Hearts in Overtime: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (2 page)

“No. No way. Not gonna happen.”

Johnny follows me into the locker room, his busted, out of shape ass hurrying to keep up with my long strides.

“I’m afraid it’s a done deal, Ryan. You’re just going to have to accept that.”

“The hell I am.”

I yank open my locker, toss my helmet onto the pile of crap in there and peel off my practice jersey before turning back to my manager.

“I won’t do it, Johnny.”

“Yes, you will,” he says. “I don’t know what it is that you’re hiding, Ryan, but it’s going to come out eventually. Public hunger is insatiable as far as you’re concerned, and you have only yourself to blame. If you weren’t the hottest player in the League, maybe they wouldn’t be so hungry for your story.”

Yanking off my shoulder pads and throwing them into the locker, I say, “Don’t fucking patronize me.”

“Fine.” He sighs. “I’m just trying to get you to accept the inevitable and to focus on the positive. Like I said, your past is going to come out eventually and this way we can manage things. We’ll be able to parcel out the facts to a biographer who’s been hired by the team to paint you in a flattering light. Think of the alternative. Would you rather we sit back, do nothing and wait until some journalist comes sniffing around and uncovers whatever it is you’ve been hiding?”

Man, why can’t people just leave me alone? If I knew then what I know now, I would never have agreed to play ball for Ohio State. I hate being a public figure.
Hate
it. Aside from the fact that I’m constantly aware of my every move being scrutinized, I live under a black cloud of fear that the events of the past will come to light.

“What if I worked on flying under the radar?” I propose. “If I make a conscious effort to stay out of the public eye—If I stop being seen at events, quit making headlines,
definitely
stay out of trouble with the law—the people will forget about me soon enough, don’t you think?”

Johnny shakes his head. “You’re in too deep already. Any change in behavior is going to get noticed. If you stop showing up at high profile events, the people will start speculating and wondering what you’re hiding—a drug addiction? A mental breakdown? An elicit love affair? Nice try, Ryan, but it wouldn’t work.”

Instead of feeling hopeless, I feel nothing but a burning sense of rage coursing through my veins. It takes every last ounce of self-control I possess not to start throwing shit around and punching the walls.

“You can tell the piece of shit biographer to fuck off. I won’t allow him to poke around in my past.
I will not do it
.”

Johnny sighs, and that’s when I noticed the pity in his eyes.

“Ryan,” he says gently, “you talk as if you have a choice in the matter.”

* * * *

With my face buried in my hands, I allow the hot water to pound my shoulders, washing away all the dirt and grime from the day’s practice.

Shit.

I hate my life.

I know, I know. I sound like a whiny little bitch. Yeah, I know I have a lot to be thankful for including the loft in Manhattan, the house in the Hollywood Hills, the pied-à-terre
in Paris, the beach house in Amagansett, the Range Rover, the Lamborghini Aventador, all the gadgets and top-of-the-line products I could ever ask for, access to the most exclusive establishments and events in the world and a half dozen people on staff whose primary objective is to cater to my every whim.

But to the millions of fans around the world who would kill to be in my shoes, I have this to say: when you’re a pro baller, your life no longer belongs to you. You become an indentured servant the very second you sign on the dotted line. You’ll weep with joy when you get that first check, blinking hard to make sure you’re not hallucinating all those zeroes, but after the thrill starts to wear off, you’ll realize that you’ve just sold your soul to the devil.

Congratulations, champ. You are now public property.

Assholes you’ve never met before in your life will get in your face and demand shit from you—autographs, handshakes or even just your time. If you don’t feel like cooperating, they’ll turn vicious. They’ll get all up in your face like they own you. Because in a way, they do.

I’m so fucking sick of it.

After I get out of the shower and pull on a clean pair of sweats, I head into the training facility’s players lounge where I find Johnny on one of the sofas, watching an Adam Sandler flick with a couple of my teammates. He looks up when I enter the room.

Without a word, he gets up and walks over to one of the round tables. He pulls out a chair, takes a seat and motions for me to join him. I don’t have the energy to protest. I go over and take a seat across from him.

