Meet Me Halfway (The Off Field Series Book 2)

  Copyright © 2016 by Kim Carmody

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Printed in Melbourne, Australia

  First printing, 2016

  ISBN 978-0-9945189-5-8

  Kim Carmody

  Melbourne, Australia

  www.kimcarmodybooks.com

  Prologue

  Olivia

  “Callahan!”

  At the familiar bellow of my boss’s voice, I pushed back from my desk and walked the few paces to his office.

  “Seriously, a little volume control wouldn’t hurt. Some of us are trying to work around here.”

  Without looking up, Harry nodded my way. “Shut the door and take a seat.”

  Doing as he asked, I pulled out the chair opposite his, opening my mouth to reprimand him about his lack of manners. That was, of course, until my eyes landed on the two documentary pitches sitting on his desk—one of which was mine. I lowered myself into the chair and forced composure over my features. A decision on the documentary wasn’t supposed to happen until next week.

  Harry looked up and, seeing where my gaze had been, a smug smile pulled at the corner of his mouth. “What? Not going to ask me where my pleases and thank yous are?”

  Trying not to let my gaze drop back to the documents on his desk, I raised an eyebrow. “Can’t teach an old dog new tricks.”

  I had worked for Harry at Sports Day New York as a junior reporter for coming up on six years now, my first and only job since moving back to the city following my college days in Minneapolis. Some might think that six years was quite a long time to stay in the one position …a junior position especially, but not in New York. Not where the competition for journalism jobs was fiercer than five thousand women at the Bloomingdale’s after-Christmas sale.

  That was until now, of course. For the first time, I had been asked to pitch a story for one of the highly coveted documentary spots the network had planned for the upcoming NFL season. Unofficially, one of the four documentaries—part of the prestigious Under the Lights series—was always awarded to a junior reporter on the team. It was the surest sign you were on your way to becoming a senior reporter, and the benefits, aside from the generous pay increase, were that you finally got to sink your teeth into some meaty stories. Sure, you were still involved in reporting the day-to-day news, covering the breaking scandals, but the scales tilted slightly in the other direction—more in-depth story development, less run-of-the-mill media conferences. And that was exactly what I was looking for.

  I kept my features schooled as Harry continued to enjoy the silence, a rarity where I was concerned. Eventually he took a deep breath and placed his palms flat over the two pitch documents. “Bloomfield wants McGregor’s pitch to go ahead.”

  I froze. “I’m sorry, could you repeat that?”

  “Bloomfield wants McGregor’s pitch.”

  “But…” I shook my head, realization slow to take hold. “No.”

  Harry sat back, crossing his arms over his generous stomach. “I’m sorry?”

  “No way. That’s…that’s absurd.”

  “He thinks it’s the safer option.”

  “How could anything be safer in McGregor’s hands? He’s a moron.”

  Whose father owns half of Manhattan.

  “He thinks the story is the safer option, not McGregor.”

  “Of course it’s the safer option, it’s been done to death!” I pushed myself out of the chair, the sudden burst of adrenaline compelling me to move. “McGregor can barely tell one end of the camera from the other.” Harry laughed begrudgingly. “You know my pitch is better. You need to go back in there and tell Bloomfield he’s made the wrong decision.”

  His eyes widened, amusement crossing his features. “Do I now?”

  “Yes, otherwise you’re just as much of an idiot as he is!” I straightened then, a flicker of recognition that I might be pushing things too far seeping through my anger. Taking a breath, I went on. “Look, I know my pitch isn’t your run-of-the-mill re-cap of some football hero’s path to glory, but that’s the beauty of it. No one ever profiles the up-and-comers and I want to show people what it takes to make it in the moment, not re-hash it fifteen years later. People are interested in now, they want to know how it all happens in 2016, not listen to some over-the-hill retiree talk about being drafted in 1998!” I paused mid-pace, which I hadn’t even realized I was doing, and sucked in a deep breath. I turned back to look at Harry, my voice calmer. “I wouldn’t have pitched this story if I didn’t believe it would work. It will be a great piece, I know it will.”

  “I’m sure it will,” he said.

  “I know, that’s why you—wait, what did you say?”

  “I said I’m sure it will.” Harry smiled. “I’m giving it to you, kid.”

  I gaped at him. “Really?”

  He nodded. “Even an idiot like me can see yours was the better idea.”

  “I never called you an idiot.”

  God, sometimes I really needed to think before I spoke.

  He rolled his eyes. “Uh-huh.”

  “So I seriously have the job? What about what Bloomfield wants?”

  Harry gestured for me to sit again, not responding until I obeyed. “Bloomfield told me his preference, but gave me final say over which story went ahead.” He gave me a pointed stare. “I better not regret this.”

  “You won’t. It will be amazing, I swear,” I said, bouncing around in my seat, wanting to punch the air.

