Page 45 of Nutmeg + Mistletoe
“I was hoping to ask you about the event today,” he says smoothly, voice like he’s rehearsed it in the mirror, “and then maybe ask you out for coffee.”
I arch a brow, trying not to let the blush creeping up my cheeks betray me. “I see.”
Shaun Kennedy. I know exactly who he is. The up-and-coming reporter who just made the jump from covering college sports to national leagues. I’ve seen him floating around events, always flashing that frat-boy charm—dark brown hair, sharp blue eyes, like someone who’s been skating by on looks and charisma his whole life.
He’s cute, though. I’ll give him that.
But this is the first time he’s approached me. For an interview or anything else.
“Well,” I say, slipping into my most professional tone, keeping my composure tight. “Let’s start with the first and see where we land, shall we?”
He clears his throat, presses a button on his recorder, and raises the mic. “Ms. Mills, looking lovely as ever today in your jeans and team jersey.”
I shake my head, giving him a polite but controlled smile. “Thank you, Shaun.”
“So, word has it Justice Trager is retiring sooner than later. Any insight on who Coach Jones is looking at for the next team captain? Sources say Chidubem is poised to take the lead.”
“Well, you and your sources would need to check the facts with Coach Jones,” I say, keeping my tone smooth and diplomatic. “I’m not here to influence decisions where I don’t have expertise. Coach Jones will make the right choice and announce it when the time comes.”
Media training for the win.
“I see.” He lowers the mic slightly, eyes twinkling. “And about that dinner?”
“Are you still recording?”
“I am. I need your response on record so you can’t weasel your way out of it later.”
I gasp, hand over my chest. “I beg your pardon? I don’tweasel!”
“Fine. So—dinner. You were saying?”
“I thought you said coffee?”
“The price just went up.”
“The price?” I laugh.
He shrugs. “It’s something my niece keeps saying to me whenever she wants something. I thought it might work here.”
I shake my head, laughing. “It does not.”
“Damn it. Coffee, then?”
As soon as I get my quickie divorce, Shaun.
But I keep that thought to myself. Instead, I turn and walk away, throwing a playful, “We’ll see!” over my shoulder.
Eslin
The day is a glowing success, honestly.
I’m here to observe, to keep tabs on how the guys interact with the kids, the press, and—more importantly—each other. We’ve got a few players we anticipate might struggle with the media attention, or with the intensity of the crowds, but so far they’re all handling it well. Not just well—they’re thriving.
I scan the field and can’t help but smile.
The Bridget “Biddy” Mason STEM Charter School—named after the formerly enslaved woman who became one of the most prominent businesswomen and philanthropists of her time—sits tucked in a small suburb of Atlanta called Cinnamon Grove.
Atlanta itself has become practically synonymous with wealth and luxury now—glittering high-rises, sprawling outdoor shopping centers, vegan cafés on every corner. But just beyond that polished veneer, just outside of Cinnamon Grove—places where developers haven’t rushed in with their bulldozers and their big plans, is the other part of the city, neighborhoods overlooked.