“So,” he says, “has it started to sink in?”

I shrug. It has, but I don’t feel the need to answer. After managing my career for over seven years now, Johnny knows me pretty well. He probably knows me better than anyone in the entire world, come to think of it.

“Good,” he says.

Massaging the sore muscles at the back of my neck, I ask, “So how’s this going to work? Where’s this writer—this biographer—based? Can we conduct the interviews or whatever over the phone or am I going to have to meet with him in person?”

“Interviews will take place in person. The writer will be here on Monday to conduct the first one.

“Monday?”

I can’t believe my ears. It’s bad enough that all this is happening, but I thought I’d at least have some time to figure out how to handle the questions before the writer arrives.

“I’m afraid so,” Johnny says. “Bruce wants this book to be on the market by the Thanksgiving Day games.”

I don’t know how to respond to that. Not that I know anything about the book publishing industry, but don’t these things take time? It sounds like he expects this person to write an entire book about me in a couple of weeks or something. Training season is almost over, for fuck’s sake. Thanksgiving isn’t very far away at all.

“One other thing: the writer isn’t a he. It’s a she.”

Fuck
.

This is just getting better and better. A woman? A woman is going to be the one who’s dead set on prying my deepest, darkest secrets out of me? I hate all journalists with a passion, but female sports journalists are the lowest of the low. Without exception, they are relentlessly pushy ball-busting bitches that are harder to shake than a shit-faced fan girl with one hand down your pants.

Granted, I can appreciate the reason they feel they have to act like they do. In the male-dominated world of sports media, these women feel like they have something to prove, no doubt, but just because I understand the dynamic doesn’t mean I want to have any kind of interaction with them that goes beyond saying “no comment.”

“Do I know her?” I ask Johnny. “Please tell me it’s not that ball-busting bitch from
SBN Sports Night
.”

“No, not even close,” he assures me. “The woman who you’ll be working with isn’t a sports journalist at all. She’s a biographer and a ghostwriter. And she’s good. Her agent sent me copies of her books. Would you like to read them yourself?”

I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter.”

The fact that this biographer person isn’t a journalist is a small consolation. She’s still a fucking woman. Yeah, yeah, I know I come off as a first class chauvinistic pig, but I speak from experience when I say all women are crazy. They
all
have a screw loose. Or two, or three screws loose. Or they’re just completely falling apart. From the rabid groupies to my teammates’ wives and girlfriends, it’s a wonder these chicks are able to function in normal society.

I’ve had girls breaking into my hotel room more times than I can count. Usually they’ll strip naked and get into my bed, although filling the bath with bubbles and getting in is another popular option. Sometimes it’s just one girl; sometimes it’s two and once it was as many as four. Unless I’ve had a really crappy day, I’ll usually fuck them before sending them on their way, but the whole thing leaves a bad taste in my mouth. So to speak. Don’t these girls have any self-respect? Do they have even the slightest ounce of integrity?

And don’t even get me started on the WAGs. They flounce around like they own the universe because of who they’re married to—or who they’re in a relationship with. Whatever. They’re snotty bitches, every last one of them, and you don’t know the true meaning of the word “possessive” until you see a WAG get threatened by another woman.

Even just last week, I was having dinner with fellow Viper, halfback Cody Washington, and his wife, Annette, who I’d never had a problem with. We were having a perfectly decent time until these two chicks came up and started fawning all over Cody and me.

Annette went fucking postal. She started screaming at these chicks, saying how she would rip their hair out by the roots if they didn’t get their hands off her man. It wouldn’t have surprised me one bit if she’d dropped her panties, climbed up onto Cody’s lap and pissed all over him so she could mark her territory like some kind of dog. Like he’s her fucking possession or something.

I am never,
ever
getting married.

Yeah, I stand by my earlier statement. All women are crazy. Well…okay. All women are crazy with the exception of one. Betsy Murdoch was a wonderful human being. She had the kindest heart of anyone I’d ever known, and her laugh was infectious. She had a warmth about her that always managed to lift my mood, no matter what kind of shit I was dealing with at the time. I hope she knew how much I appreciated her.

