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Chapter One


“Mike! Jax! Let’s MOVE!” I bolt to the locker room, in heels. “Steve wants to get the first interview with Dion, live to air.”

     “I’m going as fast as I can, Lexi!” Mike mutters, gripping his camera. “Carrying this heavy thing on my shoulder and running is impo—”

     “MOVE IT!”

     We are running at a frantic pace and I can’t imagine how ridiculous I look. My top has untucked itself from my skirt and I’m readjusting it as we speed through the corridors. If my boss saw me now, he’d sack me. He doesn’t like me looking untidy onscreen and hates when cameras come back with a scratch. But being worth thousands of dollars, I think our camera can withstand a jog to the athletes’ locker room.

    And that’s one of the reasons I became a sports reporter—so I could run into the men’s locker rooms and see them walk around in the buff. I’m not kidding. I accidentally walked into the boys’ locker room in my freshman year in high school to see all the seniors naked. It was a defining moment in my life. It was then I decided what I’d do for a living. My calling. Am I a pervert? Sure. But I don’t care what anyone else thinks. “We have to be the first to see Dion!” I huff, nearly out of breath as we reach the doors. I hear other sports journalists and their crews behind me, and I bolt in through the threshold, not bothering to flash my badge to the security—they know me. Once I step in, I halt and devour the room with my eyes.

     Men everywhere. Gorgeous, sculpted, beautiful boys with a kind of sheen on their muscles from the damp air of the nearby showers. Most of them with towels about their waists, some not. I’m so close to heaven, it’s almost torture. Twenty feet away steam is billowing from the shower room. I want to drop my mic and head in. But I need to find Dion. It was a hell of a win for the Blazers and a well-played game by their star quarterback. I need to get the interview if I’m going to stay at the top of my game. I spot him by his locker, his towel about his waist and make a beeline for him. Jax and Mike follow me, and we quickly surround Dion with the camera and boom. Dion looks annoyed, but it’s all part of his contract. He rolls his eyes and I give him a timid smile.

     “Make this quick, Lexi. I’m barely motherfuckin’ dressed.” He gives me an irritated expression.

   “Sorry, Dion.” I shrug. “The fans love live interviews after the games. You know the nature of my job.”

     “Yes, I do. And I’ve been answering interviews all damn week after practice.”

     I cringe. He’s right; but while Steve liked the questions I asked Dion, he felt Dion’s answers were ‘boring.’

     “You give the best interviews after a game,” I say in encouragement.

    “Whatever.” He groans. “A brother needs to be getting dressed. Could you wait? We could do an interview on the couches.” He points to several sets of couches and coffee tables across the room.

      “If I don’t interview you now, another reporter will.” I gesture to the swarm of reporters filing into the room. “I’ll be quick. I promise.” I put on my earpiece. “Steve, I’m in the locker room. I’ve got Dion.”

      “Make sure he gives something compelling this time.” Steve’s voice crackles through my earpiece.

I nod, looking into the camera. Though I’m there to interview Dion, the big attraction for me on this team is Brett Brock. He’s the replacement quarterback, but a damn fine piece of work. As I wait for my manager Steve to start feeding me directions through my earpiece, my eyes dart around the room for Brett. I spot him as he emerges from the shower room. Steam surrounds him as he saunters in wearing a small white towel. He casually walks up to his locker, which is directly across the room twenty feet from Dion’s. I can’t help but stare; he’s one of those gorgeous David Beckham types with hypnotizing hazel eyes. He’s got the amazing blonde hair, too—he could do his hair in any style and look damn sexy. His hair is slicked back with an undercut. What a lovely boy.

       I wish he’d remove his towel. I’ve wished this each time I’m in a locker room with Brett. He’s wary of the reporters and doesn’t seem to undress until we leave. My hope is that his towel will someday magically drop on its own.

      “We are live in five, four, three,” Mike says as he puts his hands up for the countdown mouthing the words two and one. I put a bright smile on my face.

     “Hello, Blazers fans! We are live with Dion Calloway to ask him his overall feelings about the highlights of today’s game!” I say enthusiastically, looking directly into the camera. I turn to Dion with the microphone, “Dion, did you feel confident before playing the Falcons that your team would win today? Or did you think the Falcons had a chance? The Blazers made a few trades since last season and have been experimenting in practice these past several weeks, I’ve noticed.”

“Well, you know, you come in you play the game. Do your best …”

My mouth drops in disappointment. I want to punch him in the stomach. Half the time I don’t know why EAN insists on interviewing Dion; he spits out the same speech every time, even after practices. I know he’s going to give a feel-good spiel about his teammates, and the talent God gave him. It’s annoying, because fans have been wanting more details about the plays during practice. So much for interesting questions.

         My eyes wander over to Brett who is leaning down in his white towel, looking for something in his locker. He rises and turns, and I can see every muscle of his sculpted abdomen. My eyes are glued as the towel shifts a little and he applies some deodorant.

Dion continues to ramble on about how blessed he is. Hardly listening, I wait for him to stop speaking, and absentmindedly repeat a question Steve feeds me over my earpiece. I have no idea what I asked Dion. I’m preoccupied watching Brett as he bends down again extending his arm, searching for something else at the bottom of his locker. Again, the towel shifts a little and I’m drooling. I imagine myself running over and yanking the towel off. Or sliding my hand up his thigh.

Then it happens—as Brett rises, with what seems to be tighty-whities in his hand—the towel falls, revealing his glorious manhood.

         “DING DONG!” I say into the microphone with a grin, interrupting Dion.

          Following my gaze, Mike turns and focuses the camera on Brett’s nether regions.


          Cue standby.

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