Hearts in Overtime: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (7 page)

I can’t help but laugh, too. “Thanks, lady. I certainly will.”

After we get off the phone, I ask myself if Tracy was right. Was a part of me developing real feelings for Ryan?

No.

No way.

Just because I think he’s a decent guy (as opposed to the insufferable asshole I thought he was when we first met) doesn’t mean I’m falling in love with him.

Not a chance.

I’m just excited about the promise of more sexy escapades. That’s all.

It’s only 9:00 in the morning, but you can already tell it’s going to be a scorcher of a day. No doubt we’ll be heading inside soon. Right now, though, we’re out in the field, and Coach is having us practice the fumble-recovery drill.

I’m stretching out my left hamstring when Alex Harmon, one of the team’s wide receivers, gives me a nudge in the ribcage.

“Hey, I saw that writer chick come into the building yesterday evening. The tits on her… Lord have mercy.” He shakes his head with a laugh.

Oh, fuck. I really do not want to be having this conversation.

“Yeah, I saw her too,” says offensive tackle, Derek Adams. “Spectacular tits, but no way are they real.”

Oh, they’re real, all right. Shit, Charlotte’s tits… spectacular doesn’t even begin to describe how amazing they are. They’re so big that not even
my
hands can fully contain them—and considering that my stats are 6’4/215—my hands are pretty fucking big compared to most guys.

It’s on the tip of my tongue to inform the Alex and Derek that Charlotte’s tits are most definitely real, but something keeps me from speaking up. Normally I don’t shy away from sharing details of my sexual conquests with the guys, but for whatever reason, I’m not in the mood today.

“You don’t have the first idea what you’re talking about, dude,” Alex says to Derek. “I guarantee the chick’s tits are real. You’re just used to being with skinny ass bitches with silicone tits. This writer chick is no skinny bitch and she has the booty to match. Her tits are obviously real.”

“Maybe.” Derek shrugs.

I feel a pang of guilt as I join the guys in their laughter.

“Well, there’s one sure way to find out,” Derek says, turning to me. “Are you going to tap that or what?”

Oh, fuck. I should have seen this coming. No way will I cop to what happened in the meeting room yesterday. I don’t want them talking shit about Charlotte. I’m not entirely sure why I feel the need to protect her rep. Maybe it’s because she seems like such a wholesome kind of girl with her wide, gleaming smile and that cute little hint of a Wisconsin accent in her speech. Oh, and the fact that she asked if my foster family was “nice.”

On the other hand, I don’t want to deny wanting to tap that because I can’t stand the idea that this would bring on a debate about how fuckable Charlotte is.

Shit. I have to say something, though.

“Bitch, please. Like I have the energy. You try sitting there in a stale old meeting room, talking about your fucking childhood for three or four hours after a strenuous day of training and see if you feel like tapping that.”

Both Derek and Alex throw their heads back in laughter at my expense, which is exactly the reaction I was going for. As long as I got the focus off Charlotte, I’m happy. They can give me as much shit as they want for being a lame, old, a loser. Whatever.

“Jesus, Blake. You must have one foot in the grave,” Alex manages to say through his laughter.

“If I ever get to the point where I’m too tired for sex, promise you’ll take me out into the field and shoot me,” Derek says.

“Fuck off, Junior.” I give twenty-four year old Derek a swift punch in the arm, aiming my fist just below his shoulder padding. All in good fun.

“Anderson!” Coach O’Neil blows his whistle and signals for his assistant to come join him on the field. “Williams and McAllister both need a lot more practice with fumble-recovery. Keep throwing it until they get it right.”

Coach tosses Anderson the ball and then strolls over to join Derek, Alex and me. “What the hell are you three hens cackling about?”

“Blake was just telling us how he’s too tired to tap that luscious honey who’s been coming by to interview him for his book,” Alex says. “I think you’d better check his pulse, make sure he’s still breathing.”

“For real,” Derek says, holding up a hand to Alex.

Alex slaps him five and the two of them start laughing again. What a couple of dumbasses.

Coach, however, doesn’t even crack a smile.

“Well, Blake’s a smart guy.”

Huh? It’s always good to hear nice things said about you, but…huh?

The guys quit their cackling and all three of us stare at Coach, wondering what he could have meant by that.

“I’m glad you’re not considering getting involved with your biographer, because that would be a very, very bad idea,” he says to me. “Even if it’s just a casual fling, the repercussions could potentially be epic.”

“What the hell are you talking about, Coach? Why shouldn’t Blake get it on with this chick?” Derek asks.

