Mouthwash and neatened hair aside, do I have an orgasm aura about me?

I want to lean in close to Crosby, to whisper, “Do I look . . . obvious?”

But then, I’m not sure I want to let on to him, either, that I’m still floating on a cloud of climax dust.

Just smile for the camera.

The silver-sequined, no-nonsense publicist guides us along the red carpet to a backdrop splashed with the Sports Network Awards logo.

A young photographer with a Russell Wilson charm greets us with a quick hello then lifts his Nikon. “Let’s get one of the woman who’s going to bring us a Super Bowl victory.”

I grin. “That’s the goal.”

He snaps a few shots of me. “Fantastic. And now one of the Cougars best known for . . .” He stops, flashes an evil grin at Crosby, and continues, “His long ball.”

Crosby rolls his eyes. “Thanks, Leo.”

The photographer shrugs. “I call it like I see it. But then, no one saw it. Such a shame.”

“Ah, you’re so sweet, Leo. Missed you so much,” Crosby says, smiling for the guy he clearly knows.

“And now how about a few of beauty and the beast together?”

Crosby points to Leo. “He’s a regular Seinfeld.”

“Hey, what’s the deal with dick pics?” the photographer asks, imitating the famous comic.

“I don’t know. Why don’t I send you one later?” Crosby fires back, and the barbs delight me, the way they juggle them like lit torches.

“Let the countdown begin,” Leo says, then gestures for us to move closer together. “There. Pretend you like him, Ms. Harlowe. Act like you can stand him.”

Laughing, I inch even closer.

He has no idea that I’m not playing make-believe at all.

Snap, snap, snap.

“Perfect. Just one more. Put your arm around her waist, Crosby. Sorry, Ms. Harlowe. I promise this will only hurt for a second.”

“No pain, no gain,” I say as we smile for the camera.

When he’s done, Leo waves us on. “Next season, I need you to go long more often. It’d help my fantasy stats,” he says to Crosby.

“Fantasy and you, Leo. The two go hand in hand,” Crosby says, then returns the guy’s wave.

As we enter the reception area, I say, “You two were friendly. How do you know him?”

“He’s a freelance photog. He snapped our team headshots last year. Leo’s a good guy. Takes the time to actually get to know everyone, which is why I can rib him like that,” he says.

I hum then nudge his elbow, dropping my voice to a whisper. “Hate to break it to you, but I think he did the ribbing, Crosby. And well too.”

He smiles in acknowledgment. “He did. But guess what? I got the last word. Or the last laugh, rather, since those pictures gave me another chance to get my hands on you.”

Sparks shimmy over my skin as we head to the bar.

Orgasm aura indeed.

The thing I like best about the Sports Network Awards is that it includes fans. Most awards galas are industry only—players, agents, owners, publicists, and so on.

But every year the sports network makes tickets available to a handful of regular folks, usually via charity auctions.

It gives the fete a different energy, makes it more real. Keeps you on your toes.

On one hand, a bunch of thirtysomething investment bankers dropped to their knees and gave me a Wayne’s World “We’re not worthy” welcome, thanking me for bringing the Hawks back to California. On the other hand, I was serenaded with John Denver’s “Fly Away,” the words changed to “Fly away, Hawks.” Message received.

The team is both loved and reviled.

That’s sports for you. Little else can engender such passion, and that passion is why I love my job.

Heck, it’s why I have a job.

“Safe to say it’s a love-hate thing here,” Matthew says, leaning casually against the bar as we snag a few minutes to chat post-serenade.

“Don’t I know it,” I say.

“But it’s all in a day’s work,” he says, squeezing my shoulder.

“Exactly. It’s just part of the job. And that’s what we’re doing.”

“Speaking of doing,” he says, dipping his voice, “are you on the pull tonight?”

“What?” I whisper, shocked.

He rolls his eyes. “Oh, come now, Nadia. We know each other well. You can’t fool me. There’s something happening with Mr. Interesting from the wedding. I saw the way you looked at him too when he presented an award earlier. So, is there?” he asks, with a nod toward my . . . date.

Yes, Crosby feels like my date.

My eyes roam to the man I want. He’s chatting with Holden, as well as Juan Rodriquez, one of the Cougars’ starting pitchers. I love how close he is with his teammates, how they’re good friends and look out for each other. He told me recently that he and Chance babysat Juan’s toddler son when Juan wanted to take his wife out to dinner.

As I check out the man I shared a limo ride with, I fight off a grin, then change the subject. Matthew’s my friend, but what’s happening between Crosby and me is private right now.

“You never know,” I say evasively. “What’s going on with Phoebe? Has she changed her tune at all?”

“The opposite. She’s turned up the volume on her complaints.”

“Let’s hope it’s just a rough patch,” I say.

“I have a feeling it’s more like a rough road to the breakup,” he says, and I frown, but he waves it off. “It was probably destined to happen anyway. And look, when she throws me in the rubbish bin officially, I fully intend to take up wine and painting.”

I laugh. “Why’s that?”

“Well, can you think of a better way for me to meet a lovely woman in San Francisco than to go to one of those wine-and-painting classes?”

I burst into laughter. “Gee. I hadn’t thought about your backup plan. But clearly you have.”

“I’m truly joking. I don’t actually have a plan. And I certainly don’t have a plan involving wine and painting.”

“For now,” I say.

He gestures to the stage, then taps his watch. “Better get on, love. It’s nearly your turn to present.”

I head backstage, waiting for my chance to present an award.

A voice booms from the podium—the pretty, confident soprano voice of Lily Whiting, the main anchor at The Sports Network. I’ve met Lily in Vegas a few times. She’s a fantastic reporter who was recently married, but went back to using her professional name rather than her married name. I admire that about her. It’s not easy being a strong woman in a high position and she wants to stand on her own merits. She’s proof you can be ridiculously in love and be your own woman in business.

“And now presenting the award for the best sportsman or sportswoman is a woman I admire greatly,” Lily says. “A woman who fights hard for equal pay for other women in this male-dominated field, who’s making strides at bringing more women into sports and who has already brought a top team back to the Bay Area. She embraces community with her team’s involvement in local charities. I am so proud to welcome back one of our own with the return of the Hawks to San Francisco, helmed by Nadia Harlowe.”