But Betsy was one in a million. She was the exception to the rule. She was the only woman I’d ever known who didn’t make me want to pound my head against the wall.

“Why don’t you go change into something decent and I’ll take you into the city for a nice dinner?” Johnny says, drawing my focus back to the present.

“No, that’s all right.”

“Come on. It’d do you some good to get out of the facility for once.”

I shake my head no.

“Suit yourself,” he says with a shrug. “I guess I’ll head back, then. Let me know if you change your mind and you want to take a look at those books, okay?”

“Sure.”

“And give me a call if you need to talk. You know. About…whatever this big secret is that you’re hiding. It might be easier to open up to me—to someone you actually know—before baring your soul to a complete stranger.”

With a groan, I dig my fingers into that damn knotted muscle at the back of my neck. I can’t even think about this right now.

“All right. See you, Ryan.”

I wave Johnny off with a mumbled goodbye and then get up to start heading out to the residence hall behind the training facility. I need to go lie down.

What am I going to do? What the
hell
am I going to do?

I pull my rental car into the parking lot of the training facility with a huge sigh of relief. I haven’t driven a car in almost ten years, and I am a nervous wreck. I would much rather have taken the train, but the training facility is out in the middle of nowhere and really only accessible by car. Such is life. Hopefully I’ll get used to it soon and won’t be so tense behind the wheel. I pull into an empty parking spot and breathe a sigh of relief.

Grabbing my bag and my briefcase, I get out and start heading towards the facility. It’s interesting to find out this is where the Vipers train for the season. I’d just assumed they did the training at the stadium where they played, but that’s not the case at all.

From the outside, the facility looks like an ordinary office building like one you might find anywhere. Seven or eight stories high, the sprawling grey and white structure has fewer windows than you might expect. The only thing that sets it apart from all the other nondescript office buildings in the world are the cars in the parking lot. There are BMWs, Ferraris, Porsches, Jaguars, and every other luxury brand you could possibly think of. In addition to the Toyota Camry I have on loan, there are a handful of other more reasonably priced cars in the parking lot. I figure they must belong to the janitors and cleaning ladies.

It’s good to know I won’t be the
only
person in the building who isn’t filthy rich.

When I get closer, I see a flag with the Vipers’ logo on it flying next to the American flag. My shoes make a conspicuous clomping noise as I make my way down the pristine cement pavement and open the big glass door to enter the facility.

The security guard looks up and asks, “May I help you?”

He’s so big and muscular; he looks like he could play on the team. Maybe he
is
on the team. Maybe the Vipers take turns watching the door of the training facility?

Haha. Yeah right.

“My name is Charlotte Marshall. I’m here to see Ryan Blake.”

He nods and motions towards the pair of leather sofas off to the side. “Have a seat, Ms. Marshall.”

I wander over to the sofas, taking everything in that I see. The reception area is a bit sparse, but I get the feeling that it took a team of high-end decorators a dozen meetings to decide which way the light fixtures should be angled and to what degree, and what color marbles to fill the cut glass bowl on the end table between the sofas.

They went with black. It’s a good choice, in my opinion.

“Johnny, Ms. Marshall is here,” the security guard says into his headset.

The display of those three coffee table books was no accident, either. I don’t want to disturb the artsy arrangement, so I don’t mess with the stack, but that doesn’t stop me from analyzing the book sitting on the top of the pile. It’s entitled simply
The Fifty Year History of the Brooklyn Vipers, 1962-2012
, and the cover features a player in mid-air, about to come crashing down on top of another player.

Yikes.

What a barbaric sport. I seriously do not understand the appeal. Why is it that so many people get enjoyment watching these massive, muscular men pummel each other? Is it really that different from the sadistic thrill the Romans got when they watched the gladiators fight in the arena?

I shake my head clear of the thought because I know I should go into this with an open mind. It’s better to focus on the positive, anyway. For instance: I wonder if my book about Ryan Blake will be sitting on the pile of books on this coffee table here by the end of the year. It’s entirely possible that it will be. The guy is their star player after all. I can’t help but shiver with excitement.