Coach turns to him. “Think about it, Adams. This biographer is like a vessel through which all the private, personal details of Blake’s life before football are going to be presented to the world. If he pisses her off in any way, she has ample opportunity to ruin his reputation and ultimately his career.”

Oh,
fuck
.

I feel my stomach drop down to my pelvis.

“Wait, I thought Bruce is the one who hired this chick to write the book in some elaborate PR move,” Alex said. “Doesn’t that mean she has to pump Blake up, tell the world how awesome is?”

“Yes, but there are plenty of ways she could get her jabs in by writing in between the lines, so to speak. Writers can be tricky fuckers. Best to stay on her good side.” He turns to me. “And out of her panties.”

“Duly noted.”

“Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” he reminds me.

“I know. I got it.”

Coach gives me a smile and a nod, and then he heads back to reclaim the ball from Anderson.

“All right, Brewster, Thompson, you’re up!”

Fucking shit, fucking fuck. I wish Coach had cautioned me against getting involved with Charlotte before I actually did. I didn’t want to ask Coach, didn’t want to cast any doubt on my “smart” choice, but does this book contract Charlotte signed include a gag clause? If not, she is perfectly within her rights to badmouth me all she wants in other forms of media by giving interviews or whatever.

Oh, I can see it now. Headlines screaming shit like, “Blake Biographer Reveals All: NFL Superstar is…” I don’t want to even contemplate the end of that sentence. A Misogynistic Asshole? A Stubborn, Petulant Man Child? Bad in Bed?

What have I done? Why have I left myself open to an attack? What the fuck is wrong with me?

After taking a few deep breaths—taking care to be discreet so as not to tip off the guys that I’m agitated—I feel myself starting to calm down a bit. I know I don’t know Charlotte that well, but still. The truth is I really can’t see her exacting revenge on me by destroying my career.

And very idea that she would want to depends on me doing something so awful that it’d drive her to retaliate in some way. I have no intention of doing anything bad to her or causing any pain. Why would I want to? She’s a great girl.

Then again, it’s not like I’ve ever intentionally set out to hurt a girl. But there’s no denying that I have. In fact, I’ve probably done it enough times that my ex-girlfriends’ recounts of how I broke their hearts could fill an entire book.

Shit. I don’t know what to think.

Well, it’s a little too late now to cry about what I hate to admit was a mistake. I shouldn’t have hooked up with Charlotte, but I did so there you go. From now on I’m going to have to remember two very important things.

One: Charlotte is a sweet girl and in reality she’s probably not going to want to rake me over the coals and execute me in the Court of Public Opinion. I mean, come on. The girl looks like she knows how to bake a fucking apple pie!

Two: Under no circumstances can I do anything—
anything
—to piss her off.

If I can remember these two things, hopefully I’ll be able to get through this whole fucking nightmare with my sanity intact.

It’s scary how excited I am to see Ryan again. I got here five minutes ahead of the time we’re scheduled to meet. Same as yesterday, same as the day before and the day before that. But unlike the previous days, the minutes are positively crawling by and it’s driving me up a wall.

Uh oh. Could Tracy be right? Could I actually be developing real, romantic feelings for Ryan Blake?

No. No way. The instant that thought pops into my head, I fling it right back out. I’m not crazy enough to truly fall for Ryan. Yeah, I’ll admit that I’m excited to see him again, but I’m pretty sure it’s nothing more than a physical thing. My body is still tingling from that magnificent orgasm he gave me yesterday. It’s only natural that I’d be anticipating his arrival with such intensity. It’s probably just a basic, biological response. Nothing to be worried about.

I hear the elevator doors open down the hall, and I try to ignore my quickening heart rate.

It’s just a primitive sexual response. Nothing to fret over.

“Hi!”

I greet him with a buoyant cheerfulness that makes me groan inwardly. Why can’t I be cool? Why?

“Hey.”

And with that one word, my spirits sink down to the ground. Ryan looks tired and irritated, and he definitely does not look excited to see me. Oh my god. He regrets what happened between us yesterday. That much is obvious.

I am
such
an idiot. What could I have been thinking? And how am I going to get through the rest of my interviews with him without wanting to slit my own throat?

I glance down at the table. Anything to avoid Ryan’s weary gaze.

“Hey,” he says again, reaching for my hand.

I look up to find that his gaze isn’t at all weary. It’s more curious than anything, but if I’m not mistaken it’s also a bit concerned.

“Sorry.” He gives my hand a squeeze. “I’m wrecked. It’s been a long ass day. But it’s good to see you.”

And I can breathe again…

This is bad. I should not be letting Ryan Blake’s moods determine my own.

“It’s good to see you, too.”

