Hearts in Overtime: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (12 page)

This sucks.

I know I should focus on how fortunate I am to have experienced a sexy weekend in a beautiful house on the beach with the hottest man in the universe—a professional athlete, a superstar for heaven’s sake—but I can’t help but feel sad. I hate that it’s already over.

And now we’re heading back down the Long Island Express along with all the other weekend warriors on their way back to NYC. Ryan reaches for my hand and gives it a squeeze. We exchange a smile, and I utter a silent sigh.

Wow.

So many things have happened in the past forty-eight hours. I don’t even know where to begin processing them. Maybe the insane amount of sex I’ve just had would be a good place to start. Let me just say: eleven times. Eleven times! Never in my entire life have I done it eleven times in two days, not even when I was in college and everyone had energy out the ears.

I wonder if it’s Ryan’s endurance and skill as a professional athlete that gives him the stamina he needs to have so much sex. If so, I say hats off to the coaches and the fans and foster dad James and anyone else who might be responsible for making Ryan the man he is today.

Unfortunately, he’s a man I am now head over heels in love with. I tried to keep my emotions out of it. I tried to think of this weekend as nothing more than a sexual extravaganza, but I failed miserably.

I blame Ryan. How am I supposed to keep from imagining there’s something between us when he’s acting so freakin’ sweet? Like when he lathered up a handful of shampoo and washed my hair gently and thoroughly this morning when we were in the shower together. Or even when I said something funny or nice or whatever and he would give me a smile or a kiss or even just a look that made my spirits soar.

It’s really, really hard not to think of him like I would a boyfriend because he’s behaving like a boyfriend would. I’m sure he doesn’t mean to be, but he’s doing it, all the same.

Anyway…so it’s probably no big surprise that I’m dreaming up some kind of romantic connection forming between the two of us.

I can’t believe how different Ryan is from the guy I first met last Monday. He was such a nightmare! Such an asshole. That’s not the case anymore even though he has uttered a couple of things over the weekend that I haven’t been okay with. At one point he was ranting about fellow Viper Todd Weston, and he spoke about the guy with such vehemence, it was a tad troubling. Also, he made a couple of rude and possibly misogynistic comments about his teammates’ wives and girlfriends that didn’t set well with me. Even so, the Ryan I now know bears little resemblance to the guy I met on Monday.

Of course part of this has to be due to the fact that I’ve held up my end of our agreement. I haven’t asked him one single thing about the past he so desperately guards. I haven’t even tried.

Will he clam up again when we resume the interview process tomorrow evening? Will he turn back into the angry, guarded guy who’s full of resentment or will he open up more freely now that we’ve had this amazing weekend together?

It’ll be interesting to see how it all unfolds.

After pulling off the expressway, Ryan turns to me and says, “Are you sure I can’t convince you to spend the night with me at the residence hall?”

“No. Thank you, though.”

“You sure? It’s really nice. And I’d love to have the company.”

It is so,
so
tempting to accept his offer. I would love nothing more than to spend the night with him, to wake up next to him, to have more sex with him. Obviously I’d love that, but the more time I spend with him, the harder it’s going to be when I go back to Brooklyn. And the way things are going, that’s likely to be two or three days from now. I’ve already gotten twenty years of Ryan Blake’s history. There are only ten years left, and somehow I doubt it’ll take more than a day or two to get through his early childhood. Not a lot happens in the first ten years of a person’s life apart from ordinary childhood development.

I could be wrong, of course. I still don’t know how Ryan ended up in the foster system in the first place, and what the deal is with his parents. But even so, I’m pretty sure our time together is drawing to a close.

The thought of it breaks my heart. And I know the pain of leaving him will only be worse if I accept his offer to spend the night.

I think this calls for a little humor to keep the mood light.

“I’d love to stay with you, Ryan, but you know as well as I do that neither one of us would get any sleep, and we can’t have that. You’ve got a busy day of training ahead of you, and I’ve got a ton of notes to sort through and organize.”

