Breaking Cage Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Prologue

  Chapter 1 – Hannah

  Chapter 2 - Hannah

  Chapter 3 - Derek

  Chapter 4 – Hannah

  Chapter 5 – Derek

  Chapter 6– Hannah

  Chapter 7- Derek

  Chapter 8 - Hannah

  Chapter 9 - Hannah

  Chapter 10 - Derek

  Chapter 11 – Hannah

  Chapter 12 – Derek

  Chapter 13 – Hannah

  Chapter 14 – Derek

  Chapter 15– Hannah

  Chapter 16 – Derek

  Chapter 17 - Hannah

  Chapter 18 – Derek

  Chapter 19 – Hannah

  Chapter 20 – Derek

  Chapter 21– Hannah

  Chapter 22 – Derek

  Chapter 23 - Hannah

  Chapter 24 - Derek

  Chapter 25 – Hannah

  Chapter 26- Hannah

  Chapter 27 – Derek

  Chapter 28 – Hannah

  Chapter 29 – Derek

  Chapter 30 – Hannah

  Chapter 31 – Derek

  Chapter 32 – Hannah

  Chapter 33- Hannah

  Chapter 34 – Derek

  Chapter 35 – Hannah

  Chapter 36 – Derek

  Chapter 37 – Hannah

  Chapter 38 - Hannah

  Chapter 39 – Derek

  Chapter 40 – Hannah

  Chapter 41 – Hannah

  Chapter 42 - Derek

  Chapter 43 – Hannah

  Chapter 44 – Derek

  Epilogue: Hannah

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright © 2016 A.J. Pryor

  The rumors swirl around like the sweet, sharp scent of an oncoming storm, a constant reminder of the danger I’m in. The threat he poses.

  I thought I was immune.

  So naïve.

  I stare at the door of his hotel suite, my palms slick with sweat, my heart racing, and my stomach twisted in knots. The door reminds me of a wedding cake—elegant and grand with intricate designs. Crown molding frames the entrance to the extravagant Drake Hotel suite, and my fate rests on the other side.

  I should go back to Los Angeles, return to that life. But the key sticking to my trembling palm reminds me I need to fix what I’ve broken.

  You’re the best. There’s no way you’ll fail. Maybe if I say it enough times . . .

  The red light turns green, and the door unlocks. My pulse quickens. My body tingles.

  I gently push the door open. I take a tentative step inside.

  Curtains, the color of a pearl, billow to the floor, and the walls are painted the color of a cloudless sky. Quiet and empty, the room is meticulous, the furniture untouched.

  He’s not here yet.

  Taking a deep, settling breath, I walk into the lavish suite, remove my coat, and lay it across the back of a pale blue linen chair, the stubbles on the fabric grazing the backs of my fingers. I smooth my navy pencil skirt, adjust my silk blouse.

  A noise to my right draws my attention. A door to one of the bedrooms begins to open.

  My breath catches.

  His broad frame fills the doorway, his stance emphasizing the power of his thighs, the narrowness of his hips. A delicious amount of scruff covers his chiseled jaw, and his hair is sticking up on all ends, making him look like that dirty kind of sexy. The type you want for one night, like a gust of wind that shakes your bones and rattles your teeth, leaving you breathless and shaken.

  He stills when he spots me and pockets his strong, masculine hands, his face a mask of unshed emotion. The muscular outline of his shoulders strain against a crisp, white button-down, and my heart pounds.

  Nervously, I lick my dry lips. Swallow hard. Confidence and grace in a man that size is a rare find, an exhibit like no other.

  The beginning of a smile tips the corners of his mouth, as his eyes meet mine. He runs a hand through his thick, chocolate-brown hair, a few strands falling into his eyes.

  “Hannah.” My name escapes his lips in relief. His voice is deep and husky.

  I crumble.

  Testosterone is leaking from the glass-encased conference room, the Monday morning boys club in full-swing. I’m ten minutes late, public transportation a new endeavor, and today was an epic fail. A nervous tick brings tremors to my hands, and my heart thumps at an unusually strong cadence.

