Catching Cameron: A Love and Football Novel Read online

  Catching Cameron

  A LOVE AND FOOTBALL NOVEL

  JULIE BRANNAGH

  Dedication

  To Susan Mallery, who wouldn’t accept anything but my very best.

  Thank you for everything.

  Acknowledgments

  * * *

  AS ALWAYS, I have lots of thank you’s for all of those who gave advice and encouragement while I was writing Catching Cameron.

  I wish I had the words to express how grateful I am to Sarah E. Younger of Nancy Yost Literary Agency and to Amanda Bergeron of Avon Impulse for all of their help and their hard work on my behalf. Thank you for being such a great team, too.

  I would be remiss if I didn’t thank the following: the Avon Books art department; Amanda’s assistant, Carly Bornstein; Dianna Garcia of the Avon Books publicity department; and Jonathan Baker, my copyeditor, who should get some kind of national award for saving the world from my crimes against grammar and punctuation.

  Thank you to Jenn Mueller, amazing sports reporter, for helping me with the research for this book by granting me an interview. I am in awe of what she does every time she steps in front of a TV camera for the Seattle Mariners and the Super Bowl Champion Seattle Seahawks. She’s the greatest. If you’d like to learn more about Jenn, please go to www.talksportytome.com!

  Jessi Gage and Amy Raby of the Cupcake Crew, Friday is still my favorite day of the week. Thank you for your critiques, your friendship, and all the cupcakes.

  Thank you (as always) to my husband, Eric. I could never do this without him. I love you, honey.

  The incomparable Mary Buckham helped me write the query letters that got me the gig. She’s amazing. If you write, it’s worth whatever it takes to get to one of her craft classes, or buy her books.

  Once upon a time I met Cherry Adair, and she told me to get my butt in the chair and Write the Damn Book. I’ve sold four of them, thanks to her. And yes, I am still more afraid of disappointing her than I am of my editor and agent. Thank you!

  I’d like to thank current and former Seattle Seahawks for interviews they’ve given in various forms of media that were a huge help in my research. I’d also like to thank the Legion of Boom for reminding me that it really doesn’t matter where you start, it’s all about where you finish.

  I’d also like to thank Lisa Olson and female sports reporters everywhere. Obviously, my light-hearted book doesn’t explore the barriers women still face in reporting on sporting events that the guys in the profession will never have to deal with in their careers. I admire your courage and dedication. Thank you for being role models for an entire generation of little girls who are now being told “you can” instead of “you can’t.”

  Thank YOU for buying my book. I hope you will enjoy it! As always, I’m at juliebrannagh.com, on Facebook, and on Twitter as @julieinduvall. I love to hear from readers!

  Go Sharks!

  Contents

  * * *

  Dedication

  Acknowledgments

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  By Julie Brannagh

  An Excerpt from Falling for Owen by Jennifer Ryan

  An Excerpt from Good Girls Don’t Date Rock Stars by Codi Gary

  Copyright

  About the Publisher

  Chapter One

  * * *

  ZACH ANDERSON WAS in New York City again, and he wasn’t happy about it. He wasn’t big on crowds as a rule, except for the ones that spent Sunday afternoons six months a year cheering for him as he flattened yet another offensive lineman on his way to taking out the guy’s quarterback. He also wasn’t big on having four people fussing over his hair, spraying him down with simulated sweat, and trying to convince him that nobody would ever know he was wearing bronzer in the resulting photos.

  Then again, he was making eight figures for a national Under Armour campaign for two days’ work; maybe he shouldn’t bitch. The worst injury he might sustain here would be a muscle pull running away from the multiple women hanging out at the photo shoot who had already made it clear they’d be interested in spending more time with him.

  He was all dolled up in UA’s latest. Of course, he typically didn’t wear workout clothes that were tailored and/or ironed before he pulled them on. The photo shoot was now in its second hour, and he was wondering how many damn pictures of him they actually needed. There were worse things than being a pro football player who looked like the cover model on a workout magazine, being followed around by large numbers of hot young women, and getting paid for it all.

  “Gorgeous,” the photographer shouted to him. “Okay, Zach. I need pensive. Thoughtful. Sensitive.”

  Zach shook his head briefly. “You’re shitting me.”

  Zach’s agent, Jason, shoved himself off the back wall of the room and moved into Zach’s line of vision. Jason had been with him since Zach signed his first NFL contract. He was also a few years older than Zach, which came in handy. He took the long view in his professional and personal life and encouraged Zach to do so as well.

  “Come on, man. Think about the poor polar bears starving to death because they can’t find enough food at the North Pole. How about the NFL going to eighteen games in the regular season? If that’s not enough, Sports Illustrated discontinuing the swimsuit issue could make a grown man cry.” Even the photographer snorted at that last one. “You can do it.”

  Eighteen games a season would piss Zach off more than anything else, but he gazed in the direction the photographer’s assistant indicated, thought about how long it would take him to get across town to his appointment when this was over, and listened to the camera’s rapid clicking once more.