He scowls, but then his lips spread out into a smile, and he lets the matter go. Thank goodness.

He pulls into the parking spot in front of my motel room and jumps out of the SUV to retrieve my bag from the trunk. I get out and by the time I join him, he’s already got my suitcase on the ground. He turns to me with a tender smile and reaches over to hook a lock of hair behind my ear.

“Thanks for joining me this weekend, Charlotte. I had such an amazing time with you.”

I run my hand slowly down his arm and give his hand a squeeze.

“Thank
you
for inviting me, Ryan. I loved every second of it.”

He wraps his strong, powerful arms around me and leans in for a kiss that has my toes tingling in no time at all. The chemistry between the two of us is off the charts. Insane. I briefly consider inviting him into the motel room for one last roll between the sheets before parting for the evening, but I know better than that.

He wouldn’t leave. We’d spend the night together and I would only end up growing more invested in my imaginary relationship. As much fun as I’m sure it’d be, I would be worse off in the end if I asked him to stay.

And so I don’t.

When we pull apart, I give his hand another squeeze and say, “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“See you tomorrow.”

With a big old grin on his face, he walks back to the front of the SUV and gets in. I grab my suitcase and wheel it the few feet to door of #18. Only when I’ve got the key card out do I hear Ryan start the engine, and my heart melts a little as I realize he was waiting to make sure I got into the room before taking off. What a gentleman.

I open the door and turn to wave him off. He blows me a kiss and we exchange one last smile before he puts the SUV into reverse and heads out of the parking lot.

It’s with a heavy heart that I wheel my suitcase into the motel room, kick the door closed and flop down on the bed.

I wouldn’t change my time with Ryan for the world, but it’s so hard to accept the fact that nothing will ever come of it! Yeah, I know. There are a few cases in which big celebrities and important people end up with ordinary folks such as myself, but these are extremely rare cases, and not to dog on myself or anything, but I’m not that special. I’m just not. And so I refuse to delude myself by envisioning the two of us together.

I’m just going to have to keep reminding myself that we will have no future together. No future, no future, no future. At the same time, I want to enjoy every last moment I get to spend with him to the fullest. Actually, I don’t think that will be a problem. When I’m with Ryan, I’m totally in the moment. I’m not thinking about how this is a temporary thing and that I won’t see him anymore after a few days. Which is probably because it feels so much like the real deal when we’re together.

It’s like a vicious circle or something. Spend time with Ryan—get all lovey-dovey—remind myself that this is only a fling—get a grip on reality—spend more time with Ryan—get all lovey-dovey—remind myself that this is only a fling and on and on ad nauseam.

Talk about bittersweet.

I turn over onto my stomach and bury my face in the pillows to muffle my sorrowful moan. I am such a mess.

Well, it’s official. I am falling in love with Charlotte Marshall. I imagine she’ll be heading back to the city sometime mid-week, but that’s not a problem. I’ve only got a couple more weeks of training left before I’ll be heading back myself, and then we can start dating properly. I can’t wait to get to know her better once we’ve got this stupid biography out of the way.

The elevator doors open and I stride happily down the hall to our meeting room where I find her cracking open a bottle of that lemonade she’s obviously so fond of.

“Hello, beautiful,” I say, prompting her to roll her eyes.

She still isn’t convinced of how gorgeous she is. This is something we’re going to have to work on in the future.

“Hey, Ryan.”

I walk over to take her in my arms and plant a long, deep kiss on her. Man, I can’t get over how good we are together. We start to pull her apart, but I can’t help getting one last squeeze in before letting her go.

We sit down next to each other. No more of this opposite side of the table business.

“So…” she says with a smile.

“So…” I echo, grabbing her hand and kissing each and every fingertip. “It’s good to see you again. I missed you last night.”

Her smile widens further.

