Sweet Spot: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (Bad Boys of Summer Book 2) (13 page)

Well, everyone but Oklahoma City’s Channel 6 News.

I’d been in the postgame press conference after every game but so far, only one of my questions had been answered and the rest of my segment was filled with regurgitating everything the other sports reporters had to say. Mr. Jones was
not
impressed. To say the least.

Denver was my last chance to get the exclusive. Otherwise I might as well just book a one-way ticket to Dallas and hang it all up.

“Maybe I should have just taken the damn weather girl job,” I muttered to myself a moment before jerking the dusty curtains closed so that I didn’t have to see Trey’s hotel. “At least then I’d be on TV.”

Since nothing in my reports and footage was new, the station hadn’t even bothered to play any of it. Everything about this assignment was fucked up and I was losing sight of any grain of hope to turn it around. I hadn’t heard from Trey since the morning in Seattle, after I’d stormed out of his hotel room, ranting and raving about my job like some kind of psycho witch on a tirade. It was humiliating. Definitely wasn’t my finest hour and just replaying the damn thing in my head made me cringe. I’d woken up to my phone—that had somehow ended up tucked against my ribs—vibrating like crazy. I vaguely remembered getting it once Trey was asleep so I could set my alarm for the next morning and must’ve fallen asleep before it made it back to the night stand.

The early morning call was from Mr. Jones and I ran into Trey’s bathroom to take the call. While he was on speaker phone, lecturing me about my lack of footage, I sneaked out to gather my clothes from the hotel room floor and then ducked back into the bathroom to attempt to defend myself to my irate boss. It hadn’t done much good. Mr. Jones told me that nothing I’d sent back to the station was worth playing on air. They wanted fresh, unique coverage and apparently that wasn’t what I had. At the end of the call, he basically told me that if I didn’t get the interview, the network would can the entire ten-piece segment and I’d be back on coffee duty.

Indefinitely.

My plans for something bigger, something meaningful, were unraveling at a rapid pace.

After fleeing Trey’s hotel room that morning, I threw myself into producing a series of clips of myself, talking about the game and my speculation on Trey. But I couldn’t get into the specifics. At least, not without breaching Trey’s confidence. The segments were edited and ready to send to Mr. Jones but something was holding me back from hitting SEND. If he didn’t like them enough to run them, and still insisted on a firsthand interview with Trey—it’d be all over.

I’d tuck my tail between my legs, go home to the ranch and see if I could get some freelance work to occupy myself in between blind dates with rich farmers and church ushers.

“Oh, gawd…” I grimaced at the idea. After being with Trey, there was no way those guys could satisfy me. I’d be back to sneaking my vibrator into bed after they’d passed out for the night.

Why was it all the fuckwads were amazing in bed and all the nice guys sucked? Was there such a thing as an all-in-one kind of guy? A nice guy with looks, charm, and a cock to die for?

If there was—I certainly hadn’t found him.

Not that Trey
wasn’t
a nice guy. He’d always been respectful to me, but I knew that was only a small part of him. Truly nice guys didn’t have baby mama drama, lawsuits claiming breech of moral clauses, and enough barroom scuffles that if he weren’t a major sports star, he’d probably be behind bars by now on assault charges.

That wasn’t the kind of guy I could trust in the long run—or even take home to meet my parents. He wasn’t the kind of guy I could build a future with. I’d always wonder if he was being faithful to me. Women threw themselves at Trey like dogs in heat. I couldn’t trust him to keep coming home to my bed every night when he was getting sext messages and naked texts day and night from rabid fans and bored housewives.

Nope. He wasn’t the one for me. Even if he was the only one I couldn’t stop thinking or dreaming about.

All Trey Delgado was, was a big, musclebound, panty melting distraction.

And right now, that was the last thing I needed.

* * * *

The Denver game was another runaway success but I couldn’t be bothered to leave my seat. I wasn’t in a cheering mood. Besides that, I was too busy studying the notes on my phone, reciting the postgame questions in my head as though I was cramming for an economics final exam in college. I
had
to get a good segment tonight. Over the course of the afternoon, I’d made a list of questions that might stir up a good conversation and get me some kind of credit with Mr. Jones. At this point, an exclusive with Trey was out of the question. I refused to sit down with him and talk like we hadn’t fucked all over his hotel room. There was no way I’d be able to maintain anything close to professionalism, and I refused to let my first big piece end up making me out to be some kind of obsessed fangirl.

