“What exactly is your job?”
A small crease appeared between her green eyes. “You don’t know who I am?”
Normally, that question came across snotty, but the way she said it was more incredulous. Like honest to God, he should know her. Corey wasn’t one of those guys who forgot a woman, and he scanned her again—from the stupid Yankee hat riding low on her forehead, covering ink-black hair, to the coffee stain on the white shirt with a snarky saying, to the tips of the Nike sneakers with a hole in one toe.
“Nope,” he said unapologetically.
“Well then, let’s meet again for maybe the twelfth time.” Her sarcastic tone set his teeth on edge.
“If I’ve met you twelve times, you clearly aren’t memorable,” Corey snapped back.
“Whatever you say.” She rolled those sea-green eyes making ayou’re an idiotface.
“Who the hell are you?” he demanded.
“Taran. Murphy.” Each syllable popped slowly out of her mouth as she raised a single thin eyebrow. It would have pissed him off if the name didn’t send ice into his veins.
A breath hissed through his teeth. “Sports Illustratedgossip reporter.”
Normally, he played the game of media darling with reporters. But not this one. This one traded in athlete gossip. She would exploit an athlete’s personal life for a career boost. The kind he never gave a second glance. He didn’t remember her because he’d probably never looked at her. Want to talk about his game, his team, his arm, his contracts, his agent? He’d give a reporter all the time in the world. Want to talk about his personal life? As far as he was concerned, the reporter didn’t exist. But at the moment, her existence was glaring. He reran the conversation with Clayton through his mind. Seattle and Denver might both be off the table if any of what either man said was reported. Nobody wanted a whiney quarterback who didn’t want to be part of the team. And Corey couldn’t remember exactly what he had said aloud about Clayton’s feelings.
“In Case You Didn’t Know.” She quoted the name of her monthly article.
“What did you hear?” Corey demanded.
“Enough.” The cat that ate the canary smile she flashed had his hands fisting. “I think I’ve got this week’s blog.”
“Blog?” he asked, narrowing his eyes at her.
“It’s when people write articles on a website,” she said slowly, enunciating every word with a sugary sweet voice, implying he was a dumb fuck.
He knew what a damn blog was. He just hadn’t realized she wrote one.
“What will it take for you to forget it?” he asked, but he sneered at being forced into a game he didn’t want to play.
She paused and stared at him for a beat, and then a devilish smile slowly spread across her face. “The full interview for next month’s article.”
He snorted. “Clayton’s not doing interviews. He’s on a media hiatus.”
It almost looked like he’d confused her, but before he could zero in on the look, it was gone, replaced by an arrogant, not-my-problem-stare. “I’m sure Clayton would do an interview with someone you said was okay.”
“Yeah, right.” Anyone who knew Corey knew he’d never trust the person who wrote “In Case You Didn’t Know.”
“I’m sure you could convince him if you needed to.” Her shrug was nearly imperceptible in that ridiculously big stained shirt.
“What do you expect me to do—call you my girlfriend and ask him for a favor?” He snorted again at the idiocy of the idea.
But Taran just smiled. “That would work.”
Now he laughed outright. “Sorry, I don’t fuck trash reporters—even desperate ones.”
Those sea-mist eyes turned hard as diamonds. “No interest on this end either.”
He glanced at her again. She probably had no life of her own. That’s why other people’s personal lives interested her so much.
“However, I want an invite to the Demodas’ place. I know you’re going, and so am I if you don’t want to read about your lovely phone call with Clayton on my blog tomorrow.” She shot him an icy glare, daring him to balk. “Your choice.”
“By the way, he’s right about the third.”
Corey froze. How the hell could she know what Clayton had said about that inning?