Chapter Two

A rna

D arren's door slamming into the wall startled me as he rushed out and I pressed pause on my music. He looked as bad as I felt and I quickly glanced down to the clock on my monitor, surprised to see it was already quite late in the afternoon. Despite the lingering thud in my temples, it had been easy to get into the groove of working and I was onto my final manuscript before I edited the one Flick would send through, hopefully sooner rather than later. The thought that Felicity should have already been here preparing was a passing notion as he approached my desk. It wasn't often my boss was dishevelled and right now he appeared stressed. His tie discarded and his hair a mess, the lump in front of me was a far cry from the lackadaisical supervisor I was used to seeing.

"Arna, I'm going to need you to do something else for me today." His tone was biting and I didn't miss the way he avoided eye contact as he spoke. Whatever he was about to ask filled my stomach with dread because I only had an hour left and another task on my list was not going to get me any closer to some Pad Thai and my bed.

I blinked rapidly, withholding my innate need to tell him where the door was, and waited. Darren cleared his throat before continuing.

"Flick has just called in with a migraine. You're going to need to do the interview today with Andrew Gloss." He held up his hand to stop my immediate protest. "I would go myself, but I have a video conference with the head of marketing from the Melbourne office in thirty minutes." He ran his hand through his hair and stared at me expectantly.

"Surely there is someone else available?" Even as I asked, I knew there wasn't. I knew that I was going to have to do this stupid thing and attempt to speak to some arrogant football jock on what was always pitched as a ratings goldmine, given he apparently never gave interviews. In another life I would have jumped at the chance, however, not this one. In this one I was an editor, not a research assistant or media representative, nor a journalist or one of our writers.

"I can't interview Alex Gloss, Darren. I don't know anything about the sport let alone him. I look like shit..." I trailed off, eyes darting around my desk. I hastily collected the discarded Red Bull cans and threw them in the trash before looking up at him. He was still staring at me, his expression neutral.

"Arnabelle, his name is Andy and you will do the interview. You leave in fifteen minutes and I've ordered you an Uber. His game finishes in," he glanced down at his watch, "Twenty-five minutes and his agent said he would be ready ten minutes after that. Felicity will forward you her questions and you will have five minutes with him. You just need to ask and write. Pull yourself together and for goodness' sake, go and fix yourself up before you leave, you're not representing Pulse looking like that." His remarks brokered no argument as he turned and headed to his office, slamming the door on the way, dismissing any further rebuttal.

Wait. How long did I have? When did the game finish? How long did I have to be there?

The times blurred into a concoction of stress as dread dropped into my stomach like a lead balloon. How was I supposed to conduct an interview, and my first interview at that, with some ridiculously famous sporting star who played a game I knew nothing about. Clearing my desk, I turned off my computer, grabbed my bag and ran to the bathroom. I had ten minutes to sort myself into something resembling presentable and given the sweats and T-shirt I was wearing, I didn't have much hope.

Fuck – My – Life.

To my relief, the driver didn't attempt small talk and that alone was getting him a five-star rating. I opened my phone and checked my emails, my pulse intensifying when there was still nothing from Felicity. Manically, I shot her a text begging for her questions and refreshed my emails again. Nothing. I was two minutes from the stadium and eighteen minutes from the biggest opportunity of my working career so I called the only other person I knew who could save me in this situation.

Marlee answered after two rings sounding puffed meaning she was likely on the treadmill at the gym. The energy this girl had was something dreams were made of, and there was no doubt she was punching a solid speed.

"What's up, how was —"

"Oh my god, Marls. I need your help. I am on my way to interview that bloke. Felicity called in sick, and Dickhead Darren is sending me . What am I going to do?" I was out of breath as the car pulled up to the stadium, as if I too had played in some enduring sporting event.

"What?" Marlee screamed, and I heard what I knew was her jumping from the treadmill. "There is absolutely no way in the history of ever that you are interviewing Andy Gloss. Oh my god – do you know how delicious he is? Tell me you are wearing something sexy. Like a tight skirt, heels and that blouse which makes your boobs pop. Wait... are you going straight from work? How is your hair? What are you going to ask him? Ask him if he is seeing anyone." Her rapid-fire questions were not helping, instead hitting me straight on the bullseye between the eyes. The headache from earlier was returning as I pressed my hand to my forehead and read the directions I grabbed from Darren's desk.

"Marls, I don't need a fangirl. I need help. Like is this soccer or what? What do I even ask? Felicity hasn't sent me anything and I look like a troll who has not left her bridge in a long time. I'm going to get fired and my predator roomie is going to make me pay the rent in more complicated ways. And I think I'm going to cry."

How had my day gone from bad to worse in the space of thirty minutes. I should have been finalising my last piece but instead I was about to commit professional suicide and destroy the company's reputation.

"Loves, I need you to breathe. I mean, this is freaking everything, but you need to breathe. Open your notes and type what I'm about to say." Her reassurance was exactly what I needed. I called her for her knowledge on the sport, however, I also needed her to calm me down and provide that safe space only she could.

