Hearts in Overtime: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (8 page)

“How old was she?”

“Thirteen. Same as me. Anyway, a bunch of us were drinking whisky in this condemned building in the neighborhood. We started making out and decided to head down to the basement together. She was actually the one who took the initiative. She was the aggressor, if you will, and to be honest, she was pretty fucking aggressive. It took me a few years to realize it, but now when I look back on that time, it’s clear that she was a bit too sure of herself, considering how old she was. In other words, she knew exactly what she was doing, if you know what I mean.”

Thirteen
.

I can’t get over how young they were. When I was thirteen, I was still kissing the pictures of Leonardo DiCaprio that I’d cut out of magazines and pinned to the bulletin board on my bedroom wall. I can’t imagine having sex at that age, much less being an experienced, sexual initiator.

Doing my very best to appear open-minded, I ask Ryan a series of questions about his early teenage sex life (early teenage sex life!) which he answers without hesitation. He had three more partners in addition to Lindsay, but none of them ever achieved the title of his girlfriend. I wonder how many partners he had in high school. I can’t believe I didn’t ask him about it yesterday, but I guess it just didn’t register that he would have been sexually active back then because I certainly wasn’t.

I didn’t lose my virginity until I was in college. It amazes me how different my life experience has been from Ryan’s. I should have known he was having sex in high school, though. Unless he went through a really,
really
awkward stage back then, he was surely the hottest guy in school. No doubt the cheerleaders were all after him as well as everyone else.

Once we’ve exhausted the topic of his years with foster parents, Pam and Larry Alderman, I figure it’s time to back up a few more years.

Turning to a fresh page in my notebook, I say, “So, you moved in with the Aldermans not long after your thirteenth birthday…where were you before that?”

“I was living with a couple in one of Pittsburgh’s southern suburbs. Ivan and Betsy Murdoch.”

As I’m writing down their names, I ask, “And what were they like?”

I look up at Ryan with a smile.

But then my smile starts to fade when I take in the expression on his face. His forehead is furrowed and his eyes narrowed. He balls a hand into a fist and presses it to his lips. He’s clearly deep in though, but why? He rattled the foster parents’ names off quickly enough. Could it be that his memories of them are hazy and he’s trying to remember?

Somehow I don’t think it’s that simple. Something about the mention of Ivan and Betsy Murdoch has struck a nerve.

“Ryan, what’s wrong?”

His eyes widen when he looks back at me, and before I know what’s happening, he leans over, brushes my hair over my shoulders, leans in to plant his face right up to my neck and takes a big sniff.

“Um…hello,” I say with a nervous giggle.

“Are you wearing vanilla for perfume?” he asks.

How random is this?

“Um…no. Not just vanilla, but I think my perfume might have vanilla
in
it.”

He leans back in his chair with such force; it’s almost as if he’s recoiling. I can’t imagine what might have brought this on, and what the scent of vanilla might have to do with it. I hope, for Ryan’s sake, that I haven’t inadvertently brought back the memory of some horrific childhood experience with my choice of fragrance.

Ryan jumps to his feet and says, “I’m just going to the bathroom. I’ll be back.”

He’s out the door before I even get a chance to reply.

What the hell just happened?

Shit. I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to put two and two together. No wonder I find myself opening up to Charlotte like I am. She reminds me so much of Betsy Murdoch, it’s not even funny.

Betsy always smelled of vanilla. She was such an awesome baker. Not to sound too
Leave it to Beaver
or anything, but there always seemed to be something sweet baking in the oven whenever I got home from school.

I must have picked up on Charlotte’s scent right away and associated it with Betsy’s.
That’s
why I’ve taken such a liking to Charlotte. It’s some sort of chemical reaction. In my brain I’ve associated vanilla with Betsy and Betsy with kindness, so it makes sense that I also associate vanilla with kindness. Funny how it all works.

I have to admit, though, it’s not just Charlotte’s scent that reminds me of Betsy. They have a lot of similarities. Like Charlotte, Betsy had a little extra meat on her bones. I vividly remember being wrapped up tight in Betsy’s arms. Oh, man. She gave the best hugs ever.

She was from Tennessee, which is obviously nowhere near Wisconsin, but even so, I imagine their backgrounds were similar. Betsy grew up in a small town like Charlotte did. She came from a big family like Charlotte did.

So many similarities…

Not that Charlotte was an exact replica or Betsy or anything like that. Betsy was a brunette, while Charlotte is a redhead. Betsy was a devout Christian, and as far as I know, Charlotte isn’t really into religion. But as far as their mannerisms go, and their smiles, and their laughter and their kindness… Wow. Talk about two peas in a pod.

Anyway.

It was a shock at first, to see the incredible similarities between the two women, but I’ll get over it. It’s not that big of a deal, and certainly not worth hiding out in the bathroom over.

