Once Upon A Half-Time: A Sports Romance - Sosie Frost Page 0,55

date is going to be pure magic. I gotta make you fall in love with me after all.”

“And what will you do once you have me?”

“I won’t need to do anything. My life will be complete.”

She wiggled her hips, but I got her to smile. “I know it’s just a line, but I like hearing it.”

“It’s not a line. I mean every word of it.”

“Charming, you can’t say those things.”

“Even if they’re true?”

“Especially if they’re true. I have no defense against you.”

“You never needed one.”

She regained too much strength. One orgasm wearing off meant that it was time for another. And another after that. Then another. I wasn’t stopping until I had her weakened, shuddering, groaning, and completely and totally spent under me.

And then I’d do it again.

“You know…I’m glad you came over. I’m feeling better already.” She nibbled on her fingernail as I repositioned her hips. “Maybe we should have other unofficial dates? More often?”

I grinned, hunkering down between her legs.

“No need to plan anything yet, Red.” I nibbled her clit once more. “Tonight’s just getting started.”

13

Elle

I was going to be sick.

I wasn’t even stuck in the sun this time. The nerves knotted my stomach, and I raced for the nearest bathroom.

And…I missed the porcelain bullseye. That wasn’t pleasant. To my credit, I didn’t get sick on the field, even if Sean deserved some swift, chunky retribution. We had no need for another vomit spiral passing through the team. Ironfield did not have iron stomachs.

But I couldn’t blame Sean for heat stroke, not when it was just anxiety upsetting my tummy. The pressure was getting to me. I was the worst investigative reporter ever. At least when Lois Lane was in trouble it was because she was facing a crazy billionaire stuffing Kryptonite in his boxers, not heaving up the grilled chicken wrap she had for lunch.

I stared into the bathroom mirror. I looked sickly. Exhausted too. I hadn’t slept at all last night. Couldn’t, not after parsing the stolen emails that passed from Peter to Coach Thompson.

And now I had the full-story…every secret that would destroy the team.

They’d worked together to get the pictures. Coordinated their strategies and collected photographs during the other teams’ walk-throughs. Most were taken from the opponents’ practice fields—hidden camera and cell phone footage. It was an efficient and effective method. Coach Thompson knew everything about the opposing team before we played them.

And, as a result, the Rivets had dominated the league last year. Now I knew why.

For the past two weeks, I’d cataloged everything I could find. Linked all the illegal photos to the emailed orders passed from Coach Thompson to Peter. Recorded the dates of my conversations with them. I saved my own nudes too, though I was certain the instant I said anything, they’d leak onto the internet.

But I was expected to start my own intelligence on the Atwood Monarchs for the opening game of the season. I was out of time, and I had to do something.

Even if it sickened me.

I only wished someone could have helped me. I trusted no one with the information though…and the only person I might have considered telling had his own shit to deal with. Lachlan wasn’t having a good camp, and, thanks to Sports Nation and loudmouth Ainsley Ruport, everyone knew it.

I couldn’t burden him with this. Not until I had it figured out.

Not until I could figure out why I so desperately wanted to go to him for support. Comfort. A hug. A touch. Another night spent in his arms.

Wasn’t I already confused enough?

I splashed water on my face and rinsed my mouth. I couldn’t spend the afternoon pouting over some tossed cookies.

If I wanted to ensure the proper people were held accountable for the cheating, I had to do it by the book and in accordance with the team’s handbook.

Loathed as I was to follow the chain of command, I had to cover my ass and report the problems to my superiors. That meant going above Coach Thompson and our general manager and talking to the team’s current owner—Adam Richardson III.

Fortunately, I didn’t need an appointment. His reception still owed me a favor for doing her wedding photography after her hired crew cancelled the day before the wedding. She waved me into his office with a smile.

Adam was a young man, hardly into his thirties. Third generation money—the kind that hadn’t worked to earn the fortune, just spent it.

“Elle!” Adam knew me by name, but he still owed me for the