I show up at DeLorenzo’s right on time, feeling a nervous ping in my stomach.
I don’t know why I’m here. I already know what I think of Sean, and it’s not good. I don’t need this, not really. I can get by fine without it.
Except I know that’s a lie. In a male-dominated field like this, any edge I can get is an edge I really need.
They all look at me like I’m just some stupid girl. How could I actually know anything about sports? I mean, I’m a girl, after all.
I must be stupid, and on my period.
I’m like the pet they keep around because it’s cute. Nobody actually wants to invest any time in me, much less my editor. They keep me around, send me out, let me write my articles, and sometimes they even tell me that I’m doing a good job.
They pat my head and expect me to wag my tail.
I can ignore most of it. I can ignore the casual sexism, the stupid comments, the patronizing looks, the frustrating explanations when no explanations are necessary. I can get past all that.
But I can’t get past the fact that there doesn’t seem to be any growth in this for me.
In my time with my paper, I’ve had two male colleagues either get raises or promotions. I know this because they fucking brag about it. They make more money, get better assignments, and get better treatment.
Meanwhile, I’ve gotten barely cost of living raises. My assignments suck, and I only ever get published because the players seem to like me and are willing to talk to me.
I’m good at what I do. I know this sport and I know these guys. They like me, they open up to me, they actually talk to me like I’m another human being instead of a member of the much-hated press.
And I’m still stuck as a junior copywriter.
So here I am, going into an interview nobody else in my profession has been able to get. I know it’s with Sean, and he’s a real asshole, but this could be the thing to finally make my editor pay attention to me.
I want to be taken seriously. I want to be given the respect I deserve.
And so I’ll do ten times the amount of work my male counterparts do and earn it.
Sean comes strolling down the street, only a few minutes late. He’s wearing jeans and a button-down and looks surprisingly good in his casual clothes.
He grins when he spots me, but before he can try and go in for a hug or something, I stick out my hand. “Sean,” I say. “Thanks for meeting me.”
He laughs and shakes my hand, amusement in his eyes. “You’re welcome, Brynn.”
“Should we go in?”
He nods and leads me inside. The hostess’s eyes go wide when she spots him, but she doesn’t say anything. She just grabs some menus and leads us to a corner table, a little secluded from everyone else, clearly the best table in the house.
“Have a nice meal, uh, Sean,” she says, and hurries away.
“She’s a fan,” I comment as he settles into the chair.
“They know me here,” he comments.
“Really?”
“Oh, sure. I come here all the time.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You’re one of the most famous people in this city.”
“So?”
“So, you can’t just go into some restaurant casually.”
“Why not?”
“Why—you know why not!”
He looks up over his menu at me and frowns a little. “I come here all the time, never had an issue.”
“But, you’re famous.”
He puts down his menu and sips his water. “That’s true,” he says after a second. “But you’d be surprised. Mostly, people are too scared to come up to me.”
“But when they’re not?”
He shrugs. “I’ll sign some autographs, chat a little bit, but they usually leave me alone if I ask them to.”
I laugh softly, shaking my head. “You make it sound so simple.”
“It really is. Look, most people, they just want to meet me so they can tell their friends, you know? People are pretty nice, in general.”
“What about the ones that aren’t?”
He shrugs. “I’m big. They don’t mess with me.”
I laugh again, surprised by this. “Do any of the other players come with you?”
“Nah,” he says. “They’re all too scared.”
“Oh, yeah, of course they are.”
“They get more annoyed about the attention than I do, you know? I figure, the attention is part of the job. So I smile, take pictures, whatever. It makes people happy, so why not?”
I shake my head, at a loss for words, when the waitress comes up. Sean orders a bottle of wine and a mussel dish, and I decide to get pasta with pesto sauce.
I have to admit, I’m already surprised by the turn this conversation took. He doesn’t seem like the type of guy that would be all about being kind to his fans. I know a lot of NFL guys hate the attention and the fans. They go out of their away to avoid it.
Clearly Sean doesn’t feel that way. There’s a strange naivete about his viewpoint, but it’s also really…
Nice. It’s really nice.
But I don’t think Sean is a nice person, so that’s a strange little contradiction.
When the waitress is gone, I take out a recorder and hit the red record button. Sean beams at me as I look up at him.
“I’m going to record this, okay?”
“Sure,” he says. “Gotta get my words just right.”
I clear my throat. “So, Sean. You’ve had some issues with your throwing shoulder. You struggled last year coming back from off-season surgery. How are you feeling now?”
“You know,” he says, “it’s funny. This isn’t a conversation I thought I’d be having.”
I clear my throat. “Why not?”
“I mean, I’ve been around this league, you know? I’ve played on a few other teams before the Chainsaws. Coach saw something in me, brought me on, and the system just clicked with me. But I never thought I’d be sidelined with an injury.”
“You’ve been surprisingly injury-free your whole career,” I concede.
“Right. I always thought I’d be an iron man forever, you know? Never getting hurt, body indestructible.”
“But nobody’s like that.”
“Nope, of course not. Although I’m pretty close.”
He grins at me. I roll my eyes.
“So, about your shoulder now?”
“Shoulder’s fine,” he says.
“Sean…”
“I know, I know, but wait. Here comes the wine.”
And sure enough, the waitress stops by and pours two glasses, leaving the bottle on the table. Sean grins at me and sips his drink.
I sigh and take a big drink from mine. Might as well try and enjoy this much, at least, since I have a feeling I won’t be getting what I want here.
I turn off the recorder.
“You said this was about your shoulder,” I say to him.
“I know. And we’ll talk about it. I’d rather just relax with you first.”
