Baller’s Baby(7)

The reporters have still not stopped tossing questions and flashing their cameras. Stars are dancing before my vision from all the flash. Now I remember why I don't deal with this shit. Tim claims it’ll be good for my career and that the fans would love to hear from me directly, so I told him I’d try. I should have known better. He slaps me on the shoulder, congratulating me on the win before turning to the crowd. They silence immediately.

“Mr. Price will take questions in a moment, but let’s all try to act like rational human beings here and not bombard him.”

The hands shoot up, all waiting for their chance. Tim glances around the room, making them wait before picking someone. Good for him. If it were up to me, I’d make them wait forever after the shitty way they greeted me, but I’m not the one in charge here. He opens his mouth to call on someone, but I stop him with a hand on his shoulder. He glances over at me, and I shake my head without looking at him. My gaze is locked on someone in the crowd, and I refuse to look away. He understands what my shake says. ‘I changed my mind. I don’t want to answer any question from them.’

Not now.

Not when standing two feet across from me in a mouthwatering tight skirt is her—my Midnight Sky.

What the hell is she doing here? Am I dreaming? Hallucinating? I’m dehydrated. That has to be it. My eyes meet hers, and I see the moment she recognizes me. Her eyes widen. She takes a step back and plants a hand on her chest, just above her heart.

She’s real. I know from her reaction, and now she’s finally within reach.

“I'll do one interview, an exclusive.” The crowded room goes nuts. Every person in here knows what it would do for their careers to interview the elusive Kiptyn Price.

“With you,” I say, and I point straight at her.

She knows I'm speaking to her. I can tell by the tightness in her shoulders and the tiny shake of her head. It figures. The one person in the room I say can interview me doesn’t want to. That, or I just make her nervous. Yeah, I’ll bet that’s it.

Every head in the room turns toward her. I can almost hear the thoughts ricocheting in their tiny peanut brains, ‘What, why her?’

Because I want her, that’s why.

I can’t say that out loud. I wish I could, but that’s a statement I don’t need in the papers. I’ve had enough of the Gossip Central reporting on my many affairs. Ha, little do they know that their articles are practically supplying the pussy for me. It’s like the golden rule with women—what one woman has, every other woman wants—and since none of them have made me want to give up the playboy title, bachelorhood, and to settle down, they all take it as their own cross to bear. I don’t mind. Not one bit. I’ll happily fuck them all, starting with the bombshell standing in front of me.

Her hand flies to her mouth moments before she turns and runs.

She fucking ran away from me again. This chick is seriously damaging my ego. I can’t let her get away this time. I fly through the crowd, chasing after her.

Me, Kiptyn fucking Price, chasing a fucking woman. The interview is long forgotten. My agent is no doubt spewing some dribble to accommodate the crowd right this second, but they aren’t listening. I know from the cameras flashing behind me. I can only imagine the stories I’ll read tomorrow, not that I care. No, the only thing I care about is the sexy as sin woman hiding in the bathroom right now and the many, many ways I plan to make her mine.

I wait outside the bathroom door for her. I don’t know how much time passes.

Five minutes? Three? Ten?

I think about rushing in there and demanding she speak to me and then stop when I imagine her reaction. As much as I want to be buried deep inside of her over and over again, I’ll never demand it. I refuse to be that guy, the one who makes a woman feel like she has to do something. Or rather, I wasn’t that guy until a few minutes ago when I decided to give her an exclusive interview. I had no doubt that she would agree to do it.

Any one of a hundred different reporters across the country would jump at the chance. She would be no different. What is she doing in there? Does she plan to hide in there all night? I’ve never in my life had a woman run away from me. Hide from me? Ha! That is downright laughable.

I reach out and knock on the door—once, twice, three times—and then I tighten my towel back around my waist. “Miss, are you okay in there?” I ask through the door. I wait a few seconds.

No response. I knock again,

“Skila?”

Leaning my ear against the door, I hear a rustling of fabric and imagine her drying her hands on paper towels. The door swings open so fast I stumble forward. Luckily, I catch myself on the door frame before I crash to her feet. Her eyes are bright and angry, surprising me with the fire I see in them.