  Come on, Hannah, get your shit together and go inside.

  On an inhale, I open the glass door and step into the room, bringing with me a loud whoosh of stale office air. Fifteen male heads swivel in my direction.

  “Good morning, Hannah,” Larry Solomon, my new editor-in-chief, offers a reassuring smile. “Everyone, this is Hannah Black, the newest member of our team.” Larry’s cerulean eyes scan the room, his untrimmed eyebrows—the only hair north of this man’s collarbone—rising in a stern, silent message to the men seated around the oval, oak conference table.

  A deafening silence fills the air.

  Their gazes start at my wavy brown hair and make their way south. Some offer genuine smiles, some blink in rapid succession like they’ve never seen a woman infiltrate their fort, and others simply turn their backs as if they’d imagined me. Women have been making an impact on sports reporting for years, but I’m the only woman in this sports department. Century in Rewind is the largest publication of online and print news in North America. I know the statistics: seventy-five percent of ESPN viewers are men, as are seventy percent of Sports Illustrated readers. It’s a man’s world.

  I’m going to make it my world.

  “Good morning, gentlemen.” I take the only empty seat in the room, between an adorable twenty-something man with perfectly styled brown hair and hazel eyes, and a stout man donning a coffee-stained button-down, who’s pushing fifty.

  “Chandler Woods.” The young man to my left holds out his hand, and I take it. “Love your shoes.” I look down at my red pumps and smile. They were a twenty-first birthday present from my mother, her way of welcoming me into the world of real adulthood with a splash. They bring me both comfort and heartache. It’s been three days since I abandoned my Los Angeles roots and fled to the Midwest, but wearing these lessens the loneliness.

  “Hannah, we’re in the process of handing out assignments. Chuck, Salvador, and Bob have the Cubs covered. Manny and Ted are working on an exclusive for the Blackhawks. I’d like you to work with Travis on covering the Bears,” Larry Solomon says.

  Snickers ripple through the air.

  I keep my focus on Larry, the man I lied to, the man I tricked into believing I was a sports fanatic. He’d made it clear what he was looking for. “I need a woman on my team, Hannah.” And I’d jumped on the opportunity.

  Politicians, actors—anyone from the Forbes Celebrity 100—and my coverage is spot on, but my knowledge of sports statistics and game rules is limited. I needed this job. I was desperate. And I used his need to fuel my own, rattling off statistics and players’ names I’d plucked from the Internet. He’d bought my bullshit, and I found myself gainfully employed.

  But who the hell is Travis?

  It’s not like I’m clueless about sports. My father is fanatical about his fantasy football team, and don’t get me started on his love for the Dodgers. I can scratch the surface. But if I wanted to play with the big boys, I needed to act the part.

  “Perfect,” I respond.

  More muffled laughter vibrates throughout the room. I’m not privy to the joke, but intuition tells me I’ll get the punch line soon.

  “Monday Night Football starts tonight. I’ll get you locker-room access.”

  Locker-room access?

/>   Larry continues with the rest of the meeting, recapping injuries and plays from the past weekend’s games. I need to perfect my understanding of football if I’m going to pull this off. I know what most men think of female sports reporters—we’re either real journalists or beauty queens. I plan to be both.

  “That’s it, everyone. Go out and make me proud.”

  Men stand, their voices rising as they all talk over each other in a testosterone contest of epic proportions. Which one in this group garners the most power? It’s not hard to pick him out. Blond hair, blue eyes, and an athletic build. Most likely a college football star who wasn’t good enough to go pro so he writes about them instead; he’s the guy who lives his dreams through the players who realized theirs. He’s the only one who gives me a glance as the group makes their exit, but when I catch his eye, he averts his attention, laughing at the conversation surrounding him.

  “Don’t look as green as you are, Hannah; it’s not an attractive color on you.”

  I turn to Chandler, startled at his forward remark. “I beg to differ, green and I go way back.”

  “They’re afraid of you,” he continues. “Keep it that way.”

