Authors: Stephanie Evanovich
Tyson was back, bigger, stronger, and hotter than ever. Gone was the rambunctious loudmouth, replaced by a subdued, clear-eyed version who spoke humbly about how grateful he was to the Mavericks organization for giving him the opportunity to play again.
Clinton Barrow was smart. He made it short and sweet, and they all left the room before any questions could be asked. It wasn’t until it was over that Dani was able to draw a decent breath. Five minutes after that, her water broke.
DANI FINISHED PACKING AND WENT
downstairs. Her stomach growled, tempted by the smell of sausage and peppers. Danza and Brendon were at the big kitchen table working on a SpongeBob jigsaw puzzle. She crouched down next to her favorite boy.
“Hey, you. Kiss me,” she said. He looked up from what he was doing and complied. Then he showed her a piece of the big chunky puzzle.
“It’s Mr. Crab’s foot,” he told her proudly.
Dani looked at the little stub of red surrounded in blue. “I’ll take your word on that.”
Then Brendon gifted her with an adorable, bubble-filled, raspberry-like laugh. “Real crabs don’t wear pants,” he pshawed, shaking his head.
Her mother stopped humming the SpongeBob theme song and asked, “You staying for dinner? Now that you got this new job, I see you’ve started eating again.”
Her mother wasn’t trying to give her a hard time. She hated to see good food underappreciated. It was really the only time she criticized her daughter.
“Of course I’m staying for dinner,” Dani was quick to reply. If there was ever a time to incorporate stress eating and comfort foods, it was now. “Who knows when I’ll get cooking this good again?”
Danza took a moment to look up from the puzzle.
“Sometimes the things we want most come with the most sacrifice,” Danza reminded her while getting up to stir a pot of sauce.
Dani bit back the joke about wanting to get her out of the house so she could have the baby to herself. Not only wasn’t it true, but of all the people in her corner, her mother had said the least about her transformation. At times, she helped with the planning and execution.
“Yeah.” Dante came into the room to grab a couple beers for himself and Papa while they watched some baseball. It provided an opportunity to bust her chops. “Come on, by now you have to be getting tired of grilled chicken breast.”
But Dani hadn’t heard him, she was busy staring at Brendon and still reminiscing.
Not long after Brendon was born, during a middle-of-the-night feeding, they sat together in the nursery. Whenever Danza heard him cry, she would put on her robe and slippers and pad down the hall to see if Dani needed any help. She never interfered, but on that night Dani was feeling especially tired and hormonal. After one look at Dani’s exhausted face, Danza asked if she could join her. They sat for a few minutes to the sound of Brendon sucking on his bottle and the occasional creak from their rocking chairs.
“You’ve been blessed,” Danza said gently.
“He is beautiful, isn’t he?” Dani sniffed with emotion. There were times she longed to tell someone, anyone, about her unrequited love. In the quiet times when it was nothing but her newborn and a night-light, she could hear the sound of her heart aching.
“He certainly is. But that’s not what I mean. You’ve been blessed in many ways. Not many people have your brains. Or your gonads. Or your support system.”
They exchanged small smiles, Dani’s one of relief, Danza’s one of belief.
“All women should be able to do what they love,” Danza stated from her chair. “When we were young, your dad used to tell me that a woman who feels fulfilled will remain beautiful her entire life. I loved being a mother and homemaker. He worked hard so I could be the best one.”
“Daddy’s a smart man.” Dani felt her eyes welling up, grateful for the relative darkness.
“And a good one,” Danza said.
“I wonder if he’s the last one.”
Danza’s toned-down chuckle filled the room, and Brendon’s eyes opened for a moment. He cooed slightly in response to it before closing them and resuming his feeding.
“He’s not the first, last, or only good man out there. He just needed minimal training,” Danza teased before asking, “What would you love to be?”
“I would love to be a good mother. Like you.” Not only did she want it to be true, but she also thought it was what her mother wanted to hear.
“And you can be, if you feel fulfilled as a woman.”
“All I feel like right now is a bloated, weepy wreck.” Dani laughed weakly.