  Harry leaned forward, resting his elbows on the desk. “Just because I’m giving this to you doesn’t mean I don’t share Bloomfield’s concerns. We don’t have any clue who the Warriors’ first-round draft pick will be. At least McGregor’s pitch already had the story there.” I opened my mouth to respond but he silenced me with his hand. “You’re a good reporter, Callahan, but Under the Lights is the big time. This challenge you’ve set for yourself won’t be easy. Anyone can show the process a kid goes through from the draft to training camp, but you need to find the human element. That’s where the real story is. You just better hope this kid isn’t some clean as a whistle golden boy with a four-point-oh GPA.”

  I nodded, fully aware of that risk. It had been my only concern when developing the idea. But if I had learned anything from Harry—and truth be told, while Harry could drive me up the wall sometimes, he had taught me pretty much everything I knew—it was that everyone had a story. You just had to know how to get it out of them.

  And I had every intention of getting this one.

  Chapter One

  Nate

  The balcony door crashed open and a second later my best friend Jake Connors stepped out, juggling a pizza and a six-pack of beer. “Thank Christ that exam’s over. I fucking hate politics.”

  “No shit, and all semester I thought you loved it.” I took one of the beers from him and leaned toward the box of pizza. Not surprisingly, I was always starving when I came off the field after a game, but for some weird reason that feeling was nothing compared to how hungry exams made me.

  Jake sank into the chair next to me, groaning as he bit into a slice of pizza. For a while we ate in contented silence, the sounds of our ravenous chewing the only obvious noise in the still mid-afternoon.

  A full week had passed since I was drafted to the New York Warriors in round one of the NFL draft—pick eighteen
to be specific, and the only tight end to go in the first round in the past three years—and the reality of it all was just starting to set in. Between the media hype and my phone ringing off the hook with everyone I’d ever met wanting to congratulate me, I hadn’t even had time to jerk off let alone contemplate how my life was about to change. That was a lie actually, I was a twenty-two-year-old male. Of course I’d made time to jerk off.

  But as I sat with Connors on the upper balcony of the five-bedroom house I shared with some of my team, the sticky afternoon heat clinging to me like a second skin, the magnitude of it all began to wash over me.

  New York. Hell, it snowed up there in the winter. I’d barely even seen snow, and only played in it once. At least it wasn’t a city that was consumed by football—well, not only by football anyway. From the little I knew, New York was a city consumed by everything. If I wanted to do something, see something, eat something, buy something, New York had it all. So while I was pretty sure my life was about to be turned on its head, I felt a strange sense of calm in knowing there was always so much happening in the Big Apple that if I wanted to keep a low profile, I probably could.

  And I did. Most of the guys on my team loved the attention, craved it, but I was happy to fly under the radar. I didn’t want anyone in my business unnecessarily.

  “You know, Kelly was looking for you today,” Connors said, pulling me from my thoughts.

  “I know.”

  “No man, I mean she was really looking for you. Practically climbed in the back of my pickup when I tried to drive away.”

  When I didn’t say anything Connors chuckled around a mouthful of pizza. “You got something against big soft boobs like hers? I’d be titty fucking her for days if I were you.”

  “Good thing for her you’re not me then.” Not that I hadn’t already done exactly that myself.

  “What, you don’t want to return for seconds?”

  I lifted the beer can to my lips, my throat opening to welcome the icy liquid. “You don’t think it’s funny that she’s been chasing me around like a lovesick puppy ever since I got drafted? She couldn’t keep her hands off Tyler and then…boom. I go in the first round and she’s all…” I rubbed my hands all over my chest, imitating her less than subtle fawning at me over the last few days.

  Connors snorted. “I’ve noticed. It’s hard not to.” Swallowing, he said, “I’m just not sure I’d care if I were you. May as well enjoy what she’s offering while it’s there.”

  I shrugged. “I dunno. Her obsession with me going to the NFL is a turn-off, I guess. Besides, she fucks like a porn star.”

  Connors choked on a mouthful of beer. “And that’s a bad thing why exactly?”

  “She’s such a performer. It’s so loud half the time I end up distracted.”

  “Dude, if that’s the only problem, just gag her with a tie. Then you can watch those perfect tits bounce in peace and quiet.”

  I shoved his shoulder. “You’re a sick fuck, you know that?”

  “What? Chicks love that stuff, you know, ever since Fifty Shades n’ shit.”

  Just as I was about to suggest that perhaps Connors might want to double check that statement, my phone rang. Someone from the Warriors. I was getting calls from them so often I’d memorized the area code. I took a swig of my beer to wash down the pizza and, clearing my throat, picked up the call.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi, Nate, this is Emma Lexington. I’m calling from the Warriors’ office.”

  “Oh, hi, how’s it going?” I frowned at the unexpected accent on the other end of the line.

  “I’m good. I wanted to call and introduce myself. I’ll be looking after all your off-field commitments. You know, media interviews, sponsor activity.” She paused, before a light laugh came down the line. “Basically I’ll be bugging you about all the things you don’t want to do.”

  I chuckled, unsure of what else to say because, really, everything she’d just said did sound like stuff I wouldn’t want to do. Stuff I really wouldn’t want to do.