I was putting all of my eggs into my plan B, which was a slam dunk postgame show, and the self-produced videos I’d made, chronicling my time on the road with the team. They were sensationalist shit, but at least it was better than going back to Oklahoma City empty handed.

Toward the end of the game, I pocketed my phone, and took deep breaths before I got any more nervous. I’d glanced up and spotted Trey a few times over the course of the game, but at the moment, he was nowhere to be seen. He’s done his job and the coach likely had him sitting out the rest of the game, knowing the second string could take it home. His absence was fine with me. I was constantly wet, imagining him inside me, thinking about the way he moved his hips, and the taste of his sweet and demanding kisses.

And his cock. I had to stop thinking about his cock.

The home team fans were leaving the stadium already, not wanting to stick around and watch their team lose. I hopped up from my seat and started to make my way into the early surge of foot traffic to get down to the media pit. I managed to get there early enough to get a good spot toward the front table and spread my feet wide, rooting myself in place. I wasn’t going to get knocked over, bumped sideways, or trampled on. Not tonight, damn it. Tonight, I was going to get my questions answered.

Forty minutes later, Cody Wright, Coach Robinson, and Trey filtered out from the visiting locker rooms, all three wearing triumphant, but exhausted, smiles as they took their places at the table. The Three Amigos. That was the not-so-clever nickname the media had assigned to the three of them. Three sets of broad shoulders that were responsible for the weight of the Warriors’ future.

The team’s PR assistant started picking off questions and the reporters around me started shooting off one after another, rapid fire. It seemed to always start that way, a roar of chaos until Coach Robinson got irritated and called order. “All right, let’s get this going,” Coach Robinson barked over the rush of questions. “My boys are bone tired and we have an early flight home tomorrow.”

I tried to avoid glancing at Trey, but slipped, and found him already staring at me. Our eyes met and I couldn’t look away again. My heart palpitated and my lips went dry, so I flicked out the tip of my tongue to smooth over the last remnants of gloss. Trey followed the quick movement and his eyes went wider. Shivers tore up my spine and flashes of his reflection in the high rise window, standing behind me, grabbing onto my ass, while he—

Stop it, Jo!

I tore my eyes away from his and focused on what Coach Robinson was saying. “—think that’s really the key here. We need to focus on…”

My eyes drifted back to Trey and Coach’s words faded from my ears. He was still watching me intently. His eyes a silent question. I gave him a smile and my heart jumped when he returned it. Fuck. I was fangirling all over the place. I’d have to catch my drool.

“Excuse me,” he said, glancing away from me for a split second, just long enough to get the attention of their PR gal. “I want to see if Josie Crawford, from our home station, channel 6, has any questions,” he said, snapping his fingers in my direction. All eyes shifted onto me and I froze. “Ms. Crawford?”

“Right—um—I do. Yes. Um…” My mind was a blank slate, completely empty of all the questions I had so diligently studied during the game. And, since I’d been studying the notes and not watching the game, I couldn’t even springboard off the last topic of conversation.
Shit
. “Can you tell our viewers about your strategy leading into the playoffs? Are you making a push?”

I groaned at the simplistic question and the seasoned reporters around me offered a commiserating grumble at me stealing their time.

“We’re gonna do what we do. Kick ass, take names, and then do it all over again,” Trey replied, flashing a wide smile for the cameras.

Coach Robinson shot him a droll look. “We have every intention of getting into the playoffs, but that’s not where our focus is right now. We are doing this thing one day at a time, one game at a time. Next question.”

The seasoned reporters around me swooped in like hungry vultures and ripped away any chance I had for a follow-up question. Seeing that I was beat, I slunk away from the crowd.

I was done. I just wanted to go to the airport, get on my flight, and go home to my own condo, my own bed, and my own life. I was tired of pretending to be something I wasn’t.