  I raise a confused brow. “My coworkers? Afraid of what?”

  “That you’ll steal their power.” He sits back and clasps his hands across his abdomen. “Solomon assigned you football. Most of those men wouldn’t touch the Bears.”

  “Why?”

  Chandler’s eyes widen in surprise. “Derek Cage?”

  He says the name as a question, as though I should know the answer.

  “The senator’s son?” I ask. “What about him?”

  A sly smile widens his lips. “You don’t know?”

  I shake my head.

  “Derek Cage is famous for more than his royal bloodline. He’s been—”

  “Chandler!” We both jolt at the sudden interjection of Mr. Solomon’s voice. “I need you to call Frank Donovan at Soldier Field. Get Hannah set up for today.”

  “Yes, sir.” Chandler abruptly stands.

  “And for God’s sake, Chandler, stop calling me sir.”

  Chandler glances at me and offers a kind smile. “Just remember, Hannah, football players love a pretty face. If you use that to your advantage, you’ll knock ’em dead.” He winks at me and leaves the room.

  Mr. Solomon takes his seat. “Chandler’s my assistant, Hannah. He’s damn good at what he does, knows the ins and outs of this town like no other. I’ve instructed him to help you, and I think he’s gotten ahead of himself.”

  “It’s fine. I’m always happy to have some inside information.”

  “We’re excited to have you on board. With your successful background and the knowledge you bring to the table, you’re going to do great things at Century.”

  I smile and nod, wondering how long it’s going to take to get up to speed on the players and their positions. The jargon. The rules. Football has its own culture, and I need to infiltrate like a Marine.

  “I heard Chandler mention Derek Cage. What do you know about him?” Mr. Solomon asks.

  “He’s Tom Cage’s son.”

  The Cage family is famous in Illinois. Considered ‘American Royalty,’ their legacy dates back to the Great Depression when their net worth skyrocketed while the rest of the nation was spiraling into poverty and despair. Henry Cage, the founder of the Cage dynasty became the 31stth President of this great nation. His sons and grandsons followed suit. Governors, Mayors, Senators, and Congressmen, their wealth, leadership, and power are recognized around the country. Tom Cage is a beloved senator of Illinois, his reputation untouchable.

  “Derek is also the new starting quarterback of the Chicago Bears,” I add with a false sense of confidence. The only Cage who never followed a political agenda, at least not yet.

  “That’s right. He’s looking to make a comeback, a season good enough to keep his name on the roster. Despite his temper, Derek was a first-round draft pick when he entered the NFL six years ago. During season two, he won the 49ers a Super Bowl title, but since then, he’s fallen flat.”

  “His temper?” I blurt.

  Larry nods. “They don’t call him The Rage for nothing.”

  The Rage?

  “Derek’s different from the rest of the athletes on that team. He avoids the media, runs from it,” he continues.

  “Makes sense. With his family name, he has a lot to protect.”

  Pursing his lips, he’s quiet, contemplating his next words. “Your specialty has always been getting the exclusive, a story to beat the rest.”

  Cautiously, I nod. “In Hollywood, yes.”

  “He’ll be a challenge.”

  I stare at him, puzzled. “A challenge in what regard?”

  “Travis McCoy has been covering the Bears for years, they’re his team. But with Derek Cage back in town, I’m looking for some human interest pieces. A deeper look at the lives of some of these athletes.”

  I still don’t know who Travis McCoy is, but I’m more concerned with what Larry’s trying to say, the confusion furrowing my brow.

  “Derek Cage doesn’t talk to reporters, Hannah. I want you to change that.”

  My face heats. “You want me to get him to talk.”

  “I want more than that. Get his story, all of it. His fears, his triumphs . . . his secrets.”

  “You want an exclusive story?” I ask, surprised.

  “Yes.”

  “I’m honored you’d trust me with such a big story, Mr. Solomon. But why me? Why not someone who’s been on your team a lot longer?”

  He smiles curtly. “Call me Larry.” Sighing, he sits back, crossing a foot over one knee. “You’re new in town. Derek Cage won’t suspect what you’re after.”