Obviously this isn’t how I’d planned on it happening, but the truth is in a few months time, thousands and
thousands
of people are going to be reading the words I’ll have written. How cool is that?

I look up when I hear the click-clack of hard soles on the polished marble floor. A guy in khakis and a sports coat approaches me with a smile.

“Ms. Marshall,” he says, offering his hand. “I’m John Samuels, Ryan Blake’s agent. It’s very nice to meet you.”

“Nice to meet you, too, Mr. Samuels,” I tell him as I stand up to take his hand.

“Please call me Johnny.”

He gives my hand a hard squeeze, and I suck my breath in to keep from crying out. I guess he’s used to shaking hands with football players or something, because his grip is off the charts. Seriously! He could crack open walnuts with that iron grip of his. He could definitely break my bones.

It takes some effort for me to regain composure enough to manage a smile.

“And you must call me Charlotte,” I tell him.

“Charlotte it is.”

He leads me through a long, wide hallway to a bank of elevators at the end, and I find myself fascinated by the giant, floor to ceiling photos framed and mounted to the walls. They’re all photos of the Vipers, of course. Some of them feature various players—most notably Ryan—posing with politicians, celebrities and even royalty. In addition to the posed pictures, there are plenty of action shots dispersed throughout the array.

I am completely and utterly awed, and not in a good way. No wonder Ryan Blake has an attitude problem. I couldn’t even imagine what it would be like if I had to walk past a wall of life-sized pictures of myself every day. This hallway is like a shrine to his ego, and frankly, I think it’s disgusting.

“I’m in the middle of reading your book about Benjamin Montgomery right now,” Johnny says as he presses the button for the elevator.

“Oh, yeah?” I turn to him with a smile.

He nods. “Yeah, it’s amazing to get a look inside the world of finance, and better yet, to catch a glimpse of how his brain works. And I have to say I like how you structured the book. It could easily be dry and technical, but the way you dropped stuff in about his personal life at the end of every chapter makes it very readable.”

“Thank you so much.” I smile, taking an instant liking to Ryan’s manager.

Maybe it isn’t his intention to win me over with flattery, but in any case, it’s working.

The way to this girl’s heart is with a compliment on her writing.

The elevator doors open. We step in, and Johnny presses the button for the third floor. When the doors close, he turns to me with a smile.

“You seem like a very nice young lady, Charlotte,” he says.

Um…okay. I’m not sure how to respond to his statement. It seems to have come out of nowhere. Very random.

After brief pause I say, “Thank you.”

He nods. The doors open on the third floor and he puts an arm out to keep them open, motioning for me to exit ahead of him. Once we’ve both stepped out, he starts walking down the hallway with me at his side.

He glances over and says, “I just wanted to let you know that Ryan is probably going to be a bit…difficult.”

Oh, great.

“I’ve been managing his career for the better part of a decade,” Johnny goes on to say, “and I love him like he’s family. He’s a good guy deep down, but there’s no denying the fact that he can be a real asshole when things don’t go his way. And when it comes to this book… Well, let me put it this way: I don’t envy you the task ahead.”

Part of me wants to turn and run, but the promise of $250,000 at the end of the whole debacle keeps me going.

“I kinda suspected that was the case,” I tell Johnny. “I mean the fact that he never gives interviews kind of tipped me off to the fact that he probably wouldn’t want to open up to me.”

“Yeah, he is not happy about this at all.”

He’s not the only one. I am so not looking forward to having to pry information out of this guy, this massive megalomaniac with an attitude the size of Texas. The other men I’ve written about were only too happy to share all the details of their lives. They were pleasant to work with. They were actually grateful to me for the work I put into packaging their lives up for people to read about. This…this was a whole new ballgame for me.

So to speak.

“My advice is to stand your ground and dig your heels in,” Johnny says. “Ryan’s not delusional. He knows he has no choice but to cooperate, but that doesn’t mean he’s going to offer himself up without a fight. It may take some time, but he’ll do what he needs to do. Eventually.”

