Scoring with the Center, page 1
SCORING WITH THE CENTER
PIPER RAYNE
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
© 2022 by Piper Rayne
All rights reserved, including the right to reproduce this book or portions thereof in any form whatsoever.
Cover Design: Angela Haddon Design
1st Line Editor: My Brother’s Editor
Proofreader: My Brother’s Editor
CONTENTS
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Epilogue
About Piper & Rayne
Also by Piper Rayne
About Scoring with the Center
Being one of the few women reporting on professional sports has it challenges, but the views of the World were changing—or so I thought.
* * *
All was well until San Francisco Infernos’ star center, Brock Allen, made a comment about me at a press conference. Suddenly, every internet troll is questioning my ability to do my job, judging me by my cup size.
* * *
It would’ve been easier to stay angry at Brock if he wasn’t so handsome, and charming, and intent on making his faux pas up to me.
* * *
But dating him will only lead to more trouble in my life—both personally and professionally. Too bad I’m starting not to care.
1
Kelsey
* * *
I step into the San Francisco Infernos’ pressroom to conduct interviews after a home game and smile hello at the familiar faces of my colleagues.
You’d think that after being a sports reporter for a few years, the nervous knot wouldn’t still sit like an anchor in my stomach, but it’s still as prominent as my first day. There was a time when I didn’t think my aspirations would ever come true. Ever since I took the job at WHFI, the Bay Area’s largest TV station, I’ve been living my dream.
Rob Murdock’s gaze flickers over my curves when I pass by him and it’s a good reminder of when there was a time that I didn’t think I’d have an opportunity to work in the sports field.
Typically, a natural blonde with a 32DD chest, blue eyes and a slight Southern accent isn’t the one reporting a big game.
Sure, there are more women now hitting the airwaves on the sports channels, but that wasn’t the case when I was hired. And even then, I had to fight against the stereotype that a woman doesn’t know sports as well as her male colleagues. As though having a dick is a qualification.
I know, I know. I’m not throwing myself a pity party because people use the fact I’m pretty against me. But I can tell you, my Dolly Parton physique makes a lot of people assume I’m stupid. It’s not until I open my mouth and say something intelligent that they’re surprised I have a brain.
So, finding work in my field was an uphill battle, but thankfully my boss, Mr. Jeffries, gave me a chance a few years ago and the rest is history. I’ve earned the respect of my colleagues. Rob Murdock is just a sleaze and the exact reason I only wear dress pants and a blouse buttoned up to my neck when I’m working.
I can’t help the way God built me, so I learned to downplay my assets when necessary to benefit my own good.
“Hey, hot stuff. You gonna let me take you out soon?” Rob asks as I pass by him.
I roll my eyes and continue without a word. See what I mean? Yuck.
Another female reporter, Kayla, who works for a competitor of my news station stops me before I reach my usual spot on the far side of the room. “I swear, that guy needs a knee to the nuts. Does he think it’s 1950?”
I chuckle. “Tell me about it. But it’s a man’s world. Afraid I don’t know when that will change.”
A few of the male colleagues’ gazes slip our way for a moment before darting away. Then there are those types of guys. The ones who know it’s wrong but act like thirteen-year-old horny teenage boys who can’t control their hormones.
“It’s bullshit, is what it is,” she says.
“Amen.” I smile and continue to my seat. Once I’m seated, I get my notepad and pen out of my bag. Our stationary camera is set up at the back of the room, along with the others, so I know my cameraman, Jared, will film all the footage we need, but I like to jot down notes when the players answer questions. Sometimes it spurs an idea for an angle on how I’ll report the game or a particular quote I want to throw in.
We’re only left waiting a few minutes before the coach and a couple of the players trickle into the pressroom, each sitting behind the table that faces the reporters. I’ve only attended one other of these hockey press conferences, but Mr. Jeffries asked me to take over as WHFI’s main person with the hockey team after another reporter retired.
The coach and the defenseman and goalie answer some questions but are quick to stand and leave.
“Is Allen coming out?” one of the reporters I recognize as a staff writer for a local newspaper calls out.
The coach turns back our way with his hand on the door. “He’ll be out in a minute.”
Allen is Brock Allen, the San Francisco Infernos’ center. He’s been on the team for a couple years and has made a huge impact. He’s a talented skater with exemplary stick-handling skills and the ability to deke past the defensemen to score.
He’s also been on every “Top Ten Hot Professional Hockey Player” lists since he joined the league. Just then the door opens and as he walks out to join us, it all comes together, I understand why he’s on those lists.