  “Are you sure you want to keep playing football?” the photographer called out. “The camera loves you.”

  “Thanks,” Zach muttered. Shit. How embarrassing. If any of his four younger sisters were here right now, they’d be in hysterics.

  CAMERON SMILED INTO the camera for the last time today. “Thanks for watching. I’m Cameron Ondine, and I’ll see you next week on NFL Confidential.” She waited until the floor director gave her the signal the camera was off, and stood up to stretch. Today’s guest had been a twenty-five year old quarterback who’d just signed a five-year contract with Baltimore for seventy-five million dollars. Fifty million of it was guaranteed. His agent hovered off-camera, but not close enough to prevent the guy in question from asking Cameron to accompany him to his hotel suite to “hook up.”

  Cameron wished she were surprised about such invitations, but they happened with depressing frequency. The network wanted her to play up what she had to offer—fresh-faced, wholesome beauty, a body she worked ninety minutes a day to maintain, and a personality that proved she wasn’t just another dumb blonde. She loved her job, but she didn’t love the fact some of these guys thought sleeping with her was part of the deal her employers offered when she i
nterviewed them.

  The sound techs unclipped her lavalier microphone and the power pack in the waistband of her skirt. She waited till they walked away and gave Jake Eisen a brisk pat on his upper arm.

  “I’m really flattered, but I have several appointments later today. I’m not going to be able to make it.” She didn’t add that she was a few years older than he was, she’d been married before, and above all, she wasn’t interested. “Thank you, though. I hope you’re enjoying the visit to New York.”

  “I’d like it a lot more if we could get together, Cameron. How about tomorrow? I don’t go back to Baltimore till Saturday morning.” He gave her what she was sure he thought was a seductive grin. “I’ve had it bad for you since you signed with PSN. Make my dreams come true.”

  She resisted the impulse to barf all over his prototype Reebok shoes. “That’s quite an offer, but no,” she said.

  She reached out, briefly clasped his hand, shook once, and walked away. She heard the name he called her under his breath. It wouldn’t be the first time a guy called her that, and it sure wouldn’t be the last.

  Cameron rushed down the hallway to her dressing room, peeled off the loaner clothes she wore for a taping, and washed the TV makeup off in record time. She applied makeup with a much lighter hand, added swingy silver chandelier earrings, and bent from the waist to run her fingers through the long, blonde, highlighted hair that cost a fortune to maintain. She flipped it back into the just-out-of-bed tousle the show’s hair person had spent forty-five minutes working on this morning. She stepped into black, strappy stilettos, a knee-length fuchsia floral sheath with a bow at the waist, and threw the items she needed into an evening bag: Cash, credit card, house keys, lip gloss, breath mints, and smart phone. She pulled a lightweight silk wrap around her shoulders.

  A knock at the door announced her assistant, Kacee.

  “Cameron, you need to be here at eight am tomorrow morning for hair and makeup. It’s the Zach Anderson interview.”

  “Got it.” God give her strength. She could think of a thousand things she’d rather be doing than spending an hour with Zach Anderson tomorrow, or any other day. She gave Kacee a quick nod. “Thanks for your help today.”

  “So, have you seen him yet? He’s in the building this afternoon at a photo shoot.”

  “Seen whom?”

  “Zach Anderson.” Kacee gave her a look as if she’d grown another head.

  “No.” Cameron frowned at the noise and vibration coming from her bag. Her phone was going nuts. If she stopped to figure out what it was she’d be late, and she couldn’t be late.

  “Every woman in the building must have been in the studio during his photo shoot.” Kacee let out a sigh. “He’s beautiful. Have you met him before?”

  “Yes.” Oh, they’d met before. She’d spent the past ten years avoiding him. She had no interest in dating a professional athlete, especially in her line of work. Female sportscasters had a difficult time with some male colleagues in professional sports as it was; she wasn’t going to add to the existing problem.

  Cameron glanced up from her still-buzzing handbag to catch Kacee’s eye as she hurried toward the door.

  “If you’re interested in talking with him, I’ll make sure you get introduced tomorrow,” she said.

  “Oh, God. I’d love that. Thanks, Cameron!”

  “You’re welcome. Listen. I’ve got my phone if something happens, but it’s Paige’s rehearsal dinner—”

  “And Paige will have a fit if you leave in the middle of it,” Kacee finished. “Hopefully, nobody in the NFL gets arrested or traded over the next four hours or so.”

  ZACH SHOWERED OFF everything he’d been coated with over the past several hours, ran his fingers through the hair he kept short enough that it wouldn’t curl, and pulled on jeans and a sports shirt. Jason made himself at home on the dressing room couch. Zach was used to having people in the locker room while he was showering and getting dressed, so it wasn’t a shocking occurrence.

  “You have an interview tomorrow with Cameron Ondine of PSN. The car’s picking you up at nine am for makeup and prep. It should be fairly quick. We’ll drop you back at the hotel, and you’ll be picked up again to fly home at six pm,” Jason said.

  “The ice queen,” Zach muttered. Some of the other guys on the team would give their left nut to spend time talking with her. He wasn’t interested.