"This is exactly why I called you. Okay, notes are open. Go." I was shaking with nerves and after flashing my identification and work pass to security, I was following a lady down a tunnel and into what looked to be the training area while I scanned my surroundings. I could hear the cheers of the crowd as an obnoxiously loud siren sounded and I knew I didn't have long.

"Marls, hurry!" I pleaded. I separated myself from what I was about to do because I needed to solely concentrate on her and my breathing. The lady in front directed me to stop and I stood in a roped area across the room from another dozen reporters. Why was I on my own? Was I in the wrong spot?

"Put that orange lanyard on and don't take it off until you leave. Good luck." The first and only words she spoke to me since first reading my badge and the mockery in her voice made the butterflies in my tummy come to life. What was I walking into?

"Arna, are you still there? Tell me you haven't lost reception." Marlee's voice brought me out of my panic.

"Sorry. Still here. I'm ready, quick, he's almost here." I whisper screamed at her hoping she knew how grave this was.

"Okay, sweets, firstly, it isn't soccer, it's Australian football, dummy." She scoffed good humouredly. "Secondly, you are going to ask him how he felt he played today. You are going to ask him how he feels the Hearts are coping as they move towards finals. Ask him if he thinks he has a chance at the Brownlow this year. That means the MVP, player of the year, top dog, man of all our dreams, blah, blah. Ask him if he is interested in dating and then tell him you are free tonight." She giggled again as she shared that final diamond.

"Cut it out. I am two minutes from either wetting my pants in a room full of strangers or high tailing it out of here and losing my job. How do I even know which one he is?" I was frantic now as the players began entering the room and moving towards various people. I'd written down Marlee's questions so I had something, but I was still standing alone, my t-shirt way too big and my sweats having seen better days. My hair was tied and pulled into a knot on top of my head, not to mention I hadn't brought any makeup to work so au naturel with a side of last night's mascara was the best I could muster.

"You don't know what he looks like?" She screamed into the phone. I took my earbuds out and turned the volume on my phone down, searching the face of each player, hoping I would know when he entered. Maybe he would be wearing a different shirt or something, or maybe he wouldn't show and I would be saved from the pure humiliation I was about to experience.

"I've literally never even watched a game. They all look the same, is he tall or –" I lost track of my thoughts when I saw what the perfect male specimen could quite literally be. Pushing his way through the netting and into the room was someone who I knew I would internally objectify later tonight. Happily. I wanted to ask Marlee more questions, but it was like my brain changed stations and I could no longer translate my thoughts to words.

Shorts strung low, bare feet and a gloriously muscled torso on display was accompanied with a Hearts hat shoved on backwards. He was still sweating, indicating it was clearly an intense game and when my disgustingly traitorous eyes made their way up to his face, he was glaring at me as if I was Lucifer himself.

"Holy shit." I whispered into the phone. There were no other words. I wanted to scream to the hills that there was no way that anyone who looked that good could be sharing the same space as me, but his glacial expression sent a chill through me.

Why was he looking at me like that?

I pinched the hand that was holding my phone to make sure I was awake and not in some kind of daydream, because mother have mercy, he was fine.

"Arns, you okay, did you write down what I said?" She was still there, but I could not formulate a response between my physical attraction and the fervent glare that this guy was giving me. I knew at that moment, down to my very toes, that this fine arse man was who I was supposed to coherently interview.

He moved towards me, his eyes raking down my body and back up to my face. It's not like he could see much in the parachute I had idiotically worn today, but the slight smirk that graced his face sent the butterflies on a collision course and I wanted to throw up. The hangover, the obligatory awkward situation, the 10/10 level of bang-ability. It was too much for a Sunday.

"Darls, I gotta go." I was doing my best to whisper, and used my left hand to cover my mouth so he wouldn't hear. He stopped no more than two feet from me and looked at my lanyard before returning his gaze to my face.

"Jesus, he smells like sin." I mumbled, ending the call as the most masculine woodsy smell brought every single one of my senses to life. Wiping my sweaty palm on my pants, I held out my hand to introduce myself to both the scariest and sexiest looking man I'd ever seen.

Don't fuck this up, Arna. I thought to myself, instead saying, "Arna, Urban Pulse, it is so nice to meet you."

My voice was shaky, my focus trained on the beads of sweat still falling down his forehead because I knew if I met his eyes I would melt into a puddle and could kiss my career goodbye — and possibly his chest.

He didn't move to take my hand, instead staring at me with an intensity far from endearing. Chagrin, I took back my hand, feeling my cheeks warm. I was starting to see why Felicity's interviews with him were so short. Did he even speak? Glancing around, the rest of the players were chatting and laughing with the reporters allocated to conduct their interviews, but I was stuck with Mr. Crabby over here and my eyes were the only appreciative part of me.

"Okay, quiet and brooding it is." I mumbled, clumsily unlocking my phone to open my notes.

