Page 5 of Tight End
She narrowed her eyes but was suppressing a smile. “You did not!”
Cocking my head to the side, I watched her, captivated by her every movement. “Maybe not Mississippi exactly. But I had a suspicion you were from the South. You’re very polished, but you’ve got a couple of soft vowels when you’re not thinking about them.”
Marissa groaned. “I worked four years to scrub that accent, and you figured it out in the first ten minutes.”
“It’s cute,” I insisted. “Why lose it?”
“It’s not that I was ashamed of my Southern roots.” Her tone and expression were open and honest. “It’s simply that diction is incredibly important in media. I have to make sure that everyone can understand me, so a neutral accent is best. And the viewers don’t automatically assume you have a bias, which is essential when you’re reporting on sports.”
I rubbed my jaw. “I wouldn’t have thought of it that way. But it makes complete sense.”
We ate in silence for a few minutes, thoroughly enjoying our meal, but I was too determined to know everything about her to let her finish before I asked more questions. “You mentioned figure skating on the drive over. Did you do it competitively?”
“Yes. In fact, I went to Adrian College, a liberal arts school in Michigan that had the first varsity figure skating team in the country. They made it a collegiate sport.”
“Is that why you chose to go there?”
“That and a scholarship. I skated competitively until junior year, but a knee injury knocked me off the Olympic track. I lovedfigure skating, but I’ve always been a fan of pretty much any sport. So I pivoted to journalism with a minor in sports media. It was a smart move because I love what I do.” There was no longing or regret in her voice when she mentioned skating, and she’d lit up at the mention of her job. “Although I’m still finding my footing. Football wasn’t even supposed to be part of my beat. I’m usually covering skating, diving, or obscure sports no one pays attention to outside the Olympics.”
I chuckled at her description. “So what happened today?”
“Dave came down with food poisoning. Your team’s PR called my editor and told him to send someone—anyone. I was closest. So here I am. I should probably feel bad that he got sick”—she blushed and stared down at her food—“but I don’t because it finally gave me the opportunity to be seen in a different capacity.”
“So I’m not your ticket to fame and fortune?” I joked. “I’ll have to figure out another way to convince you to go out with me again.”
Marissa’s expression turned coy, and she looked at me through her lashes. “Free meals?” she suggested with a giggle.
She had no fucking idea how sexy she was right at that moment. But my dick was very, very aware.
I grinned wickedly. “Anytime. But I have other talents that will satisfy you more than food.”
She inhaled sharply, and her deep blue eyes simmered with heat. But to my disappointment, she didn’t take the bait.
“Your turn to tell me something,” she murmured in a shaky voice.
It was gratifying to see that she was just as affected by me as I was by her. However, I’d give her a little more time before pushing her to admit it.
I leaned in, my forearms braced on the table. “I’m opening a delicatessen.”
That made her blink. “Wait, seriously?”
I nodded with a grin. “The Tight Line Delicatessen, near Hudson Yards. Opens in May.”
“What kind of name is that?” she asked, incredulous, but amused.
“A football one,” I answered smugly. “Micah Daughtry is my partner. Tight end…linebacker. We’re going full theme with it, too. The slogan is ‘Stacked. Pressed. Always in formation.’”
She laughed, and the sound punched something deep in my chest. It was the kind of laughter that made you want to hear it again. Made you want to earn it.
“That is…” she breathed out, still smiling. “That’s ridiculous.”
“It’s genius,” I countered. “Wait till you see the menu.”
“I don’t even want to know.”
“Oh, you do. Trust me.”
She stared at me for a second like she didn’t know whether to be curious or change the subject.
