Fastball (Wilde Players Dirty Romance) (24 page)

Her quiet words lingered as she urged me to follow her into the living room to sit on the sofa. I guessed then that what she had to say wasn't about us taking things to the next level. What did that matter anyway? I'd waited that long. I could wait a little longer. It wasn't like we hadn't done everything else. She just wasn't ready for me to take her virginity yet. I could respect that. So I followed her in the room and sat next to her.

“What's wrong?” I asked.

“It's about last night.”

Was she finally fed up with the occasional time I couldn't go out because I had to take care of Dad?

“I shouldn't have left you,” I said, stumbling over my words, heavy with anger for my life and wary about what she had to say. “But I didn't have a choice.”

“I know,” she said, finally meeting my eyes. A tear streamed from her face and it wasn't often she cried. My heart started to shred because damn if I lost my girl over Dad's inability to keep his shit together. “That's not the problem.”

“Then what is?”

She licked her lips, which should have been hot as hell, but right then she looked more like a scared cat. Her hands pulled free from mine. I didn't know I'd reached for them. Touching her was second nature and calmed me when my world was sideways.

“Last night,” she began. Again, she licked her lips and her eyes darted from mine. She scooted away and shit was definitely bad. “After you left, I got baited into drinking more than I wanted to.”

I sat straighter, not liking where this story was going. We had a rule not to drink too much when either of us wasn't around. We were like each other's designated compass or some shit like that, her idea.

A steady flood started pouring from her eyes and only increased, making her words garble together. Something about the guy's house we were at last night and his brother were mixed in.

“What?” I said, not sure I heard her correctly.

“He tried to hit on me last year. I told him I was with you.”

My mouth was suddenly dry and I took the opportunity to lick my own lips.

“I never acted on anything until last night. I was drunk, and he said all the right things. Like why weren't you there? And how I must not be important to you.”

Moving back in my seat, I put more distance between us like she was a train headed straight for me.

“What did you do?” I asked, quietly.

Please say you just kissed him. I could forgive that.

“We had sex.”

The breath was stolen from my lungs as if someone reached their hand down my throat and snatched all the air. Jumping to my feet, I pressed my fist to my eyes as if I could unsee that fucking visual that conjured in my brain.

“You fucked him?”

The words spit from my mouth as I watched her flinch. She nodded, and damn me if I didn't see the remorse in her eyes. Too fucking bad.

“I waited four fucking years for you to be ready.” Not quite, but exactness didn't matter in that moment. “And you gave it up to some guy you barely know.”

She stood and moved toward me, but I matched her step for step in the opposite direction.

“I didn't mean to.”

“What the fuck?” Apparently, that curse word was my go-to in moments of pure rage. “You didn't mean to. What? Did you slip and fall on his dick?”

She jerked from the stabbing pain I inflicted with my words.

I half laughed. “I can't believe this shit. I've never slept with any girl…EVER! I've waited for you and I fucking had plenty of opportunities.”

Surprise lit her face, but I didn't care. I never told her out of respect, out of love. But right then, she was out of time.

“Chance,” she cried out.

Her sobs had snot bubbles bursting from her nose. Once I might have ignored how ugly she looked to me in that moment because she'd been my girl, but not anymore. The box in my pocket burned a hole in my pants as if I could feel it next to my skin. Part of me wanted to throw it. My luck it would take out her eye. And even though I wasn't feeling particularly happy toward her, I didn't want to hurt her like she'd crushed me, which was why I turned to leave.

I saw something in her face, something cruel before I headed for the door.

“It's not like things could have lasted. We are going to different schools next year,” she said, not sounding as remorseful as she had seconds before.

True, we weren't heading to the same college. And if memory served, the guy's brother she'd banged went to the school she'd be attending next year. Good riddance to them both.

“You could have told me that before you wasted my time.”

With every step away from her, my heart iced over. My mother hadn't given a shit about me. Lindsey didn't either, playing me for a fool. I wouldn't give another woman my heart, ever.

