Total pages in book: 40
Estimated words: 37344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 187(@200wpm)___ 149(@250wpm)___ 124(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 37344 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 187(@200wpm)___ 149(@250wpm)___ 124(@300wpm)
“It’s a simple question,” he says. “Like I said, you’ve got to give to get.”
I open my mouth to tell him we need to move on when my body betrays me. “No and no. No husband, no boyfriend. I’ve never had either.”
“Never even a boyfriend? Interesting,” he says. “Why is that?”
“This interview isn’t about me. Honestly, I’m not all that interesting.”
“Oh, I disagree. I find you utterly fascinating.”
As my cheeks redden, a wolfish smile spreads across his lips, and my eyes widen with mortification at the words that just slipped from my mouth. The interview is getting away from me, and I feel out of control. That’s never a good thing. I need to steer it back on track.
“You look uncomfortable,” he says.
“To be honest, I am a little bit. I don’t tend to get so personal when I’m interviewing somebody. Now, can we get back to the interview?”
“Of course.”
And to his credit, he doesn’t push the issue. He sits patiently and answers every single one of my questions. Although I’m learning quickly that he is very adept at sidestepping questions he doesn’t want to answer, talking around them instead. Over the next hour, we have a fun and engaging conversation. I find him to be a lot humbler than I'd expect a play of his status to be. He’s cocky. He knows how good at this game he is, but he’s not a prima donna.
Ben Givens has certainly lived up to his reputation as somebody who doesn’t like interviews or the spotlight in general. He’s one of the biggest names in the sport, and unlike so many others with just a fraction of his fame, he ducks the limelight. It’s an interesting facet to a personality I find absolutely magnetic. A personality I’m drawn to.
“Well, thanks for sitting down with me,” I say as we wrap up. “My piece should be out in the next day or so—”
“No offense, but I probably won’t read it,” he says. “I’m not big on reading my own press clippings. I hope you understand.”
“Yeah. Sure.”
My eyes linger on him as he walks out of the press room and only then does my heart begin to slow its beat. When the door closes, a breath bursts from my lungs as if I’ve been underwater and holding it in for the last hour and a half. Maybe I have. Sharp, electric tingles race across my skin and my mouth is dry—likely because all the moisture in my body has pooled in my panties.
I get to my feet and quickly gather my things and stuff them all into my bag, determining that I need to get home to clean myself up before heading back to the office. Clearly, if I'm going to have any more one-on-ones with Ben Givens, I'm going to need to start packing a change of clothes. I head out of the press room shaking my head.
“This is going to be a long season,” I mutter.
3
BEN
After sitting with Bailey yesterday, I went back to practice but couldn’t get her off my mind.
Then I spent the entire night thinking about her. It was maddening. I’ve never had that kind of reaction to a woman before. Any woman. And being a pro athlete, I’m usually surrounded by some of the most beautiful women on the planet when I go out. That’s why I don’t usually go out. I figure there will be time for that later, but right now, I want to focus on my craft and being the best player I can be. Right now, I just want to focus on my game. On my legacy.
When I hit the locker room this morning, I thought I had my head back on straight. I hit the weight room and got a workout in, then did some running. By the time I hit the practice gym floor, I’m locked in. Focused. I start with some free throws before moving to mid-range jumpers.
Moving back again to start shooting from beyond the arc, I drain the first half dozen I shoot. Grabbing another ball, I start to set up when I see Bailey walking along the sideline talking to Graham, the PR guy. Turning away, I put up another shot and grimace when it hits the heel of the rim with a sharp clang.
“Damn,” I mutter.
I put up another shot from behind the arc and, again, clang it off the rim. My third shot is an airball that gets Eric and his boys laughing and talking shit from the other side of the court.
“Goddammit,” I say.
I cut another glance at Bailey and see her quickly turn away, her face reddening, looking as if I’ve caught her with her hand in the cookie jar. Growling to myself for missing my shots in front of her like a fucking chump, I grab another ball from the rack, but Gabe's deep laughter stops me from hoisting it up. And for that, I'm grateful. I don't like looking like an idiot in front of Bailey.