He slides his arms around me, and I nestle up against him, feeling my tension start to ebb. I lay my head against his rock hard chest, marveling at how muscular he is. I wonder what it would like to be so strong and so powerful.

Ryan reaches down to lift my chin. I comply and when our lips meet, I can’t even remember what I was worried about earlier. I wind my arms up his chest and around his neck, stroking his ink black hair, still damp from his shower. He reaches down to caress my ass and my heart goes into overdrive. But when I feel his cock stirring against my pelvis, I start pumping the brakes. We can’t let ourselves get carried away. Not yet, anyway.

Pulling slowly away from him, I say, “We really shouldn’t.”

He groans.

“I know,” I tell him. “Believe me, I know, but we have work to do.”

“Yeah, you’re right.”

He leans forward to give me a sweet, lingering peck on the lips, and then he pulls away and takes a seat at the table. I sit down next to him.

God, he’s beautiful. His lips are wet and shiny from kissing me. It’s almost impossible not to climb up into his lap and start going to town. Oh, how desperately I need his hands to be on me…

All right, that’s enough. We really do have work to do.

I clear my throat and say, “Okay, so I’ve been thinking about how we might handle the issues you raised yesterday.”

“The ‘issues’ I raised, huh?” he says with a mischievous smile and the arch of an eyebrow. “You’re more than welcome to ‘handle the issues’ again today if you’d like.”

I give him a playful slap on the arm.

“That wasn’t a euphemism. I’m talking about how you mentioned there are certain people from your past who might come after you, looking for handouts if they find out who you are.”

“Right.” He nods.

“I’m sure I can manage to find a way to be forthright and still protect your identity. As long as the book doesn’t include any specific people or places, we should be okay. We could always use fake names and locations if need be. Of course that would have to be stated in the foreword, but that’s no problem.”

He doesn’t seem to find what I say the least bit reassuring. His brow is furrowed and he reaches back to rub the muscles at the back of his neck.

“Listen, Ryan, I want you to know you can trust me. I want you to feel completely comfortable with what we end up putting out there. When I finish writing the book up, I’ll send it to you before I send it to my editor, and I want you to let me know if there’s anything in the text that raises a concern. Okay?”

“Okay,” he says, placing his big, strong hand on my knee and giving it a squeeze. “Thanks, babe. I appreciate that.”

“My pleasure.”

As much as I hate to do it, I know I must. I slide my hand under Ryan’s, lift it up off my knee and place it in his lap. It pains me to do so, but we’ve got to stay focused or we’ll never get anything done.

“That being said, it would make things so much easier if you could be direct with me. Specific. I promise I’ll cover up anything you want to keep covered up in the final version of the book, but in order for things to be manageable, I really want you to be open with me. Do you think you can do that?”

He stares at me for a long moment without saying anything, and then he exhales a deep breath. Still, he doesn’t answer. It pains me to think that he doesn’t trust me. Does he really think I intend to expose his past against his will? Why would I do such a thing?

Maybe he doesn’t think that at all. How would I know? I decide to move the conversation along as if he’d agreed to be open and direct with me.

“So I was thinking today we’d go back another four years. I got all kinds of great material yesterday that I know I can work with. I’d love to keep doing what we’re doing—working backwards as we are. How does that sound?”

I’m taken aback by the sheer panic that flashes through his eyes. I only catch a quick glimpse, though, because he looks down into his lap for a moment, and when he meets my gaze again, he appears perfectly calm and collected.

What was that all about? What in the world is this guy hiding?

“Four years,” he says. “That’s fine.”

Okay…

“And you’ll use the actual names of people and places?” I ask.

He hesitates, glancing away for a moment.

“I’ll obscure any details that need to be obscured,” I remind him. “And that’s a promise.”

“Yeah, all right,” he says finally.

“Good. Thank you, Ryan.”

He shrugs.

“Okay.” I set my phone to record and open my notebook to glance over the last of the notes I took yesterday. “We’ll be discussing the years that you were ages ten to fourteen.”

Shaking his head, he gives me a scolding look. “I believe that would be five years, not four.”

“What? No.”

I count it out, and as it turns out he’s right. He gives me a smug smile, earning himself another playful smack from me.

“Fine. Eleven to fourteen,” I say, finding it impossible to keep a straight face. “Now, when we left off yesterday, you were living with the family on the north side of Pittsburgh. When did you first go to live with them?”

“I was twelve, I think. No, wait. I was thirteen. It was right after my thirteenth birthday.”

“Can you really quickly tell me the parents’ names and the names of the other foster kids?”