  “Anyway,” she went on. “I can bring you up to speed on everything when you arrive in New York in a couple of weeks, but there is something we need to get moving on now.”

  “Sure,” I said, my head nodding against the phone. “Whatever you need me to do.” I cringed as the words came out of my mouth, knowing I’d regret them. But really, I wasn’t about to say no to my new employer three days in, not when they held the key to making everything I’d worked my butt off for come to life.

  “Great. So, in a nutshell, Sports Day New York is going to produce a documentary on you and your pathway from the draft right through to training camp in July.

  Oh, fuck.

  “Ahh, right. That sounds quite…interesting.”

  “Yes.” I could hear the relief in her tone. “It’s part of the Under the Lights series. We think it—”

  “Wait a sec, Under the Lights as in…?”

  As in, one of the best known sports documentary series in America?

  “Yeah. That Under the Lights. Pretty exciting right?”

  “Holy shit—sorry. I mean, wow.”

  Emma laughed. “I know. It’s a big deal. And as I was saying, we think it will be great for you. Let all the fans get to know you before the season starts.”

  I opened my mouth to make some other sort of positive comment, but I just couldn’t get the words out. This was my worst nightmare come to life. I knew it was part of the job, but I’d at least hoped to fly under the radar for my first season. Instead, I was about to become a household name, all thanks to America’s best-known sports series. Fuck, I’d been watching Under the Lights since I was ten. It was legendary. I should have felt honored. I was honored. I just didn’t want the reality of everything that came with it.

  When I didn’t respond, she went on.

  “So, Olivia Callahan is the journalist who’s producing the piece. She’s a junior reporter and she’s really excited about the story. You’ll love her.”

  I nodded, my words coming out on autopilot. “I’m sure I will.”

  Not.

  “She wants to start off covering your college background. I’ve given her your details and she’ll call you this evening to arrange coming out with her crew later this week.”

  Fuck, this was getting worse by the second. “Um, is that really necessary? Why can’t we just get started when I get to New York?”

  Coach had warned me that things would heat up the second I was drafted. In fact, earlier than that. He’d told me my life would be turned inside out in the months leading up to it and he’d been right. I’d had more recruiters question me about that fight in the last four months than people had when it actually happened four years ago. I knew it was coming, but still, I didn’t relish the thought of everyone poking around in my history.

  “She wants to profile your past, you know, paint the picture of where you’ve come from and how you got to be picked up in round one of the draft.” I sensed her hesitation before she went on. “She’ll want to question you on the issue you had a few years back that the media keeps bringing up…she can be quite persuasive. I’d like to discuss how you approach it. The team will need to know in advance any details you share with her, so we can manage the fall-out at this end.”

  I didn’t bother with any preamble. When it came to this topic, I never did.

  “That’s not something I talk about.”

  I heard her sigh on the other end of the line. “So I’ve heard. Look, if you’re sure you don’t want to discuss it, I don’t think it’s something we need to manage right now, but when you get to New York—and particularly once the season kicks off—the pressure from media will build up again. The higher your profile grows, the more you’ll be scrutinized. It might pay to speak up now so it can be put to bed once and for all.”

  “People know what happe
ned. I don’t need to re-tell it for them.”

  “People know the other guy’s story. They’ll want to hear it from you. You’re the one in the spotlight now.”

  When I didn’t say anything, she seemed to get the message. “Well, I’ll speak to Olivia and give her the heads-up that it’s off limits. I can’t promise anything though. She’s got a way of getting people to talk.”

  Not with me, she wouldn’t.

  “Would you prefer if I came down to sit in on the interviews?” she asked.

  “No, it’s fine,” I said. I could already sense she was pinning me as challenging to manage. The last thing I wanted was to get a reputation for being difficult.

  I forced my tone to lighten. “It sounds great, really. I’m looking forward to it. And don’t worry, I can handle anything she throws at me. It’s nothing I haven’t experienced before.”

  The relief in her laugh was evident, but I heard the doubt there, too. “Well alright then, I’ll text you when we’re off the phone so you’ve got my number. You can call me any time. It was nice chatting to you.”

  “Yeah, you too.”

  We hung up and I fell back against my chair. There was no way this Olivia chick was getting that story out of me.

  #

  Later that night, I had shut my bedroom door in an effort to block out the mayhem of half a football team getting drunk downstairs. I was studying for my final exam when my phone rang. It was ridiculous, the number of calls I’d fielded from various departments of the Warriors in the last week.

  Only this time I knew it would be the reporter, and half of me wanted to screen her call and just pretend the whole thing wasn’t happening. But as we’d all had drilled into us by the university over the last few months, we were about to become full-blown grown-ups and we needed to start acting like it. Unfortunately for me, that meant answering my phone and dealing with pesky reporters.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi, Nate. This is Olivia Callahan from Sports Day New York. Emma Lexington said you were expecting my call.” Her voice startled me, coming through the phone line like warmed-up maple syrup.