“I’m not here for that,” I say. “I’m keeping this professional.”
He smirks and I want to slap him. “Do you really?”
“Yes, asshole. Despite your stupid rumors.”
He winces at that. “Look, that was a misunderstanding, okay?”
“Sure, whatever you say.” I sip my drink again. “I just want what I came here for, okay? If you don’t plan on actually talking about that, tell me now so I don’t waste my time.”
He sighs. “Why do you have such a chip on your shoulder?”
I glare at him. “I don’t.”
“You really do. I get it, there aren’t a lot of female sports journalists in Fargo, but come on.”
“I’m the only one,” I point out.
“Fine, you’re the only one. But you’re still so much better than all those other morons. I’ve read your articles. I actually like them.”
I hesitate a second. “Really?”
“Of course. I mean, I’m a fan of the sport too, you know. You’re smart, you have good insights. And you write better than that idiot Damon.”
Damon is one of my fellow writers at the paper, one of the top sports guys. I think he’s an asshole.
Sean’s compliments are working. I hate myself for softening under a little flattery, but it’s the exact right kind of flattery.
“I find it hard to believe you really read it,” I say, trying to hide my smile.
“I really do,” he says. “Always have. I know we got off to a rocky start, but if there’s anyone I want telling my story, it’s you.”
I frown and look away. For a second, I’m about to give in, but suddenly I remember why I’m angry with him to begin with.
That stupid rumor. That fucking stupid rumor.
“No,” I say suddenly. “That’s not going to work.”
He looks surprised. “What do you mean?”
“You don’t get to just flatter me and expect it all to go away.”
“Brynn, I’m not—”
“Seriously, Sean, get over yourself. You make up these stupid rumors, which are going to hurt me professionally, by the way, and now you think you can just compliment my writing and that’ll all go away. But it’s not going away, Sean. I’m still pissed.”
He looks more amused than surprised or angry, which just pisses me off even more. I go to tell him off some more, but a person looms up next to the table, interrupting me.
It’s an old man. He smiles placidly at Sean. “Hello, Sean. Enjoying yourself so much?”
“Lorenzo!” Sean says. He stands and shakes the man’s hand. “Lorenzo, this is Brynn. She’s a reporter.”
“Hello, how are you?”
I shake the man’s hand, still fuming. “Nice to meet you,” I manage.
“Lorenzo here owns this restaurant.”
The old man beams. “That’s right. That’s my name on the sign.”
It takes me a second to put that together. Lorenzo DeLorenzo.
Wow, what a massively awful name.
Sean sits back down and they exchange another minute of pleasantries before Lorenzo shambles off again. Sean grins at me, practically beaming with joy.
“Isn’t that amazing?” he whispers. “Lorenzo DeLorenzo. Best name I’ve ever heard.”
I let out an exasperated breath and smile despite myself. “You’re such an ass. Seriously, Sean.”
“Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you don’t think that’s hilarious.”
“You know what.” I grab my recorder and stuff it back into my bag. “Thanks for the drink, but this isn’t going to work.”
“Brynn—”
“Goodnight, Sean.” I stand and push away from the table. I turn and hurry toward the door, leaving the restaurant, stepping out into the chilly evening.
I hurry down the sidewalk, fuming. That asshole doesn’t care what I have to say to him. He doesn’t care that he hurt me, that he did something shitty to me. He just wants to get whatever he wants, and he doesn’t care who he hurts in the process.
“Brynn, wait!”
I half turn and spot him coming after me. I curse and consider running, but I know that would be insane.
“What? What do you want?”
He comes up to me, but he doesn’t stop. He keeps coming, closing the distance, getting close to me. I stumble back into the shadows of a closed shoe store.
“You want to know why I asked you out here?” he asks, his voice low. I’m suddenly intensely aware of his body close to mine.
“Why?” I manage to whisper.
“Because you drive me insane, Brynn. I’ve wanted to kiss you since the moment I met you.”
“Then you shouldn’t have told people you slept with me,” I whisper.
“I didn’t. Like I said, it was a misunderstanding.”
“Whatever you want to call it, I have to deal with the consequences.”
He clenches his jaw. “Fine. I know it sucks. I’ll try and fix it. But, Brynn, I’m not letting this go.”
I stare into his eyes and I feel that thrill run through me, the thrill I feel every time I interview him. I hate myself for it, since I should despise him, but right now…
He’s attractive. He’s big, handsome, cocky. I could scream and run away.
Instead, he kisses me, and I melt against him.
The kiss takes me off guard for a second, but I find myself giving myself over to it. His taste floods my mouth, his surprisingly soft lips move against mine, and the heat of his body radiates against me. Irrationally, I feel like I want to get closer, to burrow up against him, feel his skin against mine, his hard muscles against my soft skin.
And just as abruptly, the kiss stops.
“That’s why I asked you here,” he says softly. “You’ll get your interview, Brynn, I promise. But quit pretending like you hate me.”
“I do hate you, asshole,” I say, a little breathless.
He smirks, a thumb running down my bottom lip. “Okay. Keep playing it that way.” He turns and walks away.
I stand there, too stunned to move.
What the hell just happened?
I don’t know how I went from berating him in that restaurant to kissing him out on the street. I don’t know how he riles me up like this, driving me insane one second, and wet with desire the next.
I have no clue how I found myself in this position, but here I am, lips still buzzing with his kiss, and I still hate him.
I still despise him.
I still wish I’d never met him.
And I still wish he’d come back and kiss me again.
Oh, god. I know I’m screwed.
I just don’t know what kind of screwed I am just yet.