"So, how do you think you played today?" I pushed my shoulders back, refusing to allow this arrogant piece of work to intimidate me any further, and looked the long way up to meet his eyes. What was this guy, six foot five? God, they made them tall and salacious in this sport. His scent washed over me again and I wondered if he noticed that I moved a fraction of a step closer to discreetly savour the smell that was doing unholy things to my body. Mr. Angry-Sex himself still hadn't answered, and I braved a glance at his tanned chest and into his deep brown eyes. Shrouded by dark lashes he was easy to look at although so was a blue-ringed octopus and they were deadly.

When he finally spoke, his words were laced with condescension.

"Where is Flick?" His voice was husky and rich and I wondered if he drank scotch in his free time.

Staring too long at his all too tempting lips, I remembered why I was here and shot my eyes back to his, clearing my throat and mentally slapping my thirsty self for letting my mind wander.

"Felicity. Right." I was fumbling with my phone and now I couldn't speak. What was my problem, why was I acting like an incompetent fool.

"I do apologise, Fel- Flick is unwell and was unable to make today's interview. We are grateful that you have given us time to share your thoughts and I hope to ask only a couple of questions so you can go shower, or whatever it is you guys do after you finish playing." I was pointing towards his unbelievably chiselled chest and now I was picturing him showering. This was fast becoming a disaster and I needed to snap out of it and get this done.

Why hadn't he said anything else? Why was he now leaning against the wall, staring at me yet still not speaking, a smirk clear on his face?

I was going to lose my job and all I could think about was when this guy was going to shower. I mean, that would be hot. I wonder if the interview extended to watching that.

"Sorry, ummm, so how many points did you score today? Shit, do you score points? Oh my god. I'm sorry." Mentally berating myself I valiantly did my best to continue.

"How do you feel the Hearts are going this year? Actually, don't answer that." Staring down at my phone, I scrolled the list of questions Marlee had given me, each one sounding more stupid than the last. "Darren is going to kill me." I mumbled.

"Who's Darren?" He asked.

"Argh, he is my boss." I answered, startled by the question. "Look, I'm sorry. I was not supposed to be interviewing you, which you already know. But Felicity was sick and I was sent as her replacement. Lucky me, right? Honestly, I know nothing about you or this game which I realise is such a shock based on the abundant knowledge I've showcased thus far." I joked, grimacing as he continued to stare at me. His eyes narrowed slightly although now he looked amused rather than annoyed. Casually assessing me, his arms crossing over his chest, I felt exposed in a way I never had before and my cheeks flamed. "I'm so sorry, but if I don't ask you these questions, I am going to lose my job so can you please just be a good old sport and help me out?"

"I don't owe your people anything!" He snapped and I flinched at the sharp tinge in his words, jarred by the way his previously amused gaze now appeared laced with detest. Not only was I underdressed and underprepared, but I was also now awash with humiliation.

Exasperated, I gritted my teeth realising I was going to need a new job by morning because I was destroying a bloody big opportunity. He continued to stare and I felt the fire begin to swirl in my chest, the word vomit rising close to the surface.

"I realise I am totally unprepared, but how hard is it to just answer some questions!" My patience was wearing thin and his ‘ I'd drop my panties for you' good looks only went so far.

The guy was a dick.

Pushing himself off the wall, he took the smallest step towards me and my breath hitched.

"Maybe you should ask better questions, Arna!" His voice eroded irritation as it danced across my skin. I shivered as I thought about the way my name sounded as it left his mouth, certain no one had ever been sexier when doing so.

Holy shit, I was going to get whiplash. I couldn't read him yet the way he surrounded me when there was still at least a foot between us was baffling. He looked like he was either going to strangle me or kiss me and I wasn't sure which I would prefer, but given the dry spell I was currently experiencing, I think I would have enjoyed both.

Nervously shoving my hands in my pockets, I took my bottom lip in between my teeth, and stared back at him with a confidence I did not feel. His eyes darted down to follow the movement and now I was the one who was speechless.

Neither of us spoke, his sharp jaw gritted indignantly, as my breathing increased. The ambient sounds of the room muffled, the blood pulsing in my ears as we stared at each other, his attention torn between my eyes and my lip, still held firmly by my teeth. I mapped his features – the stubble lining his jaw, his long dark lashes framing deep brown eyes which narrowed with a curious anger. And his mouth. Those lips. I was absorbed. Spellbound. When the pad of his finger softly grazed my lower lip, releasing it from the tension of my own grip, I inhaled sharply, my own hand racing to quell the heat left behind from his touch.

His eyes widened as he took a quick step backwards, as shocked by his action as I was.

What the fuck was happening?

A penetrating voice broke the spell, the noise around us returning to its rightful volume, as players were called for a post-match discussion. Andy looked at me for a second longer, his brows bunched in confusion, before he turned and walked away without another word. I watched him go, unable to take my eyes off the muscles that spread across his still sweaty back. He turned to glance in my direction one final time, his face unreadable as my mouth still tingled with the mark he left against my skin. A simple touch. A subconscious, tangible connection. A catalyst to the racing of my heart and the absolute mess of my thoughts.

He shook his head so subtly before he left, taking himself and my job with him.

I was officially screwed .

Thanks for nothing arsehole.