“I know. Me too. But, Ryan, we have work to do. I have to know about the first ten years of your life, and then I can start brainstorming about what I can do about protecting your identity from potential opportunists.”

“And what you can do to prevent making me look like a pathetic little street urchin,” I remind her.

“That too,” she says with a mischievous glint in her eye.

I can’t help but shake my head. She has no idea what a massive task she has ahead of her. So massive that it’s probably going to be impossible to achieve. Even if the girl’s got insane skills—and I don’t doubt it for a second that she does—there’s no way she’s going to be able to make me out to be anything but an object of international pity if she actually wrote my whole story.

Which she absolutely cannot do.

When we first got started with this whole process, I seriously considered making shit up to account for my early childhood. Hopefully I’d be able to come up with something a little less pathetic than me being left in a basket on the steps of a church like that dickhead Todd Weston suggested, but yeah. I thought I’d tell her something along those lines. No who idea who my parents are—that sort of thing.

But now… I can’t bring myself to lie to Charlotte. And even if I could, after spending so much time with her, I’m not sure I’d be able to pull off lying to her.

Fuck.

Well, I guess there’s no use in stalling.

“Okay. Let’s do it, then. Where did we leave off?” I ask.

I know perfectly well where we left off. We were still in the safe zone when we called time on the interview last Thursday night.

“Well, we were still discussing your life with Ivan and Betsy Murdoch,” she says, glancing down at her notes. “I’ve got a lot of material to work with as far as your years with them goes, so I’d like to move on unless you feel there’s anything we haven’t touched upon.”

“No. I’m cool. That’s fine. I can’t think of anything to add.”

“Great. Now the deal last time was to discuss your life between the ages of eleven and fourteen. Were you with Ivan and Betsy all that time up until you moved in with Pam and Larry Alderman shortly after your thirteenth birthday?”

She fiddles with the screen of her phone for a second and when she sets it down on the table, I notice it’s recording our conversation.

Fuck.

“No, not quite. I was eleven when I moved in with them, but I was somewhere else first.”

“Where was that?”

“I was living with a couple in Dormont. Sam and Janine.”

“Sam and Janine,” she murmurs as she writes in her notebook. “What’s their last name?”

“I don’t remember.”

“You don’t?” She looks up at me with questioning eyes.

“I wasn’t with them for very long.”

“How long?”

Oh, fuck.

Things are about to get real.

It was so nice, so easy just to sit here and tell her all about Betsy teaching me to play the piano—or
trying
to teach me, anyway—and about how Ivan loved singing in the church choir. From here on out, there are no more sweet, cuddly, heart-warming stories to tell. From here on out, things are going to be ugly.

“Ryan?”

I snap back to attention and meet her eyes again.

“I was only with Sam and Janine for a couple weeks or so.”

“Really?” She frowns slightly. “Why? What happened?”

Exhaling a deep breath, I tell her, “They had another foster kid. Jack, I think his name was. He was a year or two younger than me. Anyway, we got into it—I can’t even remember what the fight was about—but I ended up punching him a few times and giving him a nosebleed. Sam and Janine reported it to CPS. They moved me back to the children’s home that same night, and I went to live with the Murdochs a few days after that.”

After jotting down a few quick notes, she looks back up at me. “Where were you before you went to live with Sam and Janine?”

This is getting old fast. I know I need to be frank with her—to get it all out in the open and rip it off like you would a Band-Aid instead of peeling it off little by little, dragging it out until you feel like throwing yourself out a third story window.

Fuck.

“Ryan?”

I take a deep breath and empty my lungs out slowly. I look Charlotte straight in the eyes and I say, “Okay. Here’s the thing. Before I went to live with the Murdochs, I was a really fucked up kid.”

“Oh, don’t say that,” she says. “You were just a kid—a kid who had a rough childhood, I might add.”

“Charlotte, I need for you to listen,” I tell her, taking her hand. “I was a
very
fucked up kid. I’d seen some shit that would make your head spin and I was angry with the world.”