  Jason glanced up from his smart phone with a grin. “It’ll be an easy interview. Try not to stay out too late tonight, big guy.”

  He was going to have to learn to keep his voice down when other people were around, even somebody who was always on his side. “I’m going straight to bed. No clubbing for me,” Zach said.

  Sure he was. He was having dinner with a New York Mammoths cheerleader (and three of her best girlfriends). He would be in bed later, and he wouldn’t be alone. The cheerleader had already made it clear she’d be accompanying him back to his hotel room later. He looked forward to it. If he didn’t move his ass, though, he’d be late to the restaurant.

  “You might try that one on someone who believes it,” Jason said.

  Zach just laughed. Being young, handsome, single and wealthy was a bitch, but someone had to live the life. It might as well be him.

  Jason got up from the couch, shook Zach’s hand, and walked out the door. “I’m out of here. See you tomorrow, old man.”

  Zach shoved his wallet into his back pocket, picked up his jacket, and jammed his feet into shoes. He yanked the dressing room door open and strode down a seemingly-endless hallway to the exit. Blowing through the front door, he ignored shouts of “Zach! Zach!” He saw people with Sharks paraphernalia out of the corner of his eye and felt vaguely guilty. Already late, he threw one of his arms into the air as he approached the curb and gave a piercing whistle. He needed a damn cab. The limo was nice, but he’d prefer to be somewhat anonymous.

  The rush hour traffic of New York City didn’t immediately yield a cab. He moved closer to the curb as a car stopped for him. A flash of hot pink and black appeared in his vision, just before a woman with luxuriant, long blonde hair, great legs, and a nice ass whipped the door open and hurled herself onto the seat inside.

  She stole his damn cab!

  “Hey,” he shouted. “That’s mine. Get out of my cab!” He reached out to grab the door.

  “Too late.” She didn’t look up at him. “Gramercy Tavern, please.”

  “No. This is my cab!” He was now running alongside as the guy tried to pull into traffic. The woman in question glanced up, looked shocked for a split-second, and rearranged her features into a glare.

  Jesus. It was Cameron Ondine. She’d been avoiding him for ten years now, but she was about to have another encounter with him if she didn’t get the hell out of his cab. He knew he would see her tomorrow morning. He thought he’d have hours to pretend like she didn’t matter. Her suddenly materializing in front of him felt like a punch to the heart.

  She was trying to shut the car door. He pulled it open, shoved her over on the seat with his hipbone, and threw himself inside with one smooth motion. He slammed the door behind himself, and turned to look at her.

  “What the hell are you doing? Get out!” she said. She clenched her hands together as she stared at him. He watched a flush spread on her chest, up her neck, and over her cheekbones. She tried to push herself further into the opposite corner of the cab seat.

  “Scared?” he said.

  “N-No!”

  Her pupils expanded. Her dark-chocolate brown eyes were blazing. Their color didn’t appear in nature. It must have been contacts. She was even more beautiful after losing the heavy TV makeup, too. It was ten years later, and she still made him wish he could pull her into his arms and kiss her.

  “We can share the ride. Cabbie? Orsay, please.”

  “It’s in the opposite direction from where I’m going. This will never work. I am already late,” she said. Maybe he imagined the panic he saw on her face. She’d
edged away from him, but she couldn’t seem to take her eyes off of him, either.

  “So am I. You stole my cab. You’ll have to live with the consequences.” He settled onto the seat, and slung one arm over the back. She shrank away. He pulled a money clip out of his front pocket and shoved a fifty into the little slot in the Plexiglas separator. “Orsay,” he repeated for good measure.

  She unzipped her purse, produced a few folded bills, and shoved them into the little slot as well. “Gramercy Tavern, please.”

  The cab driver finally spoke up, in heavily-accented English. “I cannot drive while people are fighting in my cab.” He glanced over his shoulder at them. “Work it out between yourselves, or I will pull over and kick you both out.”

  They spoke in unison.

  “He can wait.”

  “She stole my cab.”

  “Okay. That’s it.” The cab driver crossed three lanes of traffic, came to a screeching halt at the curb, and braked. “Get out. And don’t think I’m giving your money back.”

  “You can’t do this,” Zach insisted.

  “Yes. I can. Get out, or I’m calling the police,” the cabbie said.

  “I’m noting your cab number,” Cameron said to the cabbie, and snapped a picture of it with her cell phone.

  “I do not care,” the cabbie snapped. “Get out.”

  Zach and Cameron scrambled out of the back seat. The cab screeched away the moment her feet hit the pavement. She gave Zach a look of barely contained disgust, but he noticed she didn’t try to move away from him this time. She bit her lower lip and shuffled her feet a bit as she twisted her hands into the soft-looking wrap she held.

  He remembered how it felt to rest his chin against the top of her head and how she felt in his arms. He moved a bit closer to her, just to see if she’d move away from him. She didn’t.

  “It’s five-fifteen on a Friday night in New York City. What do you think the chances are of obtaining another cab?”