Home > Only One Chance (Only One #2)

Only One Chance (Only One #2)
Author: Natasha Madison

 

Dedication

 

 

Dedication: Jan, Layla, Lori, Mary, Natasha M, Sandy, Sarah, Teressa, Yamina, Yolanda

I can’t do it without you guys!

 

 

Chapter 1

 

 

Layla

 

 

“You look like fall,” Brian, my producer and sidekick, says as I walk by his office door.

Shaking my head, I laugh as we both walk down the hallway. “You look tired.”

“Well, I was up late editing the segment I aired this morning on women’s hockey growth in the US.” His dark hand runs through his hair. “You still look like fall, though.”

“What does that even mean?” I ask him, then look down at my outfit. “It’s blue jeans and a navy blue blazer.”

He shrugs his shoulders like any man who has no idea why he said what he said, but he did it anyway. “I don’t know. Maybe it’s the brown purse.” I stop walking once I get to my office door. “Don’t forget we have the Oilers’ Manning and Miller coming in today to discuss the charity auction this weekend,” he says before walking off in the direction of the kitchen while I groan out loud.

“I hate Miller,” I grumble. Every time he’s mentioned, I automatically think back to the first time we met. It was my first week at the station, my afternoon sports radio show, Lay it on You, was on the air, and the radio station was having a fundraiser. He showed up to the event looking equally charming and arrogant clothed in dark jeans and a tight T-shirt. When we were introduced, he told me that he loved my show, especially my commentary on hockey as a sport, being as it was underrated in the South. I was super proud of those first few segments. He’d touched my arm gently and not at all creepy, and he actually made me laugh at a couple of jokes, which is hard to do. We were talking, he was flirting with me, and to be honest, I was flirting right back with him. I stepped away for a second to go to the bathroom, and I walked out to find him tongue fucking a blonde against the wall. Ever since then, I’ve taken him at exactly face value. ‘Make out with anyone literally all the time because you’re not special, Layla’ value.

Grabbing the handle to my office door, I open it, mumbling, “How could I forget Manwhore Miller?” The sun shines on the signed Dallas Oilers jersey I have framed in my office. It was from the All-Star game last winter. Framed pictures of some of my sports idols that I’ve taken fill the wall. I never expected to be a sports commentator; it happened by luck. When I applied for a job at the local college radio station, I thought they would put me to work on the marketing front, but instead, they had me calling the hockey games because the last announcer had quit that afternoon. It just stuck, and I fell in love with it. Hockey, sports, commentating—all of it.

Brian sticks his head into my office on his way to our recording booth. “Ready?” he asks. I nod my head, grabbing my stuff and following him down to where we do the show. He walks into his producer booth while I push open the door to where I sit. Two windows give the room a bit of light. I put my coffee and notes down on the table right next to the bottles of water there for my guests. Sitting in the chair in front of the microphone, I grab the earphone and put them on.

“Check the mic,” Brian tells me from where he’s standing in front of the soundboard.

“Check one, two. The XYZ TEAM sucks,” I say, looking at him. He nods his head, then laughs, pressing a couple of buttons on his side. I hear the commercials play as I get into the zone.

“Ten seconds,” Brian says, and this time, I nod at him as I watch the on air sign light up.

“Hey there, welcome to Lay it on You, the Layla Paterson show.” I smile every time I say those words.

When I started at the station, I was an intern, and then they gave me a shot, putting me on from midnight to four a.m. I thought it was going to be dead air, but I had assholes calling in all the time trying to one-up me, and I have to say I got their sports trivia questions right ninety-nine percent of the time. Well, more like ninety-five. Thank God for Google some nights.

The ratings had never been better for my slot. When the afternoon radio show host went away for vacation, they gave me his time slot for two weeks. It was like I was the queen of the castle. I went head-to-head with the men who called in. I went toe-to-toe with the other radio show hosts who didn’t want me to leave by the end of two weeks. When they finally gave me the afternoon spot, I was with them for ten years at that point.

“For those of you tuning in for the first time, I’m your host, Layla. And I have Brian on the command with me.” I look over and wait for Brian to chime in. “Brian, I believe you owe me ten bucks.” He groans. “I’m not going to say I told you so, but I told you so. I told you that Montreal was going to win.” I mention the game played last night when the team lost six to four.

“Yeah, yeah,” he says, shaking his head. “Let’s take a call, shall we?” he suggests, patching through a caller.

“Hey, Layla, longtime listener of your show,” the guy on the phone says.

“Thank you.” I lean back in my chair. “What did you think of the trio last night?” I ask, talking about the captain and his two assistants.

“The loss was a hard one to take,” he says, huffing out.

“Nothing hurts more than having a team come into your building and leave with a win,” I tell him.

“They made mistakes last night, for sure, but I think Weber is getting better and better,” he says of Ralph. “Stevenson is perfect each time,” he says of Manning, the captain on the team. “And Adams?” He whistles. “The guy is on fire. I think this is going to be his year.” I inwardly groan and roll my eyes so hard that they might get stuck. “His stick is hot.”

“Yeah,” I say, agreeing with him as much as I hate to, “I’ll give it to Adams. He’s on a four-game scoring streak, and he’s at a plus six.” I throw out the stats that I looked up this morning, hating every single second of it. “I mean, if he stays out of the penalty box, he really does have a chance to beat his record last year.”

The caller huffs out as they usually do when I try to prove them wrong. “Mark my words, this is his year.”

“Listen, I wholeheartedly hope that you're right, but …” I roll my neck. “They didn’t look like they were a team last night. Montreal came in and handed them their behinds on a platter. It was brutal out there. Justin Stone scored his first hat trick of the season, and we are only in October. Dallas needs to get it together, or there’s no way they’re going as far as they did last year.”

We answer additional callers for thirty more minutes. When we get a commercial break, Brian pops back into my headset. “Just got word from Becca.” I look over at him. “Manning is out today. It’s only going to be Miller,” he says, and another groan escapes my throat.

Somebody out there hates me. They have to hate me. Miller has been a thorn in my side ever since he set eyes on me one year into his contract during that dumb fundraiser. He came from Chicago, and every single time he sees me, he goes balls to the wall to convince me to sleep with him or at least have dinner with him. And it doesn’t matter how many times I tell him no; it just pushes him to crack me harder.

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