“That will pass. And when it does you’re going to want to be ready. Ready to get back to your dream and your calling.”
Her calling had always been to break into broadcasting, and not just any broadcasting. She had never gotten over being passed up for her time on the sidelines.
Her dream had been the same for years. She had never shared it, and even while sniffling in the dark, she still didn’t want to.
The knowing smile from her mother made her want to have both. And strangely enough, they did go hand in hand. But was she willing to give fate another chance?
“Give me that baby,” Danza whispered while reaching out for him. Brendon fussed briefly while Dani handed him over, followed by his bottle. Danza expertly cradled him in her arms and he stilled. “Go get some sleep, you have plans to make. Remember, you don’t win by playing men at their own game, you win by outsmarting them.”
It began with a gym membership to lose the baby weight and rock her bod in general. She didn’t become discouraged as her figure struggled to bounce back to her prebaby days. She refused to hate herself for having put her body through the ultimate endurance test, one that resulted in a miracle. She changed the color of her hair from chestnut to highlighted blond. Next to go was her wardrobe. She studied the girls who were already in the biz and piece by piece started buying similar clothes. She gave up the glasses in favor of contact lenses. And her mother cheered her on as she did so. She even shushed her father when he bemoaned his disapproval after she changed her name to Dani Carr.
“But she’s a Carrino,” he said, pouting.
“Demo,” Danza chided her husband. “She wants to compete in a man’s world. She thinks a more masculine name gives her an advantage. It’s like a stage name. She’ll always be a Carrino.”
“She sure doesn’t look like a man. Some of those sweaters are pretty tight,” Papa grumped in fatherly fashion.
By the time she submitted her first application, Dani had come to several conclusions. She didn’t just want to make it in a man’s world. She wanted to infiltrate what she decided was more of a misogynistic boys’ club.
After her first interview with the Philadelphia affiliate of CBS, she was sure of it.
The timing was perfect. Women were being hired at an alarming rate to satisfy the now-public outcry for less sexism in sports broadcasting roles.
She got a job as the fourth-level sideline reporter. It was really more of a glorified internship. Her responsibilities would mostly entail feeding stats to the woman who had already paid her dues and the boys in the booth. It didn’t even guarantee her airtime.
But Dani Carr had arrived. The job fueled the dream of once again meeting up with Tyson Palmer. But she couldn’t spend too much time dreaming; she still had lots of work to do. Most of it was an uphill battle.
Dani learned to ignore blatant sexist remarks and catcalls. She stiffened her spine when people insinuated that she didn’t know a damn thing about football because she’d never played. She got good at judging whose stupid jokes she needed to laugh at, even when her first instinct would be to introduce her knee to their inseam. By Brendon’s second birthday she was being courted by an agent and offered a second-level position.
The Mavericks had become a hot ticket, thanks in part to their recently redeemed quarterback. Dani had moved up the ranks and now had the privilege of being fed live to the “good ole boys” in the studio. It was one step closer to her final objective, breaking up the all-male posse that sat in the comfort of the studio discussing matchups and sharing well-calculated predictions. She knew what she wanted to accomplish was daunting at best, but she was also willing to put in the time. The boys back in the studio, unaware of her final goal, actually had begun to respect her knowledge. When broadcasting was ahead of schedule and there was airtime to spare, it wasn’t uncommon for them to engage her for several minutes about her interpretation of the game’s high and low points, which in and of itself was a major coup. It was then Dani started thinking that maybe, just maybe, she might be able to have it all.
Three weeks later, she was told she was going to Boston to cover the Blitz-Mavericks game. As soon as she found out, her heart started to pitter-patter in an all too familiar way. She worked herself up with the fantasy that after his initial shock, Tyson would apologize for his behavior that fateful night. She would forgive him because that’s what people did when they loved someone. And then, once she knew he was truly healthy and worthy, Dani would tell him about their son.
By the time the Blitz-Mavericks game was in the fourth quarter, she was practically dancing with excitement. It was clear that nothing short of a miracle would hand over a win to the Mavericks. The wait was excruciating, and she was anxious to set her plan into motion.
