Kristina Knight - Protecting The Quarterback

“I can’t believe you didn’t call me immediately to celebrate. You were my first call.”

“Your job offer doesn’t come with a thousand mile move attached.” Brooks chuckled and then tapped the screen separating them. “Should you really be celebrating with wine before noon?”

“Yep. I’m taking the rest of the day off.”

The chuckle turned into a full blown laugh. On her side of the screen, Trisha rinsed her wineglass before putting it in the sink.

“So have you caught up with the Captain Quarterback yet? You know, it’s kind of weird that Mr. Always-A-Tabloid-Headline doesn’t want to talk to an actual reporter.”

“Interviewing him tomorrow morning, actually,” Brooks said. Although, Jonas certainly didn’t seem like a media whore now. She couldn’t remember the last time his picture had been in the paper for anything.

Brooks finished her pie. “We should celebrate both our new jobs in style.”

“How about Thursday night, at Mendocino’s? We’ll celebrate your new job and me being the new doc at Bone Creek, Louisville.” Trisha stuck her fingers in her mouth and whistled so loudly Brooks thought her tablet screen might crack. “We’ll break out the good stuff. Champagne for me. Tequila for you.” Trisha signed out of the chat window.

Brooks looked around her childhood room. Old wallpaper, old posters. The same lumpy mattress, same prom dress in the back of her closet. Same ribbons and trophies on her bookshelves.

God, she never expected football to lead her back to Louisville. Back to the shadow of her famous father. Somehow, though, she didn’t experience the same strangled feeling she’d felt so many times as a kid. Instead the room felt familiar. Not completely comfortable, but not alien, either. Maybe, though, it would be a good idea to look for her own apartment. Something closer to the affiliate and stadium.

A cool, Kentucky breeze slipped through her open window. Brooks put her tablet away and then stood before the open window, looking out over the rolling, green hills. A lawn mower rumbled to life outside and the crisp scent of clipped grass tickled her nose.

For the next year, Louisville was home again. She had an interview with Jonas Nash in the morning. Good luck was definitely on her side.

CHAPTER THREE

AT EXACTLY EIGHT FIFTY-FIVE the next morning Brooks was outside the office of the new head coach of the Kentuckians, Earl Highland. The walls of the reception area were covered with team memorabilia and signed pictures, and the wood floors gleamed in the bright morning sun. Floor-to-ceiling windows looked out over the practice field, the field turf there a brilliant green. She could see a few players running laps around the field, but knew most of the team were still at their off-season homes. At ten minutes after nine, a ponytailed secretary wearing a Kentuckians tee and faded jeans ushered Brooks through the office door.

The coach wore an old tracksuit with a whistle around his neck, and his light brown hair was cropped close to his head. Not like any other professional coach she’d met, he was more like her father. Earl had coached Jonas through college to two national championships and a number one draft pick position, and the football world had been surprised when he’d stepped into the coach’s office here a few weeks before. She’d met him once, when she tagged along with her dad on a college visit with one of his players, and remembered how he’d brought her into the conversation a few times. Most big-time coaches didn’t pay any attention to her. Earl was part of the reason she followed her father into football.

Every flat surface was piled high with notebooks, DVD boxes and T-shirts. Whistles littered a side table and spilled over to a box between the low table and the desk. A few pairs of old tennis shoes sat under a window and Earl’s trademark bright red hoodie lay in a pool at the feet of a brass coatrack. The room was so much like her dad’s office at the high school and the den he’d made into a second office at the house that she had to look twice to make sure he wasn’t somehow sitting in the little room.

If it were her father’s office the quarterback wouldn’t be six feet five inches of sexuality. The man sitting across from Earl definitely smoldered.

Jonas sat in a worn leather chair, wearing old cargo shorts, black flip-flops and a ragged tee that had “NAVY” written on it. He might have been a kid on a college campus, albeit not the college she’d attended. Somehow the guys Brooks remembered from her school days paled in comparison to the giant sitting to the side of Earl Highland’s desk, ankle crossed over his knee and his long fingers beating a furious tattoo against his well-muscled thigh.

“Brooks Smith, Jonas Nash,” Earl said, his voice gravelly and loud in the quiet room. “Although I hear you’ve already met.” His gray gaze was filled with mirth as he motioned between them. “How’ve you been, kid?”

“Good. Dad sends his regards,” she said.

Earl smiled and his eyes seemed to brighten. “Tell Jimmy we need to shoot the breeze sometime soon, would you?”

“Sure.” Brooks took the seat opposite Jonas and said, “We have met, twice, actually.” And he still doesn’t know my name, a petty voice in her head reminded her. He didn’t know her name, and yet she couldn’t stop thinking about him. Great, just great.

“The second was a little more fun than the first,” Jonas said, “for Brook, anyway.”

Brooks beetled her brows, but before she could offer a retort, Earl cut in. “In any case, you’re probably wondering why I’ve brought you both in this morning.”

“I assumed for the interview, are we going to the field?”

“I’m not doing any damned interview—”

“Jonas.” Earl’s voice was soft but there was no mistaking the command in it. “I had another idea.”

Brooks crossed one leg over the other and sat forward. Whatever this was had to be good. “I’m all ears.”

“Coach—”

“We talked about this,” he said to his player. Then turned his attention back to Brooks. Watching the looks passing between player and coach was fascinating. Brooks didn’t need telepathic abilities to know Jonas didn’t like whatever was about to be said one bit. Which made her like it even more. The coach continued speaking. “Jonas is heading up a youth football camp for the next couple of weeks—”

“Isn’t he still rehabbing the shoulder?”

Earl continued as if Brooks hadn’t said anything. “This is important to him. It’s a program for underprivileged kids. They’ll come in from Louisville, of course, but as far south as Memphis and as far east as Raleigh. Learn some fundamentals, practice drills, and along the way have some real team-building experiences.” Earl looked from Jonas to Brooks and back again. When he skewered her with his gray gaze, Brooks wanted to be anywhere but inside the small office with piles of folders and loose-leaf papers scattered about.

“I’m not sure what that has to do with my interview,” she finally said, her voice little more than a squeak. What was it about the direct gaze of football coaches that left her quavering in her boots? Well, ballet flats, but, still.

“Maybe everything. Jonas and I were just talking about how the program could use a media push. You have network pull, and you’re assigned to the Kentuckians through to the end of the season, so it makes sense.”

“I’m assigned to the Kentuckians, not to one player.” Brooks sat up straighter in her chair. Hard gaze or not, these two were not going to derail her assignment. With the veritable all-access pass she had with the team, she could create real buzz. Maybe land a spot at the network sports desk or maybe even in the booth during games. “I can’t report on the other players if I’m all the way in—” she looked from man to man.