Brody Easton.

Everywhere the man went the media followed, mostly because he was an arrogant showman who gave them something to report. It didn’t hurt that the camera loved his handsome face and body, as did the women who frequently surrounded him in photos.

I hit a few other players, skipping the ones who were in various states of undress. A lot of skin was flashing around, but most of it was bare chest and ass. Almost all of the men turned and faced their lockers as they changed. My eyes might have feasted a second or two on Darryl Smith’s tight ass—damn, that’s some muscular rear—but I quickly caught myself. I needed to act like a professional, especially if I expected the players to do the same.

When the crowd circling Easton finally dwindled, I made my way over. He had a towel wrapped around his waist and no shirt on. Holy shit. Maybe this cleanse wasn’t so smart after all. It was like going to the supermarket when you hadn’t eaten in days. And since I had a penchant for athletes, this supermarket trip was filled with all of my favorite foods. I need to get my shit together.

The cameraman in front of me raised his lighting up into position to film, dragging my attention from Brody’s titanesque shoulders to the face that had been splashed across so many Monday morning newspapers. His jaw was rugged and chiseled, with just a hint of a five o’clock shadow on his sun-kissed skin. I followed the carved line of his cheekbones up, passing sinfully full lips and an imperious Roman nose before rising to the most incredible eyes I’d ever seen. Jesus. He’s even sexier in person.

Pale green, almond-shaped eyes sparkled beneath luscious thick, dark lashes. His eyes were captivating in a way that startled me. I shook my head in an attempt to disconnect from the magnetic vision in front of me. Luckily, Nick forced my attention back to reality.

“Easton’s been vocal about thinking women shouldn’t be allowed in the locker room. Don’t count on him being as cordial to you as he is to the good ol’ boys.” Nick had been filming the team for more than ten years; his warning was from experience rather than rumor.

I also knew about the feud between Brody Easton and Susan Metzinger, a reporter from a rival station. She’d publicly slammed him for using foul language in the locker room, and the incident had turned into a month-long tabloid war. He suggested she didn’t belong in the locker room anyway and that none of the male reporters seemed to mind. She did a full-page write-up dedicated to Easton quotes in which he used language she found degrading to women. The quotes were pretty much all taken out of context, but the article was accompanied by a half-dozen video stills that caught his eyes looking in the direction of a woman’s ass or cleavage. Things only escalated from there. It had happened more than a year ago, but I mentally prepared myself for attitude from the famed quarterback.

“You ready?” Nick slung his bag over his shoulder and lifted his camera. The reporter in front of us wrapped up his interview and shook hands with Easton.

As I’ll ever be. “Sure.”

I stepped forward and extended my hand. “I’m Delilah Maddox with WMBC Sports News.”

A slow grin spread across Easton’s face. He surprised me by leaning in and kissing me on the cheek. “Pleasure to meet you.”

I wasn’t sure if he was baiting me into an argument—expecting me to lash out at him for kissing me when he’d just shaken the last male reporter’s hand—or if he was trying to use his blatant sexuality to throw me off. Either way, I wasn’t playing his game. I cleared my throat and stood straighter, even though my knees felt a little wobbly.

“Do you mind if I ask you some questions?”

“Why else would you be in here?”

I ignored his sarcasm. He was still smiling at me. Actually, it was more like a smirk, and it made me feel like a toy he was about to play with. “You ready, Nick?” My cameraman finished setting up the lighting, then lifted the camera into position and gave me a hand signal.

“Congratulations on the win today, Brody. How is your knee feeling after your first game back?” I lifted my microphone high, knowing Nick was filming in close.

“I feel . . . ” He nonchalantly reached to the towel wrapped around his waist and tugged at the corner. The towel fell to the ground. “Great. I feel great. And how about you? It’s your first trip into the locker room, isn’t it? Do you like what you see so far?” His lips curled up into a full-blown wicked smile.

Before I could catch myself, my eyes dropped to his naked lower half. Shit. He was dangling in the wind. I totally got distracted by just how low the thing dangled. Subway. The nickname was damn well suited. It was probably a full minute before I responded to his question. A full minute of dead air time. Great. “Yes. Umm . . . the locker room is . . . ummm . . . nice.”

I sounded like a total ditz. On air.

The jackass continued interviewing me. “Is it as big as you thought it would be?”

“Ummm . . . it’s much bigger than I imagined.”

His smile grew even wider.

Ugh.

I needed to get back on track or my first locker room interview would become a laughingstock blooper. Viewers had no idea he was naked from the waist down. “Do you think you were at one hundred percent today?”

His eyebrows jumped. “If you’re referring to today’s game, definitely. I had one hundred percent out there on the field. There’re some other areas where I have a lot of growth potential, but my knee felt one hundred percent today.”