“WHAT. DO. YOU. WANT?” She hammers out the words slowly and with steady calm. I can feel the anger pulsing off her in waves. For the first time in all my life, I second-guess myself.





Chapter Eight

Skila



I cannot freaking believe this shit. Of all the people for me to be stuck interviewing it has to be the Greek god from the club. My breath catches in my lungs when I see him and realize that my Greek god is none other than Kiptyn Price, the elusive, record-breaking star athlete I was sent to interview.

Waiting for the doors to open, I listen to the others around me, my spirits crashing more and more with every word I hear. It figures my first assignment would be to interview the one person in the world who refuses all interviews. I'll never be able to keep this job. I pull out my phone, ready to start searching through the classifieds right then and there, when the doors open.

My mouth goes dry. The phone in my hand is completely forgotten in exchange for the most beautiful bronze, sculpted man I have ever seen. I can’t take my eyes off him. His hair is soaking wet from either the game or the shower afterward. It’s hard to tell from here. Strong arms hang at his sides, covered in intricate tribal tattoos that travel across his shoulders down his chest. I wish I could step closer to him and study them, run my fingers along them, down his stomach to his . . . holy Hades, he has the freaking V.

Look away, Skila. Look away.

I try to peel my eyes off him. I really do, but I’m drawn him whether I like it or not. I know the type of ass he is, and God above knows, he thinks he’s God’s gift to women, but even knowing all of that, I can’t walk away. I can’t look away. It’s like a horrible car accident.

I’m a rubber-necker.

God, he’s so beautiful.

Why is he in a towel? Lord help me. My skin is flushing hot and my breath is rushing out in pants of raspy air between my lips. I glance around, wondering if anyone else is as affected by him as me, and sure enough, every other woman in the room is fanning herself with whatever is available.

He doesn’t see me at first. He can’t see anyone with the amount of lights flashing in his face from the dozens of cameras directed at him, two of which are from my own paper. It makes him uncomfortable. I can tell by the way he holds himself, stiff and guarded. It makes me want to jump forward and protect him, to defend him against the crowd the way he did that night at the club, protecting me from Rod. Even though I wasn’t in any real danger, I’m pretty certain he didn’t even know why he was fighting. I take a step forward, and I’m jostled on both sides by snarling reporters, thinking I’m trying to step on their turf and get the upper hand. It shocks me, the amount of animosity I feel coming from my colleagues.

Another man arrives, and Kiptyn relaxes. His agent, I’m guessing, by the way he handles the crowd as he seems accustomed to doing. My hand shoots up with the others and I wait, praying that the good lord above will give me the chance to ask a question. Just one, and maybe I’ll be able to save my job.

Kiptyn scans the crowd, passing over me. I breathe a disappointed sigh before his gaze sweeps back to me. His eyes lock onto mine, and every nerve ending in my body goes wild. My heart is trying to beat out of my chest. I press a hand over it and try to calm it. This feeling surprises me. Never in my life have I had this type of reaction around a man. Blood is roaring through my ears, making it hard to hear anything around me, but I can still see clear as day when he points right at me.

“You.”

I feel that word in the deepest part of my soul. My mouth starts watering like crazy, and I know I’m exactly two seconds away from losing my lunch on the locker room floor. I can’t explain it—I just run.

I hear him outside the door. I know it's him. Who else would have bothered to follow me? Not one of the other reporters. I’m sure they're happy I'm gone.

It’s Kiptyn.

I wipe the back of my hand across my mouth, stand up straight, and make my way to the sink. I glance in the mirror, not recognizing the woman staring back at me. I look scared shitless, terrified. Of what?

I hear a knock, and the tears I was trying to swallow evaporate to be replaced by blinding, white-hot rage. How dare he single me out? The nerve of him. I want to slap that knowing smirk off his smug face. Exclusive interview, hell. I didn’t want to be in the same room with him, much less have to speak to him.

I snatch the door open, startling him. “Are you okay?” he asks, concerned.

“How do you know my name? Are you a stalker?” My question catches him off guard.