Page 10 of Who's Saving You
Nik grins faintly. “And he’s always been this annoying.”
Nico leans closer to me. “If you really want a story, ask about the college years.”
As soon as the words are out, Nik’s expression shuts down, and he looks like he’s ready to run. And I catch it. Nico winks and peels off toward a nurse’s station, already charming someone new. Nik turns back to me, his jaw tight. “I think we’re done for today.”
I don’t argue. I’ve already gotten more than I came for. “I’ll be around.”
He watches me for a moment, eyes unreadable. Then he nods once and walks away.
First the PR rep told me to avoid the college bowl game, and now Nico is teasing him about his college years. I tap my recorder, speaking quickly so as not to lose my thoughts. “Check this mystery college game. Loving knows something, and Papas doesn’t want to talk about it.”
~~
I left the hospital and went right to my favorite spot to write, Jingle Java on Main Street. Besides serving the best caramel lattes around and always having a full candy display to choose from—my two guilty pleasures in life—it's the perfect spot to people watch, get ideas for interview questions, and write those intense articles.
Despite living in the same city, I’ve only watched Nik Papas on television. I’ve seen his interviews, but I never paid them too much attention. I had no reason to. Athletes are not what I care to interview, as they come across more like a gift to the world than down-to-earth human beings. However, I will give credit where it’s due. Nik Papas is personable and charming. And though I believe 90% of it is practiced, that last 10% is natural and probably morehimthan what anyone else sees.
That's the guy I’d like to get to know.
I shake the thought from my head, reminding myself that the last guy I thought was a saint was actually the devil in disguise, and scroll through my notes, realizing I never picked up the signed consent forms. So I pack up my stuff and head to the Warriors’ facility to make sure I have everything in order. There are a few cars in the parking lot, and when I flash my Falls Press badge to the security guard, he lets me through without an issue.
I step into the main lobby of the facility and am directeddown the hall to the information center. I’m met by an older woman who calls me by name and hands me a folder. Clutching the manila folder the PR team left for me, I spin around, admiring the walls and the banners.
The building is gorgeous, all polished stone and expensive. It’s exactly what you would expect from an NFL stadium, especially a two-time Super Bowl Champion stadium. I’m so lost in the architecture that I take one wrong turn and end up near the practice gym. It’s glass-walled and echoes with the clank of metal weights and the grunts of a team of players.
My eyes scan the room. I’m already searching for him, though I tell myself I’m not. And when I spot him, I try not to stare. I tell myself to turn around, but I don’t. Ican’t.
Get it together, Noelle. He’s a baby, and you just turned thirty.
Nik Papas is mid-workout and shirtless. Sweat glistens down his chest, arms flexing under the barbell like he’s carved from some kind of explicit daydream. He wears black compression shorts that leave nothing to the imagination, white sneakers, and that face that belongs on a movie poster, not hidden under a helmet. A far cry from the sweatshirt and jeans guy I met earlier.
I don’t blink until he catches me. He spots me through the glass, one brow lifting beneath hair that is plastered to his forehead. He finishes his set and drops the bar, never taking his eyes off me. Then he pulls out his earbuds and strolls toward the door like he owns the place.
When he opens the glass door, he’s still breathing deep from his workout, but has a smug smile spreading across his face.
“You lost,” he says, “or just here for the show?”
I tilt my head, letting my gaze slide from his chest to hissneakers and back up. Slow and obvious, then I cross my arms. “I thought this was where football players got better. Didn’t realize I walked into a GQ shoot. My bad.”
His smirk is instant. “You gonna quote that in your article? Or just keep collecting material for your spank bank?”
“Please,” I scoff. “You’re just another cocky rookie. A dime a dozen in this league.”
He leans against the doorframe like he has all day, arms crossed and sex appeal turned up. “And yet, here you are, watching me like it’s game tape. You sure you don’t wanna write this down?”
“I don’t need to,” I shoot back. “Nothing of importance to remember.”
He laughs, low and completely unfazed by our banter. He’s different from when we met at the hospital charity event. That Saint charm is turned low, and the sexy sinner is turned up. It feels like he is using his sex appeal as a shield. Maybe it’s because he’s surrounded by his team, or maybe because we’re in ‘his house.’ “You sure you’re not mentally updating your fantasy team roster? Wide receiver with bonus points for charm and abs?” He flexes his pecs, and I do my best not to drool.
I don’t answer right away. For a second, there’s something quiet between us. There’s an attraction, but it’s genuine. His smirk softens, and he looks at me with curiosity, like he’s feeling it, too. He watches me like he’s trying to decide whether to push further with his fake charm or to let down a little wall and see if I’ll hop over.
I step back first, lifting the manila folder as if it were my own shield.
“PR forms,” I say coolly. “I’ll get out of your way. You clearly have moreposing to do.”
He doesn’t stop me, but I feel him watching as I turn and walk away.
“Hey, Moreno,” he calls just as I reach the end of the hallway.