“Sure. The parents’ names were Pam and Larry Alderman. There was a kid called Zach who was one year older than me. Charlene was younger—probably nine or ten. Brenda was younger than her. Maybe eight? Seven? And there was a little boy who was about five or so. I don’t remember his name. Shit. I can’t believe I can’t remember his name. Anyway, that was everyone, I think.”

“Great. Thank you,” I tell him as I hurry to jot the names down.

Having the information down in print is the only way I’m going to be able to keep track of everyone during the interview.

“No problem.”

“Okay.” I look up at him with a smile once I’ve got the information recorded. “Tell me about the Aldermans. What was Pam like?”

“Oh, man,” he says with a groan, shaking his head. “She was a fucking bitch.”

“Was she?”

“Yeah. Normally she didn’t have anything to do with us, but if somebody got caught misbehaving, she was only too happy to enforce the punishment. Usually it meant becoming her personal slave for however long. She’d have whatever kid was in trouble at the time doing
all
the cooking and cleaning for the household including the really strenuous jobs, and also waiting on her hand and foot. She’d make us run her bath, brush her hair, massage her feet… She had the grossest feet. She kept her toenails really long so she could decorate them with elaborate decals and paint or some shit. I’ve had a phobia of women with long toenails ever since.”

He laughs, but I can’t bring myself to join in. The idea of a grown woman forcing her foster children to brush her hair and massage her feet sounds to me like a serious red flag. I take a moment to figure out how to phrase my question delicately. Unable to come up with one, I decide to be direct.

“Did she cross any lines? Did she behave inappropriately with you or any of the other kids?”

He doesn’t seem at all shocked by my question.

Shaking his head, he says, “No, Pam didn’t molest any of us. She was just vain and selfish. And cold. I didn’t give a shit about that, but it was pretty hard to watch her with the little ones sometimes.”

“How so?”

He sighs. “Well, the little boy was starved for affection—you know, because he was little. He’d follow Pam around like a lost puppy but she couldn’t be bothered. Brenda was older, but she was
so
clingy. I’m sure there’s some kind of psychological term to describe what she had. She was always so desperate to please—Pam, Larry, even the rest of us kids—always doing nice things for us, and nobody except for Charlene ever gave her the appreciation she deserved. That’s one of my regrets. I wish I’d been nicer to Brenda,” he said, turning to gaze out the window.

After a moment he spoke again. “I hope she’s doing okay now, but I’d be very surprised if she is. She had ‘future battered woman’ written all over her.”

Yikes. How awful. I really hope he’s wrong about that.

“Are you still in touch with any of them?” I ask.

He shakes his head. “I kept in touch with Zach, but then he got himself killed a couple years later.”

“Oh my god,” I murmur. “How?”

“Knife fight.” He shrugs. “Yeah, I was pretty upset. He was my best friend for a lot of those years.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Yeah.” After a few moments, his lips quirk up into a wistful smile and he says, “James drove me into the city to attend Zach’s funeral. Let me take the day off of school and everything.”

“James the Catholic foster dad?”

“That’s the one.”

A silence follows, and I really want to scoot closer to Ryan. I want to wrap an arm around his shoulder and give him a sympathetic kiss on the cheek, but I’m pretty sure that would only annoy him. He’s doing a standout job describing all this heavy, super emotional stuff in a straightforward, impassive kind of way. It’s probably a defense mechanism of sorts. In any case, I know I need to let him do this his own way.

That doesn’t mean I can’t ask the probing questions.

“Tell me about Zach. What did the two of you do together?”

“Oh, man.” He shakes his head with a smile. “We were pretty bad, constantly getting into shit we shouldn’t have been.”

“Like what?”

“What do you think? Vandalism, property damage, stealing, stuff like that. I’ve got a hell of a juvenile record.”

“And you were thirteen years old when all this started?” I ask, my eyes wide and unblinking.

“Sure.” He shrugs.

Thirteen.

“Okay.” I take a moment to let that sink in. “Did you also… Did you drink alcohol?”

“You’d better believe it.”

“Did you smoke?”

“Sure. Both tobacco and weed.”

“Other drugs?”

“Yeah, some. Mostly oxy and vicodin or other prescription drugs. A couple of times, acid—LSD.”

I’m almost afraid to ask this next question, but I know I have to.

“Sex?”

“Not a lot, but some. Yeah.”

“Starting when?”

“I was thirteen the first time.”

“
Thirteen
?”

“Yes, thirteen.” He gives me a disapproving look. “Don’t judge. Not everyone grew up in Mayberry.”

“I’m sorry.” I glance down, thoroughly abashed. When I look back up again, I ask, “Will you tell me about your first time?”

“I guess. The girl’s name was Lindsay. She lived two streets over from us, and she was cute. She had amazing tits for a girl her age.”