I got out of the pack of media reporters and started down the hallway, looking for the nearest exit. My hair was down and sticking to the sweat on the back of my neck. I stopped walking, tucked myself in an alcove, and fished an elastic band from the pocket of my dark wash jeans. “Gawd, that was a disaster,” I groaned, raking my hair back, violently forming a ponytail.

A chuckle sounded over my shoulder. “Actually, I thought it was pretty good.”

I whipped around at the sound of the deep voice and my mouth dropped open at the sight of Trey, towering over me. “Oh—hi…” I snapped the elastic in place and dropped my arms.

“You set up a nice beat for me to play the cocky bastard which is always a good time,” he said, grinning at me.

I tossed my ponytail over my shoulder. “Well, thanks for trying to help.”

He leaned against the wall, bracing against his shoulder as he folded his arms, and stared down at me. “What the hell is going on with you?”

“What do you mean?” I fired back, my tone more than a little perturbed.

He shrugged his other shoulder. “You’re a mess.”

“Gee, thanks.” I shook my head. I so did not sign up for this.

Trey chuckled. “You’re out of your league with all those damn reporters.”

A hollow, humorless laugh bubbled up from my throat, fueled by frustration, exhaustion, and frazzled stress. “Thank you, Captain Obvious. I’m not even supposed to fucking be here.” I shook my head again, this time harder, like trying to clear water from my ears after a swim. How had any of this even happened? One day I’m going into Mr. Jones’ office to demand a reporting job and somehow ended up on this joke of an assignment. I would have been better off turning in my resignation and going home to Dallas for a few months to recoup.

Trey’s hand reached out and came to rest on my shoulder. The gesture startled me and I jumped. I glared down at his hand and then up at him. “What are you doing?”

“Shit, Jo, I’m trying to help.”

I shook his hand away and took a step back. I rubbed my hands over my head and followed the line of my ponytail. The humidity had been murder on my sleek, flat ironed hair. My natural waves always won out in the end. “I really don’t need your help, Trey. You’re right, I don’t belong here. This isn’t the stupid job I wanted anyway.” I glanced up at him. “Nevermind. You wouldn’t understand. You get
everything
you want.”

Trey frowned. “Fuck, you think I get what I want? I wouldn’t even
be here
, playing for the Warriors, if I got what I wanted. I’d be back in California, sitting on my balcony, looking over the ocean, with a beer in one hand and having some half-naked beach bunny sucking my cock.”

I grimaced. “Charming.”

He chuckled. “Just sayin’.”

“Yes, it’s quite a fairy tale story.”

Trey caught my eye and I couldn’t look away. “It could be you, you know.”

“Sucking your cock? Gee, what an honor.” I clapped my hands together and gave him my best doe-eyed, innocent look. “It’s like winning the lottery!”

Trey laughed and shrugged, pushing off the wall. “Jo, I’m just trying to make you smile. You’re too damn young to be so hard and bitter, you know.”

I squared my shoulders and stared up at him. I was tough. I wasn’t going to cry—I wanted to—but, no, I wouldn’t. “I could say the same thing about you, Mr. Man. You fuck around, run your mouth, punch people who irritate you, and then you expect the world to feel sorry for you when you lose everything. On top of that, you’re a fucking bazill—”

I expected an argument, a snarky reply, a scathing look. Instead, Trey reached for me, and in one swift move, had me flattened against the wall, his lips locked onto mine in a scorching hot kiss that took our anger, frustration, and resentment and turned it into a blazing fire.

Josie

I couldn’t say how it happened, it was like driving a familiar route and not remembering the specifics of the drive when you arrived. All I knew was I wanted Trey and he wanted me. The rest was mindless logistics. One minute we were making out against the wall at the stadium, and the next, we were crashing through the door of his hotel room, and tangled together in the covers on his bed. Our clothes had already been ripped off and thrown away somewhere along the way and I was clawing at Trey’s muscled back, desperate for him to be inside of me again. To bring all of my scorching dreams to life.

Trey was just as eager as I was. Each move and kiss punctuated with an impatient growl. “I’ve been dying for another taste of your sweet little pussy,” he groaned, right as he tugged my soaking wet panties over my thighs, baring me to himself. I squirmed at the urgency of his hot and dirty words. “Yeah, baby, roll those hips. Show me how you want it. Spread those thighs.”