attention to anything other than, well, my shirt. On her body. Idiot.
“Well, what’s left of me. Geez, do you eat bricks for breakfast or what?”
Her legs, long and tan and open—they bent at the knee. And apparently, my body was not too tired to enjoy the view.
“I’m not hurt and I’m not upset. But maybe you could help me up?” She spoke in a soft voice. Dark eyelashes framed bright blue-green eyes.
I extended a hand and tugged her to her feet. She stood for a breath, two. So close. Connected. Something about the feel of her skin against mine . . . A small, but soothing warmth tingled through the nerves in my hand, sparking a heated rush from my palm to my neck.
A sharp breath, and then her fingers slid from my grasp. I missed the warmth of her.
“. . . maybe offer an apology?” She moved her hand up and down in a phantom handshake. “Sure, Coop. No hard feelings.”
“Sorry,” I mumbled. Can this be over? I panted for air and shifted back a step. Her being the hot chick in the water fountain had been one thing. I could have tried to find her, always wondered, haunted the student center in the hopes I’d run into her again.
Her being a reporter meant all of those things went on the “no fucking way, ever” list.
“I don’t know what you’re thinking, but, I wouldn’t hurt you. You mean too much to the team.” She frowned. “This was an accident. Not that it didn’t jar me to the bone. You missed your calling as a linebacker.”
I blinked. Opened my mouth. Re-ran the words through my brain. She just said a shit ton of stuff, and what the fuck was any of it about?
“I’m fine, really. You need to stop gushing over me. All the upset is beneath you.” One eyebrow rose and she crossed her arms. How did she breathe while saying all those words?
“Um, are you OK?” She leaned closer.
I stared at her mouth. “You talk a lot.”
Her arms dropped to her sides. “That’s what you have to say? Not a ‘You OK?’ or ‘So sorry, I didn’t see you there. Can I help you with your things?’”
I didn’t catch all of it, but, maybe, if I did the last thing, she’d move out of my way? And I could get food, drink a gallon of water, take a shower? I stunk to hell and back.
Help her with her stuff. I set my backpack down and knelt at her feet. I tried not to think about those short running shorts or how good it’d feel to slide my fingers over the curve of her calf, up to her hip. I shoved her shit into her bag and tossed it to her. I retrieved her phone from the tile floor.
“That’s, um. Yeah. Thanks.” She pulled the device from my grip.
I pushed my sweat-soaked hair from my forehead. “You’re OK?”
“Yeah.” She pulled the bag over her shoulder. “Got bowled over by a human freight train, but lived to tell the tale. I pity any catcher that tries to get in your way.” She gave me a tight-lipped smile.
So many words. No wonder she had to write them all down. “But you’re fine?”
“What, do you need me to sign a waiver?”
Red hazed into my vision. “I’d say yes, but reporters are lying snakes in the grass. Wouldn’t matter.”
“I . . .” Her jaw worked, but no sound came out.
An errant thought about her mouth working flit through my brain.
“But, I–We’re on the same team, Coop.” She pointed at her jersey as if that was “proof”. It sure as hell wasn’t.
“We’re not.” I hefted my backpack onto my shoulder. “But you were right about one thing.”
“What do you mean?”
I leaned down and stared at her head on. She turned a deep dark pink.
“To pity the person who tries to get in my way.”
J. Rose Black weaves stories about redemption and the
transformational power of love - with a few side-helpings of snark. Now an
award-winning and Amazon Top 1000 chart-topping author, Rose writes about
broody alpha males and plucky, no-nonsense women ready to fight for what they
believe in. Her novels have been praised for their realistic mental health
representations, with narratives offering a unique balance of romance, humor
and tougher, real-world issues.