  Dread creeps along my spine.

  “He can’t know what your agenda is. He’ll ban you from the media room if he thinks you’re going to expose him.”

  I’m from Beverly Hills, the daughter of one of the most renowned cardiologists in Los Angeles. My mother is a wealthy socialite, her fixation on neighborhood gossip the catalyst for my career choice. While unexpected events uprooted me from that life, tossed me out of my comfort zone, I’m still me. I’ve spent the past four years dissecting the lives of LA’s top politicians and businessmen, making friends with A-list celebrities before airing their dirty laundry in front of a captivated audience. My pieces started as online blurbs, a flash report here, a sighting there. For four years, in and out of college, I dedicated my life to theirs, memorizing their favorite foods, the names of their dogs, and where they liked to vacation. This is what I do.

  Though I’ve never torn apart an athlete, how hard can it possibly be?

  “Do you think he’ll talk tonight?”

  “Doubtful. Surprised the NFL doesn’t fine him for insubordination.”

  “We should file a complaint.”

  “Do you think he’ll be at his locker?”

  “It’s a crap shoot. He might address us as a whole. Get his one-word answers over with.”

  “Impressive he kept his cool on the field. Thought he’d rip George Cox’s head off when he let that Giant’s defensive tackle get so close.”

  Thirty reporters stand around like vultures, waiting for the double doors to open, granting us access to the men who just left their souls on the field. Every single one of them is talking about Derek Cage. He’s the “it” boy, the untouchable who everyone wants a piece of. I listen intently to their conversations, doing what I can to catch information I missed during the game. What I know for sure is the Bears squeezed out a win.

  It wasn’t hard to pick out Travis McCoy from the group of reporters. The blond who’d eyed me at the office, the leader of the pack. He’s in his element, surrounded by our peers, dominating the conversation. His dismissal of me is evident. I’m the rookie, cast out to the outer edge of the group and he hasn’t made an effort to bring me into the circle.

  I’m not the only woman vying for a spot in the locker roo
m. There are a handful of other females blending in with the crowd. They’re as comfortable as Travis. Their tenure is evident by the confidence in their stances, the steady cadence of their voices, the clear knowledge they possess of the game and the Bear’s teammates.

  I listen to their words, memorize their conversations, pick up on the slight inconsistencies in their stories. But my assignment is clear. I’m looking for Derek Cage. The graceful giant I just watched bring his team to victory. His six-foot-four stature moves with ease, his calm demeanor in conflict with his nickname, The Rage, a man who’s drawn the attention of this entire city.

  A loud click lets us know we’re about to enter their world, and everyone gets into position.

  The doors swing open . . . to dozens of naked men.

  A manic laugh threatens to explode from my throat.

  We’ve been waiting outside for fifteen minutes. They couldn’t wait a few more?

  I’m bumped to the side as people scramble around me. “Don’t chicken out now,” Travis mumbles in my ear as he strides by me. Prick.

  I walk into the room. It’s crowded, and it smells terrible, a mixture of sweat and gas. I try not to gag as I take note of which players are talking and which have their backs to us. A quiet unease settles over me.

  “Well, well. Who do we have here?”

  I stop short as an obscenely heavy man blocks my path, a plush white towel wrapped around his pale, thick waist. From the research I’ve done, I know his name is Colt Dixon, and he’s a defensive lineman, which explains the extra padding. Angling my voice recorder in his direction, I plaster on my best journalist smile and hit play. “I’m Hannah Black with Century in Rewind. You single-handedly stopped Giants’ running back, Jerry Stiles from entering the end zone. Are we going to see more of that from you this season?”

  “Honey, you can see any of me you want this season.” He wiggles his eyebrows suggestively. Pig.

  “Any insight into what the season is going to bring this year?”

  He steps closer, giving me a clear view of the broken capillaries that mar his flushed cheeks. He stinks like stale sweat, and his body jiggles as he moves. My stomach turns at the nearness of his flesh to mine. “You want to meet me at my place later, honey? I’ll give you some inside—”