Free Playing with Fire - A Sports Romance by Lydia De Luca

fool. It’s my project, my name on the line, and I won't let him stand in the way of me getting the job done.
    I'm ill thinking about this. Just like the other night when I saw him at the bar, with Jen in tow. My heart raced when I saw him, and a wave of unexpected jealousy surged through me when I saw her next to him. I thought I was going to puke when Jen called him Tiger. The nickname brought unbidden memories of his naked body under mine, of the tiger tattoo on his arm. I knew, then, she’d seen the tattoo. And I thought I knew why.
    The relief I felt when Vivian told me Jen was his sister, not his lover, knocked me upside the head. Hadn’t I wanted him to move on? It would make it so I could move on, too. That relief told me something I didn't want, didn't want to know, couldn't believe: I had feelings for this man.
    I knew that wouldn't do. Marco would ruin him. I couldn't allow that. I couldn't be the one who brought Corey Lucas to his knees. I had to let this go.
    The drinks - the beer and the shot of Patron - while Mitch’s idea, were supposed to be an olive branch, a peace offering. I don't know what went wrong. I wanted to drop the animosity we held towards each other, try to go about our own separate lives. I never could have foreseen Corey’s reaction. I was left shaken and confused by his outburst. And the money he tucked into my dress made me feel, for the first time in my life, like a whore.
    Vivian, Jen, and Vinny were appalled by Corey’s behavior. I couldn't explain to them what happened. None of them know about us. No one does, as far as I can tell. No one but Mitch, and he felt guilty for getting involved. He seemed to know before I did that I felt something for Corey. He also knew why it couldn't work.
    I pull my head out of my arms on the desktop when a knock sounds at the door to my Arizona office. I've been here so much, it’s easy to forget this isn't a permanent setup. The dim light coming through the window, and the harsh fluorescent lighting overhead, has nothing on my office back home. But the setup works for my purposes here.
    “Come in,” I say as I straighten my jacket and the papers on my small desk. For every other player I’ve interviewed for this, I’ve gone down to the practice field and pulled them to the side. It gave me a chance to watch them in their element and offered a string of conversation to help make these awkward interactions more bearable. After what happened the other night, I didn't want to be caught in public with Corey. I was afraid of his reaction, afraid he would do or say something that would end up hurting him in the end. So I asked one of the trainers I found in the hall to relay the message that he was to come here to my office.
    After a moment of organizing the papers on the desk, I realize whoever knocked never entered. I'm not sure if they didn't hear me or if the knock was accidental. But Corey should be here by now. The coach and his staff are on board with this project. They haven't given any players passes to get out if this. They expect the team to show up when requested.
    I step around my desk and go to the door. When I open it, I find Corey standing in the hall, his back to me as he stares out the wall of windows into the city. He turns to face me, his face devoid of emotion.
    “You can come in,” I say.
    “Really?” he asks, glaring at me. “I wasn't sure I was allowed. Wouldn't want to get slapped and thrown out.”
    I take a step back at his words, feeling like I’ve been slapped. “Alright, I deserve that.” I motion for him to enter and he squeezes by me. The heat of his body hits me, even though there are inches between us. His smell wafts towards me, bringing back haunting memories of his naked, sweaty body laid out underneath me as we both tried hard to catch our breath. I shake my head and try to push aside my errant thoughts.
    Corey takes a seat on one side of the black faux leather sofa, one arm on the armrest, the other draped