Holding (Moving the Chains #5) - Kata Cuic Page 0,2
boy who’s still hiding under all the grown man’s muscular armor. “That’s also why I trust him with you.”
Mike mumbles around my grasp. “I don’t need any help!”
I let go and pat his cheek. “We all need help sometimes, big brother.”
“And you say I’m the hypocrite?”
I’ve died and gone to man-candy heaven. Emphasis on the dying part.
The clank of metal on metal and the grunts of men working assault my ears as I take in this side of the Albany Wolves that I usually have very limited interaction with. No woman alive would be unaffected. As far as the eye can see, male forms in various stages of undress glisten with sweat while their muscles shift beneath the sheaths of their taut skin. Some are blank canvases. Others are works of art in their own right, more ink than anything else. They all have one thing in common—elite athletes at the peak of human physical performance.
I glance down at my skirt, where a hint of a muffin top bulges above my belt. Thankfully, it’s mostly hidden by my suit jacket. This isn’t a competition anyway. Or at least, not one that I’m part of. Unless I count the whole being a distraction thing. Which I don’t. Because it’s frankly insulting.
With more than a little effort, I shake off my anxiety and make sure my chin isn’t on the floor. There might be more nearly nude, ripped men than I’ve ever seen in one place at one time, but professionalism is key.
I scan the area for the particular player I seek, but honestly, with so much controlled chaos, it’s impossible to tell which mountain of muscle he is. I open my mouth and step toward the first body that approaches me, but he pushes through the door I’m still standing in front of before I can question him, nearly bowling me over as he makes his escape. I gaze over my shoulder longingly. If only I could bail, too.
Squaring my shoulders, I remind myself that the rest of my career might hinge on this assignment. The whole point of invading this sanctum of maleness is to make sure I have the upper hand right out of the gate. Actually, it’s so I won’t have enough time to talk myself out of it and just start looking for another internship. But he doesn’t need to know that.
I clear my throat. “Mike Mitchell?”
All the cacophony present when I first entered silences as every set of eyes studies me with obvious suspicion. I’m clearly an intruder here, and no one is close enough to read the employee pass hanging around my neck.
“Journalists aren’t allowed back here,” a beefcake announces from his position on some sort of machine that looks like a medieval torture device. “You need to wait in the press room until he’s done with his circuit.”
“You can wait for me in the locker room,” someone from the back calls, resulting in laughter raining down over me.
My cheeks heat. Darn my fair complexion because they’re probably the same color as my red hair right now. If blushing head to toe was an actual profession, I’d never have to worry about employment again. “I’m, um…I’m not a journalist?”
Great, Tori. Way to nail that whole professionalism thing. You’re obviously going to ace this assignment. Not.
The same man who tried to throw me out rises from his perch and swipes a towel from the ground beside his machine-thingy. He approaches me with measured steps and an equally measured gaze while wiping sweat from his hard chest. When he’s close enough for me to feel his warm breath on my face, I can’t help but stare at the intricate detail of the dragon tattoo on his right pec. It’s a great distraction from all the sweaty, half-naked maleness invading my personal space.
I’ve never been into the whole-body art thing, but I can’t deny the artistry is beautiful.
With all the willpower I can muster, I resist the urge to shudder when his fingers graze my breasts as he lifts my employee identification badge to read.
“Mitchell!”
There’s no way to prevent jumping with his loud shout.
Another round of snickers follows, which does nothing to cool my hot cheeks or ease the slight trembling of my body. I’m in way over my head—and judging by this guy’s once-over—he knows it.
He turns around then mutters, “Aw, hell. He’s got his earbuds in. He can’t hear a damn thing. Go on back. Third hack squat machine on the left.”