This is the first time I’m seeing him in person, and the photos of him don’t do him justice. He’s tall and muscular, with wide shoulders, and his longish dark-brown hair curls up at the ends. I wonder if that’s because he’s just out of the shower or not. He sits and places the Infernos ball cap that’s in his hand, backward on his head. God, there is something so sexy about the way it looks on him like that. That, mixed with his five o’clock shadow and his dark eyes scanning the crowd, makes me squirm in my seat.
His teammates, the left and right wingers on his line, take a seat on either side of him.
Reporters start calling out questions and the trained players effortlessly work their way through each one with concise answers.
I usually wait until the mad rush at the beginning dies down. It’s always a dick-measuring contest with a lot of egos and posturing for position when they open up the room for questions.
Also, all the predictable questions are always asked up front anyway, so I let them use their turn for those. I prefer to ask more probing questions.
A few of the reporters congratulate them on their dominating win over the Florida Fury with a final score of 6–2. Considering they were walloped by the Fury the last time they met, it’s quite the turnaround. That’s when I think of what question I want to ask.
I raise my hand and the Infernos’ media liaison brings the microphone over to me. I stand. “Considering the kind of turnaround you guys had tonight, I’m curious what you learned from your last game against the Fury that you adapted and improved upon in order to win tonight’s game?”
I don’t direct my question at any one person in particular, so all three stare at me. But I swear, for some reason, Brock Allen’s gaze bores into me and instantly I feel the heat of my blush creeping up my neck.
I shift eye contact from him for a moment to gather my bearings. The right-winger starts to answer my question. I scribble down a few points while he answers and thank him, sitting back down, thankful to be out from under Brock Allen’s penetrating gaze.
That’s when Brock covers the microphone in front of him and turns to his teammate, who just answered my question. “God, she’s beautiful, isn’t she?”
I still and my cheeks heat while the rest of the reporters surrounding me all laugh and turn in my direction.
When I look up to the small stage, Brock’s head whips in our direction. “Did you all hear that?”
The crowd laughs again, confirming they did, and he shakes his head and laughs, appearing a little embarrassed. But then, with a shrug, he says, “Well, it’s true.”
My cheeks feel like I used gasoline as blush today and Brock Allen just struck a match.
Brock meets my gaze for a moment, but I dart my attention down to my notepad and begin scrawling gobbledygook like my life depends on it.
I can practically feel every one of my colleagues staring at me, but I ignore them all.
Sure, this is embarrassing, but if I don’t make a big deal about it, then everyone will forget by the next press conference.
No big deal.
If only I’d known.
2
Kelsey
“Knock, knock.”
I swivel my chair around at the sound of a female voice behind me to find my friend and coworker, Whitney, standing at the edge of my cubicle in the newsroom.
“Hey, how was your long weekend away?” I ask.
Her husband, Cole, whisked her away to wine country. He has his own whiskey company and apparently, he was considering investing in a winery in Napa. Must be har d to be rich.
“Nice to get out of the city and have my husband all to myself.” Her eyes twinkle and her smile spreads.
Someday I want what she has. Especially that post-orgasm bliss grin.
“Well, you didn’t miss much here.”
She arches an eyebrow. “Are you sure about that?”
My forehead wrinkles in confusion before I remember what she’s talking about. I’ve been doing my best to forget what Brock Allen said at last night’s game.
God, she’s beautiful, isn’t she?
The awe in his voice and his apparent surprise and then embarrassment when he realized he said it out loud are like a film running over and over again in my head in a never-ending reel.
“Oh, you mean that comment Brock made? No biggie.”
She crosses her arms and leans her hip against the side of my cubicle. “It’s a big enough deal that they’re reporting it in tonight’s segment.”
I snap up from my chair, eyes wide. “What?”
“I overheard Thorne and Sally talking earlier.”
Thorne and Sally are the nightly news anchors for the same station I work for. Why would they do this?
I pick up my phone from my desk to check the time. Since there’s no hockey game tonight I’m not working. It’s just about time for them to lead into the nightly sports report. The only reason I’m here is to put in a little extra legwork in collecting some stats for a story I’m doing on the Infernos’ goalie later this week.
“I have to see.” I rush past Whitney to make my way over to the lounge area in the office where a large flat-screen TV hangs on the wall playing WHFI twenty-four seven.
With one arm crossed over my abdomen and the other hand at my mouth, chewing on my freshly manicured thumbnail, I impatiently wait for the sports segment to begin.
Whitney stands beside me. “Aren’t you flattered? I think it’s sweet what he said. He really is a great guy. Cole knows him, and I’ve met him a few times.”
My head whips in her direction and I narrow my eyes. “It’s embarrassing is what it is. And…”
Whit’s smile dulls when she clues into my biggest insecurity. She’s quick to reach out and rub my back. “Listen, I know how… sensitive you are about your looks and being taken seriously.”