Eventually.

We come to a door near the end of the hall. Johnny opens it and motions for me to enter. It’s a small meeting room with a rectangular particleboard table in the center and three mesh back chairs on either side. Unlike the reception area, I don’t get the impression that it’s been painstakingly decorated. It’s pretty nondescript. Looks like your run of the mill meeting room like one you might find at an insurance company off the interstate an hour from Indianapolis or something. 

Johnny walks over to a door on the side of the room and opens it to reveal a closet full of shelves. There are stacks of office supplies and at the bottom, a small mini fridge.

“Feel free to help yourself to anything in here. We’ve got water, juice, soda, energy drinks…” He opens the door of the fridge and peers in. “Protein drinks, too. If there’s anything you want that you don’t see, stick a Post-It on the door, indicating what you want. Maintenance will restock it overnight.”

He closes the fridge, closes the closet and turns back to me.

“The ladies room is about five or six doors down the hall,” he says. I believe it’s clearly marked. Is there anything I’m forgetting?”

I’m not sure if he’s talking to me or to himself, so I keep quiet.

“Do you have any questions, Charlotte?”

I shake my head. “None that I can think of.”

He reaches into his pocket, pulls out a business card and hands it to me.

“My cell number is on here. Feel free to call me anytime if you need help dealing with Ryan or for whatever reason.”

“Thanks,” I tell him, taking it from him and doing my best to hide my nervous energy.

Will I really need “help” dealing with Ryan? What in the world have I gotten myself into?

“Okay, well, I guess that’s it,” he says. “I’ll go get him. Make yourself comfortable, and I’ll be back in five minutes or so. Ten tops.”

“Okay.”

After he leaves, I walk over to the table and set my stuff down. I open my briefcase and take out my notebook and a couple of pens, which I arrange on the tabletop on top of the notebook.

There.

A moment later, I grab my phone from my bag and set it on top of the notebook. Here’s hoping Ryan will let me record our interviews. Actually, though, it’d probably be best to wait and not ask him right away.

I plan to ease into this project by starting in the present and working my way backwards. Today I will only talk to him about events that are a matter of public record like the Super Bowl wins, the MVP awards and stuff like that. Of course I’ll want to hear personal accounts of these events, and I wouldn’t be surprised if I encountered some resistance there, but it’s not like I’ll be digging into his mysterious past.

Not yet, anyway. Today is going to be easy.

At least I hope it will be.

I go back over to the closet and get myself a bottle of lemonade out of the fridge. After cracking it open and taking a long, sweet sip, I take a seat at the table, but before long, I’m up again. I can’t sit still.

Taking another sip of lemonade, I walk over to the window and peer outside. There’s another building out there. Is this training facility a complex? I thought it was just the one building.

I squint my eyes and try to focus on the two guys entering the building. Given the size of them—that pure, muscular bulk—I can tell they’re Vipers, but they’re not dressed in uniform. They’re both wearing jeans, tee shirts and sneakers, which makes sense, of course, because the team is done training for the day.

When Gina was explaining the terms of the contract to me, she made it clear that we’d have to work around Ryan’s schedule. The interviews would be taking place in the evening. I have absolutely no problem with this plan. It means I can sleep late and spend my mornings and afternoons writing. With any luck, I’ll have the book half written by the time I head back to the city next week.

The football players go into the building and I’m left to stare at nothing. I glance around the room, wondering what else I could be doing to ensure this meeting goes smoothly. But I can’t think of anything.

I take another sip of lemonade.

Where the hell is Johnny? It’s got to have been ten minutes by now. It occurs to me that my heart is pounding with a bit more force than usual and that my palms are a little sweaty.

Yuck. I hope Ryan doesn’t want to shake hands. How embarrassing would that be if he felt my sweaty palms?

Where are they?

I just want to get this introduction over with and start getting down to business.

After what seems like an eternity, I hear voices outside in the hallway. Finally! I consider taking a seat, but then I decide against it. I set my bottle of lemonade down on the table and turn towards the door with the biggest, brightest smile I can muster up.