Off the Record Pt. 01

Characters:

Drew Carter -- 36, former pro soccer goalie turned assistant coach. Broad-shouldered, calm, and guarded. She wears confidence like a second skin, and always dresses sharp -- clean fades, tailored jackets, boots that say don't mess with me.

Emery Blake -- 34, Emmy-winning investigative journalist turned podcast host. Witty, expressive, high heels, and perfect red lips. She's never shy with a mic or a look.

-The Interview-

The mic was live, but the silence stretched between them like a taut string.

Drew Carter sat opposite Emery Blake in the velvet-blue sound booth of The Second Take, arms crossed over her broad chest, dark eyes unreadable under the brim of her baseball cap. The interview had started professionally. Stats, accolades, locker room politics. But Emery had a way of sliding her voice into places that made people say things they didn't plan to.

"You're known for being... composed," Emery said, fingers toying with her pen. "Some might say cold. Is that your strategy, or just who you are?"

Drew's mouth quirked. "You're not afraid to poke the bear, huh?"

"Not when the bear agrees to sit down with me for an hour."

The smile came slower this time, tugging one corner of Drew's lips in something sly. She leaned in, arms uncrossing, and for the first time, her voice dropped -- low and smooth like molasses.

"I don't mind the heat. I just like knowing who's turning up the dial."

Emery's breath caught -- just barely -- but enough. Drew saw it. And maybe Emery wanted her to.

The rest of the interview crackled with double meanings. When Drew talked about the discipline of goalkeeping -- "reading people's moves before they make them" -- Emery nearly asked about reading body language outside the field. When Emery mentioned long nights editing stories, Drew leaned closer and murmured, "I don't sleep much either."

By the time the recording light clicked off, the air in the booth felt charged.

"So," Emery said, unhooking her headphones, "off the record..."

Drew's brow lifted. "Yeah?"

"If someone wanted to turn up the heat -- slowly -- would you stop them?"

Drew stood, tall and solid. She moved around the table, closing the space between them. The heat was no longer a metaphor.

"That depends," she said, voice low. "Are they going to finish what they started?"

Emery tilted her face up, lips parted. "Try me."

-After Hours-

The door to the studio clicked shut behind them, but neither moved. Drew stood close enough for Emery to feel the subtle heat radiating off her -- leather jacket, clean sweat, and something distinctly her.

"You always interview this late?" Drew asked, eyes on Emery's mouth.

"Only when the subject's worth staying late for."

Drew reached out, slow and deliberate, running the backs of her fingers along Emery's jaw. "You're bold when the mic's off."

Emery leaned into the touch, her lipstick perfect, her voice even softer now. "You like bold."

"I do."

In two strides, Drew had her backed against the wall of the narrow hallway, dimly lit and quiet, the after-hours hush wrapping around them like a dare. She placed one hand above Emery's head, the other resting lightly on her hip -- not gripping, just present. Waiting.

"Still off the record?" Drew asked.

Emery's hand curled into Drew's jacket lapel and tugged her closer, her answer warm against Drew's neck: "Way off."

The first kiss wasn't gentle. It was a collision -- lips parting, breath catching, Drew's hands anchoring at Emery's waist as she pressed her fully into the wall. Emery moaned into her mouth, and Drew swallowed it with a growl that came from someplace deep.

"God, you taste like trouble," Drew murmured against her lips.

Emery's fingers found Drew's belt loop, pulling her between her thighs. "That's rich coming from the one who kissed me like we're already naked."

Drew grinned -- a rare, wicked thing -- and kissed down the line of Emery's jaw, along her throat. "Give me ten minutes, and I'll make that true."

She pressed her thigh between Emery's legs, and Emery's head fell back, breath stuttering.

"I don't do this often," Emery whispered.

"But you want this."

A nod. A sigh. A bite of her own lip.

Drew's hands were expert -- strong and unhurried, sliding under Emery's blouse, fingertips dancing along her ribcage until Emery gasped. Then slower. She let Emery guide her, let the tension build. Every movement was a conversation: Do you like this? Do you want more?

When Drew finally dipped her head, mouth hot against bare skin, Emery whimpered, fingers curling in Drew's hair.

"You're shaking," Drew said, lips brushing her collarbone.

"You're making me."

They didn't make it out of the studio.

Clothes came off in pieces. Drew's hands learned every inch with reverence and fire. Emery's lipstick smeared across Drew's neck, her thigh, the studio table. They moved together -- not rushed, but urgent, like they'd waited long enough.

And when Emery came, Drew held her through it, kissing her breathless as she whispered her name like it meant something.

Which, maybe, it already did.

-Headlines and Hangovers-

Emery woke first.

The studio couch was narrow, but Drew's body had curled around hers during the night, protective and possessive. Emery blinked into the grainy early light filtering through the blinds, her mind already racing.

Shit.

She turned slowly, careful not to wake her. Drew was still asleep -- face relaxed, lashes dark against her cheek. She looked... vulnerable. Younger. Emery hated how that made her hesitate.

This wasn't supposed to happen.

She eased herself out from under Drew's arm, one limb at a time. Gathered her bra, blouse, and heels. She stood, smoothing her skirt and swallowing the guilt crawling up her throat.

She should've told her.

Her phone buzzed.

"Breaking: WNT Coach Caught in Late-Night Studio Visit -- Exclusive Photos Inside."

From her producer.

Attached was a blurry shot of Drew entering the building around midnight.

Fuck.

She hadn't even known the paparazzi cared this much about women who didn't date men.

The door creaked slightly as she opened it, but Drew stirred. "Em?"

Emery froze.

She turned halfway. Drew was sitting up, bare-chested, half-draped in her jacket, eyes narrowing slowly as she took in Emery's buttoned blouse and purse in hand.

"You're sneaking out?"

Emery inhaled through her nose. "Not sneaking. Just... needed air."

Drew stood, reaching for her jeans. "You could've said something."

"Would you have let me go?"

Drew's jaw tightened. "I would've wanted the truth."

Emery looked down at her phone, thumb twitching. "There's a photo. Someone saw you come in last night. It's already spreading."

Drew stilled. "Is that what this is about? Your name's clean, but mine isn't, so you're disappearing before it hits?"

"It's not like that, Drew." Emery's voice cracked. "It's just--I should've told you I was being watched. That the podcast gets... clicks."

Drew scoffed. "So what was this, then? A hookup for ratings?"

"No! I didn't--" Emery stepped forward. "I wanted you. I still do."

Drew's expression didn't soften. "But not enough to stand in the fallout with me."

Silence fell, sharp as shattered glass. Emery's heart pounded in her chest. She wanted to rewind -- say something smart, something honest -- but the damage was already blooming between them like bruises.

Drew picked up her shirt, yanking it on without looking at her. "Go ahead, Emery. Break your story. Just don't pretend you didn't know it would break me too."