She says the word sensitive like she’s afraid it’s a trigger word for me and I’ll have a Karen moment.
“I know it’s stupid—”
“It’s not.” She shakes her head. “It’s not stupid at all. Women’s worth has been judged based on their appearance—both good and bad—for too long. I understand why you don’t want it to overtake your skills to have this career. I’ve seen people’s assumptions firsthand about you.”
I think back to the industry party we attended a few months after we were both hired. There was a bigshot from one of the stations down in Los Angeles there who made an obnoxious offer to me in front of my colleagues—if I was willing to spend some time on the casting couch, I could secure a job at his station in a larger market.
Mortification doesn’t begin to describe how I felt at that moment—cheap, unworthy, ashamed—the list goes on and on.
“Still, you think I’d be used to it by now.” I shrug.
“You shouldn’t have to be.” Whitney frowns.
When Chad’s face appears on the screen, I reach for the remote and turn up the volume so I don’t miss anything. His first report is on the football game, which eases my anxiety until a video of the press conference from yesterday shows up next. My stomach drops from under me, but I manage to listen intently.
“The San Francisco Infernos might have gotten their name for the great fire of 1851, but the name might be fitting in other ways, too. At last night’s press conference after the game against the Florida Fury, our very own Kelsey Callaway was there to report on the team’s victory, but things took an unexpected turn, heating things up when she was about to ask a player a question.”
The screen cuts to a video of what Brock said about me and his reaction when he realized he’d been overheard. Then the tape cuts to me in the soup bowl of reporters. My cheeks are flushed the brightest color of red.
I’m used to seeing myself on TV, but not in this context.
It cuts back to the nightly news anchor, Thorne. “Could romance be blossoming between these two? Now, we certainly know what Brock thinks of Kelsey, but it remains to be seen what she thinks of him. What do you think, viewers, could you feel the heat? Should we be shipping these two?”
My cheeks are on fire once again, but it’s not from arousal, it’s anger.
“I can’t believe this! My own station.”
All hope of the incident quietly fading into the abyss is ruined, I fist my hands at my sides.
Whitney cringes as she turns the volume on the TV back down and glances over at me. “I’m sorry.”
“Not as sorry as Mr. Jefferies is going to be.” I stomp off in the direction of my boss’s office.
“Go easy on him. I think he and hubby had a fight this morning. I saw him eating carbs this afternoon,” she calls out after me.
I’m forever indebted to Mr. Jeffries for giving me this job and allowing me to prove my skeptics wrong, but I can’t believe he saw no issue with allowing that segment on the air.
I’m relieved when I find him still behind his desk. And Whitney was right, he and his husband must be arguing because there’s a half-eaten donut to the side of his keyboard. Mr. Jeffries only goes to carbs for comfort when he can’t go to his husband.
I don’t bother knocking or wait for an invitation before I enter. “How could you let them put that on the air?” He’s not big on formalities and though he’s my superior, we’ve developed somewhat of a friendship over the years.
He looks up from his screen and takes his glasses off his face, dropping them to the desk and rubbing the bridge of his nose. “How can I not? Every other station, newspaper, and sports blogger is going to be talking about it.”
I cross my arms and give him the stink eye. “You know how hard it’s been for me to earn any respect in this industry. I’d like to try to keep what little I have.”
He stands and walks over to me, resting his hands on my shoulders. “Kelsey, you’re a damn fine reporter. You know the ins and outs of most leagues, understand the stats, and can predict when players are moving up and down in their game like you’re a bloody psychic. You’ve earned your place in sports journalism.”
I huff and open my mouth to speak, but he continues.
“And because I’m gay, I can say this without you thinking it’s a come-on… you’re a beautiful woman. But those things aren’t mutually exclusive. You more than prove that. Have some confidence in yourself.”
I do… usually, except when it’s put to the test. When that happens, I instantly revert back to my childhood and remember my family’s traditions and beliefs and how I was treated. And then the guilt sets in.
“I get it. But did you have to show the clip?” I try to hold on to my fight a little longer.
“It wouldn’t have mattered. All the other stations are running it. That thing is already viral.”
“What?” My mouth drops open.
Mr. Jeffries chuckles and lets his hands drop from my shoulders, making his way back behind his desk.
“This is a business first and foremost and though I don’t like it, sometimes I’m forced to make tough choices. This was one of them.”
I nod, understanding his predicament. “Well, let’s just make it the once, okay?”
He puts his hands up. “No promises. Guess we’ll have to see how this plays out.”
My eyes narrow. “There’s nothing to play out. He said something stupid and embarrassed us both. End of story.”