And finally, if you haven’t read
Sidelined
, the first book in the Wilde Players Dirty Romance Series, here’s a little look at it.

by A.M. Hargrove & Terri E. Laine

Fletcher

Gray skies and snow flurries greet me as I reach for the handle to exit my old truck. “Boomer, Brady, you fellas stay. You hear me?” Two sets of sad eyes and two wet black noses crowd me by the door. It's a miracle we all fit in the front seat. I can't figure out how my dad does it. When I was getting ready to drive into town, no sooner had I opened the truck door and they jumped inside. No amount of coaxing would get them out.

After I park and open the door, Boomer tries to nudge his way out. “Boomer, stay. I'm running across the street to buy you some food, you doofus. You eat like a horse.” Brady, Boomer's best friend, doesn't like that, so he lets out a yap, and then both of them are making such a ruckus, everyone on the street stares at us.

“Would you guys keep it down? I'll be right back.” Pushing Boomer's large furry face back inside, I close the door and lean on the truck for a second. You'd have thought my dad would have stocked the house with at least more than one day's worth of food for his ravenous pups. But no. Here I am, six thirty at night, running out to buy them more chow.

I navigate the slippery streets while taking a glance or two back at the yipping dogs in my truck. This should be a quick trip, I think to myself.

Twenty-five seconds. That's all it should've taken me to cross the street and get inside. Maybe not even that. In the time it takes to huddle, get set up, and snap a ball, squealing tires and the roar of an engine change everything. Glancing in the direction of the sound, I see headlights barreling down on me a second too late. I feel like I'm stuck in the mud, my feet cemented to concrete slabs, as I'm blinded by the beams.

Pain explodes in my leg before gravity is no longer a factor, and I'm flying like fucking Superman. Instead of being straight, I'm flipping end over end, before I slam back down to earth-or rather a car-as my shoulder, or as my agent would say, my million-dollar-throwing arm, connects with the windshield. Something cracks. And then for seconds, minutes, hours-there's nothing. I have no idea until I blink because the sound of people yelling from somewhere off in the distance pulls me back. Apparently, after that last hit, I tumbled off the car and slammed into the street.

No one has to tell me this is bad or that my right arm is completely fucked. In twenty-five seconds, my entire life is altered, ripped away, and reconstructed into something I'd never expected, didn't plan for, and certainly didn't want. And worse, the shouts increase as the motherfucker that hit me reverses with spinning tires before he peels off like Dale Earnhardt, Jr. And how I remain conscious and can recall this with brutal clarity, I have no damn idea.

Lightning strikes every nerve ending in my body, igniting it with fire. I know pain more than I care to admit. As the starting quarterback for the Oklahoma Rockets, I deal with it nearly every day. But this is an entirely new level. I can't begin to pinpoint its origination because it's coming from every-fucking-where. I feel like the guy at the bottom of the pile holding the ball everyone's scrambling to get.

In the distance, there are shouts to call 911. Not much later, I can hear sirens in the distance. But not for long. Everything dims, and the next thing I recall is waking up in the hospital with my Aunt Shelly staring at me.

“What's …?” I try to say, but my throat scratches like sandpaper.

“Fletcher, honey, you're awake. Do you know what happened?” When I only groan, she adds, “You got hit by a car and are in the hospital. But you're going to be fine. The doctor will be here shortly.”

Fine. That's easy for her to say because I don't feel fine at all.

“Did you drive here all the way from Raleigh?” Which was a dumb question because, of course, she did.

“Yes, and I should call your parents.”

“Don't,” I grumble.

“They should know,” she protests.

“I'm not a child. I'm here to watch their house while they're on a much needed long vacation. Besides, they need to spend time with my brother, which they rarely have the opportunity to do. No need to worry them.”

She sighs and opens her mouth to gripe at me some more. But as if she's conjured him, the doctor strides in, and then I wish he hadn't. He's not exactly smiling when he enters.

“Mr. Wilde, I'm Dr. Logan, and I have good news and bad. The best is that you are alive.” I huff because I don't exactly believe him, not if he says what I'm expecting to hear. “And you're lucky that your head, neck, and spine were spared. You'll have no lasting effects from the accident. You're going to feel pretty sore for a while, though, because you took a definite beating. However …”

And I know the shit ain't good, like the view of a three hundred fifty pound lineman barreling down on me just as I'm about to throw the ball. The way the doctor's eyes pull down tells me more than what I'm prepared to hear.