Of course if I’m really looking for a reason to hide out in the bathroom, I’ve got one. What the
fuck
was I thinking, spilling my guts in front of Charlotte like I did?

I don’t know what came over me. I’ve spent the past twenty years or so keeping my mouth shut, volunteering only the most basic information about myself, and only when I absolutely have to. So why the fuck did I spew each and every personal fucking detail about my life with Pam and Larry and Zach and the other kids in the past hour or so? What I did—what my dumb ass did—makes no sense whatsoever.

I revealed more to Charlotte in the past hour than I’ve ever revealed to anyone, ever, including the court-appointed shrink I was forced to see for six months as a part of my sentencing after the third assault charge. He was a decent guy, and I could tell he genuinely wanted to help, but in all that time I didn’t even come close to feeling as comfortable opening up to him as I do with Charlotte. This doesn’t make any sense to me. I don’t get it.

She’s just too damn easy to talk to. It didn’t even occur to me to decline to answer any one of her questions. It feels so natural to open up to her, and I’m still kind of reeling from the experience of having done so. And I hate to say it, but I’m freaking out a little about the possible repercussions.

I know I said I’d be frank with her, but that didn’t mean I was obligated to answer every single one of her questions. I could have held back. There was no reason for me to tell her about the drugs, about being in juvie, about losing my cherry with Lindsay. What was I thinking?

I really,
really
fucking hope Charlotte was being honest when she said she’d make sure I was okay with whatever she wrote because I’ve basically given her all the rope she needs to hang me with.

This is exactly what I was afraid of—that the only tales I’d be able to offer up about my childhood would be pathetic little sob stories. If she wanted to, Charlotte could go and whip up a book all about my sad, pitiful upbringing. Oh, I can see it now:

Forced to grow up too soon… Acting out as a cry for attention… Abandonment issues…

Fuck.

If it comes to this the whole world is going to feel sorry for me. I will no longer be seen as a force to be reckoned with on the football field. I’ll be a joke. I’ll be the NFL player with the psychological scars. What a nightmare.

Enough.

I need to go and do some damage control.

After splashing some cold water on my face, I go back to the interview room. Charlotte looks up at me with a cautious smile.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

Yeah, it’s already starting… She sees me as a victim—a sad, little bitch.

“I’m fine. Charlotte, we need to talk.”

“Okay…”

I sit down next to her and look her straight in the eye. “I shouldn’t have revealed so much information about my background. I know that’s why we’re here and everything, but I have to be very cautious about what I let people see, especially when it comes to journalists—or biographers, whatever.”

She nods. “I understand.”

“Good. Now, you see, I have an image that I’ve cultivated over the past few years, and it’s going to be shot to hell if it comes out that I had such a rough start in life. People will see me as a victim, Charlotte, and I can’t have that.”

She nods again, slowly. And I can tell by the look in her eyes, that she gets it. She gets me.

Exhaling heavily, she says, “No wonder you’ve been so resistant.”

“Exactly.”

Neither of us speaks for a moment. And then Charlotte cups her chin and says, “It’s not going to be easy, but I know I can figure out a way to spin it so that you come off as courageous rather than as a victim.”

“That’s a tall order,” I point out. “I’m sure you’re a good writer and everything, but unless you start fudging the facts, I’m pretty sure I’m going to come across as the Tiny fucking Tim of pro ball.”

She claps a hand over her mouth to stifle a laugh. She’s so fucking adorable. I grab that hand and bring it to my lips for a kiss.

“Trust me,” she says. “I’ll figure something out.”

I doubt that very much, but I feel no need to argue with her. I give her hand a squeeze and bring it back to her lap.

“In the meantime, is it okay if we just keep doing what we’ve been doing?” she asks. “It really is helpful for me to hear as many details from your life as you’re willing to offer. It’ll help when I’m piecing the story together.”

“All right.”

And this is an honest answer here. I intend to keep being candid with her, but I make a note not to spew out every single sordid detail from this point forward. They are pointless and unnecessary.

“Thanks, Ryan. Now, I’d like to hear more about your foster family before Pam and Larry.” She looks down at her notes. “The Murdochs. But before we get into that, can I ask what that thing with the vanilla was all about?”

I give her a wry smile.

“That was me overreacting. It’s stupid, but it was like this light bulb went on in my head when I realized you smelled like vanilla. Betsy Murdoch always smelled like vanilla, too, and it occurred to me that I’ve associated the two of you in my mind—and this association has been in place ever since we met, I think.”

“Is that a good thing?” she asks with hesitation in her eyes. “Is she a good person?”

Poor Charlotte. She probably thinks I’m going to have a fresh, new sob story to share with her. That couldn’t be further from the truth.

“She is—was. She was the greatest. But she died years ago.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry to hear that.”

“Yeah. Thanks.” I shrug.

“Tell me about her.”