She would go right up to him, with her microphone off, and ask him, “Tyson, the Blitz defense was really all over you today. Were you starting to think the only way to keep you safe would be to stick you in a ‘bunker’?” She’d make sure to add a little wink. She would come clean as soon as he gave her the “Do I know you? You seem familiar.”
Dani kept her eyes on him after time ran out with the Blitz’s win and field began to flood with players and press. She jockeyed her crew into position to make sure he couldn’t get past her.
It had all gone according to plan. Until he got close enough and every single feeling she ever had about him hit her full force. It was worse than when she had seen him last. Her feet were the first to betray her and walked her right up to him, microphone ready to thrust in his face. As soon as she caught his eye, all her words failed her and her mouth refused to open.
She didn’t really expect him to recognize her right away, but deep down, she had always been sure he would. But Tyson looked right through her. He gave her a dazzling smile, but there was no hint of any recognition whatsoever. That was bad enough, but even worse, she was suddenly, painfully tongue-tied and to her horror, could only stare up at him and blink.
“Darlin’, you’re supposed to wanna talk to the winner,” Tyson quipped. He winked at her before taking off to the locker room.
He was correct, of course. The losers wanted to make like good sports and get off the field fast. Professional courtesy dictated that you allow them to go back to the locker room and lick their wounds a bit before putting on their brave faces in postgame press conferences. Sometimes a reporter wanted to try and make a splash and sneak a question in there, usually trapping the more emotional and volatile players, but it was generally considered bush league.
Dani knew going in that the odds were slim he would recognize her. Part of her held out hope that the night they spent together had stayed with him in some fashion. But apparently not. He was polite, but it was clear he had no idea who she was. Worse than that, he had winked at her in a way that suggested if they were in a different setting, he would hit on her. Now that he was back on top, he was as cocky as ever. She felt so foolish. Once again, he had successfully humiliated her, this time without even trying.
Dani got the nudge from her crew that the studio wanted her feed and she hustled to find another player, preferably from the winning side. She was too late, though. All the worthy playmakers of the day were already occupied with other reporters.
Still, even in defeat Dani found victory. She managed to score eight words from Marcus LaRue, the rookie phenom who hated reporters. At first she wasn’t even going to bother. Getting snubbed twice in one day would make her look like a total amateur. But something about the way his icy blue eyes connected with hers made her take the risk. She stuck out the mic and asked him the stupidest thing she could, figuring he was just going to walk by her anyway.
“How do you feel, Marcus?”
He stopped right in front of her and bent his head to her microphone long enough to say, “Like I got Palmer’s number on speed dial.”
He looked at her so hard it was like a slap. Her mouth dropped open, and Marcus LaRue went back to trotting off the field with a dozen other correspondents running after him. Her crew was already feeding the exchange to the booth, ecstatic at the feat she had managed to accomplish and wanting to beat to the punch anyone else who might have caught the sound bite.
But Dani was still shaken from the encounter. And while there wasn’t a station that wouldn’t rush to run such a rare comment from LaRue, there was still going to be time to fill.
She quickly managed to conjure up what she remembered of the game and added some commentary. She must have made some seriously spot-on points because the booth threw her a follow-up, one that made her already preoccupied mind overcompensate and become overconfident.
The announcer in the booth asked about the chances of the Tyson Palmer–led Mavericks finally getting their Super Bowl. A legitimate follow-up, with an eye-rolling snort when Dani replied live:
“I’m not sure the Mavericks have what it takes to win the trophy. It appears they’re still reeling from the losses of Macey and Stillman, so the protection just isn’t there and it shows every time they try to rally. Lots of missed opportunities for the Mavericks today, from late throws and hesitation on some key plays by the offense. Maybe it’s a communication breakdown, but from here it looks like Tyson’s chicken.”
It was bad enough she broke her first rule of sports reporting: when talking to a player, address them by their first name; when referring to them, use only their last name. It created a clear boundary of professionalism. But Dani couldn’t resist the not-so-subtle dig at Tyson.