“You sustained a very severe shoulder separation that will require surgery, along with an ACL tear that we'll have to repair. We need to wait for the swelling to subside before we do anything, though. We can do that here, or you can elect to have it done by a surgeon of your choice. But I wouldn't suggest waiting. It can be done here in a week or so. We'll send you home tomorrow, and you can come back for the other procedure. It'll be outpatient. And because I know who you are… I'm afraid it's probable that you will be out for most, if not all, of the coming season.”

Fuck me. Football is my life, my reason for being. I can't imagine sitting on the sidelines just as my career is really taking off. And what the hell am I going to tell my agent, coach, manager, the president, and owner of my team? Hey, guess what? Your QB got hit by a car while buying dog food. Then I start laughing. Of all the things in my contract that I can't do, such as snow skiing, riding a scooter, a dirt bike, or mountain biking, one of the things they forgot to add was crossing the street to buy fucking dog food.

“Fletcher, are you okay?”

I want to say what in the fucking hell do you think? Instead, I shake my head and say, “I'll survive.”

Aunt Shelly pats my good arm and says, “Don't worry, kiddo. It's only one season, and you'll be back better than ever.”

“Yeah,” I say, swallowing my bitterness. What they don't know is this is my contract year. If I sit out, I'll get royally screwed right up the ol' ass. And all because of a bag of fucking dog food.

“Mr. Wilde, now that you're awake, the police are here to ask you a few questions. They've been waiting.”

“Police?”

“Yes,” the doctor answers. “Since you were hit by a car, and the driver left the scene, it's considered a felony.”

“I see.”

The doctor stands there and stares. Then it registers that he's waiting for me to give my permission. “Yeah, fine. They can come in.”

He opens the door, and a couple of guys in uniform shuffle in. They tell me how sorry they are about the accident and then ask me what I remember. Closing my eyes, I give them my twenty-five second replay of the ugly scene. All of the important facts, such as the make of the car, the color, and the license plate number are nonexistent in my mind. Basically, I'm no help whatsoever. After shaking my left hand, they leave.

As time passes, it doesn't take long for everyone to see that I'm a dick-a fucking assface and a terrible overall patient. After Aunt Shelly gets me back home, it only takes a day for her not to want to put up with my sorry ass anymore and ends up firing herself as my nurse. She hightails it back to Raleigh and her family once she hires someone to take over for her.

Now I have Rita, a tiny woman who could fit inside a shoebox, taking care of me. And I'm six and a half feet tall. Not to mention that woman is a saint. I don't know how she puts up with my jackhole moods, but she does. I'm cranky and foul-tempered as I struggle with needing someone else's help.

“No, Mr. Fletcher, you mustn't-” she wags a finger at me when I try to get out of bed the day after my surgery.

She must be deaf, because she never flinches when my foul mouth runs off as I get back in bed hating life. I think it's the dogs she stays for. She probably feels sorry for Boomer and Brady. And weeks later, during my recovery, it's easy to see the bond the three have formed. Won't they be sad tomorrow when she's gone? It's her last day since I'll be cleared to drive. After my ACL repair and recovery, I'm finally ready to begin physical therapy.

Rita scares me. One afternoon she threatened if I threw any more plates on the floor she would beat me with the broom she was holding. That shut me up real fast. Now she's driving me to my PT session, and that frightens me even more. Her speedy turns that feel like we are tipping on two-wheels have me pressing my imaginary brake, wondering if we'll make it there alive.

“Where'd you learn to drive again?” I ask for the millionth time.

“Why?” She looks innocent.

“You're scary. You'd make a fighter pilot sweat bullets.”

“Good. I hope you sweat a lot.”

That was the extent of our conversation. I'm sure she's had more than her fill of me already, too.

Now I just keep my mouth shut and eyes closed, praying we'll make it to my destination in one piece.