Total pages in book: 90
Estimated words: 85787 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 85787 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 429(@200wpm)___ 343(@250wpm)___ 286(@300wpm)
“Hi, Hi. I brought you something.” I reached into my bag and took out a signed print of Rochelle Teavers, the WNBA’s season-high shooter. “I heard some of the reporters say your daughter broke her ankle playing basketball. I covered the Hall of Fame induction this week, and Rochelle was there.” My eyes pointed to the glossy photo. “Hope I had her spell Larissa right.”
Henry patted his chest and pulled his glasses from the lapel of his uniform. “Well, look at that. This is going to make her old man cool for a change. Thank you very much, Delilah Dam.”
“No problem.”
I was one of the first few inside the locker room. Another reporter was already setting up to interview Easton, but I intended to get it over with as fast as I could. I walked over with Nick in tow. Brody was talking about his knee, but the minute he noticed me a smile spread across his face. Shit. He’s wearing a towel again. I was overly prepared for the interview and knew how I’d handle the cocky quarterback if he started to play games again. But that damn smile made me nervous.
When it was my turn, I stepped up with a no-bullshit attitude. “How are we going to play this today, Easton?”
“Did you think of me this week while you were in Boston?”
I lifted one brow. “Keeping tabs on me, are you?”
“Admit you thought of me, and I’ll make it easy for you today.”
“I’m ready for you and your exhibitionist display. You don’t have to go easy. Make it as hard as you can.” I motioned to Nick to start rolling.
Easton beamed and promptly dropped his towel.
We went live. “So. Congrats on another big win this week. And on your rushing touchdown.”
“Thank you.”
I held his eyes for a few seconds, then deliberately dropped my gaze—right to his manhood. “It was a short run. What, about four inches?”
“Oh no. It was definitely more than four inches. I’d say at least twelve inches.”
“I believe the official stat is four inches. Men and their fish stories,” I chided.
Easton’s smirk got a little less smirky. And it was laced with indignation. I was happy. Clearly, he wasn’t. “Tell me, what did you change in the second half? Before halftime, it looked like you were having trouble with your passing game. Wren Jacobs even swatted two of your attempts to pass the ball to Daryl Breezy. Were you just having trouble getting it up?”
Easton’s eyes narrowed. “No. I wasn’t having trouble getting it up. I just needed better protection. Coach made some changes at halftime, which plugged up the gaps we were showing in our offensive line. Once the protection was there, I was able to slide ‘em right in.” Just as I had done, Easton held my gaze for a few seconds, then looked down, taking my eyes with him. My controlled interview went to hell the second I realized he was getting aroused.
When I looked back up, he was smiling like a Cheshire cat. Then he took control of my interview again. “Bruce Harness did an outstanding job today. That punt block at the start of the second half changed the momentum.”
“That block made him break into the top ten of career punt block leaders,” I responded.
Easton’s smirk disappeared. He looked surprised I knew the statistics for punt blocks off the top of my head.
“That’s right. Five more and he could clinch the record for all-time best punt blocker.”
“Six more,” I corrected him.
“Five.”
“Six.”
“Five.”
“Herman Weaver, nineteen seventy to nineteen eighty. Started with Detroit, ended with the Seahawks. Fourteen blocked punts. Harness has eight. He needs six more to break the record.” Easton opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again. I’d regained control of my interview. “One last question?” I turned and saw the line of impatient reporters behind me. “Is your knee ready to face the first-place Chargers next week out in California?”
“Will you be there to cover it?”
“I will.”
“Then you can count on me being ready.”
“Go long!”
Grouper’s mop clanked to the floor, and he started limp-jogging down the long hallway. Shannon, the nurse in charge of the day shift, walked by, shaking her head. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen us doing shit like this . . . we’d been screwing around since Grouper had bite in his step. Hip surgery had slowed the geezer down a few years ago. Now my passes were more of a lob than a bullet.
“He’s sixty-nine years old,” Shannon called over her shoulder. “You’re going to give that sweet old man a heart attack someday.” I caught her smiling as she continued on.
When Grouper made it to the far end of the hall, I sent the ball spiraling sixty feet until it fell directly into his hands.
“I still got it.” He headed back toward me.