Charlotte leans back in her chair to get comfortable, and I start telling her about Betsy and Ivan both. They were such a terrific couple. As grateful as I am to James Walker for pushing me to excel at football and for giving me all that encouragement and support, my years with the Murdochs were definitely my happiest. They were the sweetest, kindest, most caring people I’ve ever known.

“They had the craziest little dog. His name was Rocky, and he was a Horgi—a cross between a Corgi and a Husky. Yappy little guy, and he didn’t know the meaning of personal boundaries and personal space, but he had a huge heart. It was like he devoted his life to making others happy,” I say, smiling at the memory.

God, I miss that dog almost as much as I do Ivan and Betsy.

“Aww. I had a Husky when I was growing up,” Charlotte said.

Of course she did. Another freaky fucking coincidence.

“Her name was Eloise and she was the best. She was so patient with us kids! We used to dress her up, and not just for Halloween.”

I can’t help but laugh at the thought of little Charlotte playing dress up with that poor dog.

I share more details about the Murdochs, and even though I’m aware of my tendency to over-share with Charlotte, I feel no need to hold back. I willingly tell her about the ice fishing trips with Ivan, and I describe the way I used to roughhouse with Rocky on the floor of a warm, cinnamon-scented kitchen while Betsy mixed up one of her sweet treats. And I tell her about the science fair project on sharks that I created with Ivan’s help—it won me a first prize ribbon. And then there were my friends—a wholesome group of boys who did their homework without protest and said their prayers before going to sleep. During my years with the Murdochs, I was a Boy Scout. I’m not joking. I was a fucking Boy Scout.

I know this all sounds like a Norman fucking Rockwell painting come to life, and there’s a definite possibility that I’ve romanticized the memory of those years in my mind. Still, that doesn’t change the fact that they were the happiest.

After blabbering on about my life with the Murdochs for an hour or more, Charlotte asks the inevitable question that changes the tone of the conversation.

“So, what happened after your thirteenth birthday?” she asks. “How come you left Ivan and Betsy to go live with Pam and Larry?”

I give her a wry smile.

“You’ve got that backwards. I didn’t leave Ivan and Betsy. They left me.”

Oh, for fuck’s sake. The conversation had been going so well and I had to go and ruin it by throwing in a statement that positively screamed “sad little lonely boy”.

“What do you mean?” Charlotte asks.

“Car crash. Betsy died instantly, and Ivan gave up the fight after sixteen hours in intensive care. I was on a camping trip at the time.”

“Oh, Ryan.”

She reaches over to take my hand in both of her own, and she starts stroking it in the most loving kind of way.

“How awful. I’m so sorry.”

I nod. “Thanks, Charlotte, but it was a very long time ago.”

“I know, but…”

She looks so crushed. I draw my hand away from hers so I can drape my arm over her shoulder and pull her closer. She leans her head against my chest and I bury my face in her soft red curls. The citrus scent of her shampoo is the most prevalent, but I can detect the vanilla of her perfume as well, and also some kind of floral scent. Charlotte is like a walking mishmash of all the most delicious scents.

I smile.

This girl. She really makes me happy. Who’d have thought?

And talk about chemistry. I came so fucking hard yesterday, and it’s not just because of her amazing skills when it comes to oral. It was deeper than that. I haven’t felt such an intense physical connection with any other woman for as long as I can remember.

Part of me obviously wants to initiate things again. I want to be inside of her. I want that so bad. I want us to come at the same time. I want to share that with her.

But…

And I know I’m going to sound like a pansy ass little bitch here, but…

I’m fucking exhausted. A normal day of intensive training will pretty much wreck a guy, and when you add a couple hours of talking about childhood trauma, well…it makes me crave sleep more than anything else—more than sex, even.

Man, that sounds pathetic.

Charlotte exhales a soft little sigh, and I can’t help but smile. She’s such a treasure. I want to plan something really nice for us the next time we hook up. I don’t want us just to start fucking here in this meeting room after a long ass and somewhat emotional interview.

And then it his me.

I kiss the top of her head and then pull slightly back.

“Hey, Charlotte, I have an idea.”

“Do you?” She smiles.

“I do. After I’m done with training tomorrow, I’m done for the week. They don’t make us train on the weekends. So anyway, a couple other guys and I went in on an oceanfront house in Amagansett. I’m pretty sure neither one of them is planning on going up this weekend. Why don’t you and I go? Think about it: two days and two nights for us to enjoy the smell of the sea and the sound of the surf as we get to know each other better.”

I arch an eyebrow in the hopes of conveying exactly how I intend to get to know her better.

“Oh, it does sound amazing, but Amagansett?” She cocks her head, looking confused.

“What’s wrong with Amagansett?”

“Isn’t it a bit far?”

I frown. “Um, no. It’s only fifty miles or so. We could be there in less than an hour.”