She doesn’t say anything in response, but I can tell by the look on her face that she can finally hear what I’m saying.

“None of what I tell you from this point forward can go into the book. I’m serious. Dead serious. If this were to get out, it would be catastrophic for my image and my career.”

Even as I say these words, a significant part of me is having a full-on conniption fit. It’s freaking out; it’s begging me to shut my trap before I say something I’ll end up sorely regretting. Why the fuck am I telling her, anyway? She doesn’t need to know. It’s not relevant to the bio she’s working on, so it doesn’t make any sense at all to tell her.

But for reasons I can’t make sense of, I know I must tell her. I want to be honest and real with her. And you know what? I’m fucking tired of hiding. Not one single person in my life today has any clue as to who I really am, and that makes it hard. It makes for a lonely life.

Fuck.

“You have my word, Ryan. I’m not going to submit anything to the publishers that you’re not comfortable with,” says Charlotte.

“Thank you.”

She offers a gentle smile.

“Okay. Here’s the thing.” I take another deep breath before I proceed. “Before I got placed with the Murdochs, I lived with fourteen different foster families.”

“Fourteen…” she murmured. When I gave her a look, she shook her head and said, “Sorry. Please continue.”

“Some of these placements lasted a few months and some only lasted a few days. There was one family I didn’t even last the night with. I was an out-of-control kid back then. I would scream, cry, punch, kick, hurt people, destroy property—anything I could do to make myself feel better, but nothing ever worked.”

It pains me to say this shit out loud, and the guilt is almost unbearable. I’ve anonymously donated millions to various children’s charities in the Pittsburgh area, but I wish I could drop a few grand in the bank accounts of all the foster parents I screamed at and head-butted and kicked, all the brothers I punched and all the sisters I shoved.

“Ryan? How old were you when you went into the system?” Charlotte gives my hand a squeeze.

After a pause, I tell her, “I was eight.”

Another pause follows. She takes her other hand and reaches out so she can hold my one hand in both of hers. She’s no fool, this girl. She knows I’m about to reveal something big.

“And before that?” she prompts.

“Before that I lived with my parents.”

She nods.

Fuck.

Okay, this is it.

I take yet another deep breath and I say, “Have you ever heard of Matthew Prescott?”

Her lips part and she cocks her head to the side. She doesn’t answer right away.

“The name sounds familiar…”

“It’s my real name.”

Part of me is relieved to have unburdened myself of the secret I’ve been carrying around for so many years. But then part of me is already regretting telling her the truth. I feel exposed. Naked. Vulnerable. I haven’t allowed myself to feel this way since…well, probably since Ivan and Betsy died.

“Google it,” I said, leaning over to kiss her on the cheek before withdrawing my hand from hers and standing up. “Matthew Prescott. I’m going to leave you alone while you get yourself up to speed. I’ll take a walk or something, but I won’t be long. Fifteen, twenty minutes or so. Sound good?

“Wait.” She stands up and reclaims my hands, taking them in both of hers. “Are you sure that’s a good idea? Are you sure you’re okay, Ryan?”

“I’m fine.” I give her a kiss on the lips. “Honestly. In a way, I’m relieved. But I don’t want to sit here and watch your reaction when…when you learn the truth.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I’m sure.” I smile.

It’s weird how natural it feels to smile, considering that I just exposed my true identity for the first time in over twenty years. You’d think I’d be a little more shaken up.

Even so, I really need to get out of here and get some air. And Charlotte needs to learn who Matthew Prescott really is so she’ll know the whole truth about me. Once everything’s out in the open, we can get down to business and start figuring out what to include in this biography.

“I’ll see you soon, okay?”

She still looks a bit confounded, so I give her hands a squeeze and then I turn and walk away. Before I reach the door, though, she pounces. I break out in a smile when I feel her tits slam up against my back and her arms wrap around my waist. She goes up on tiptoe to plant a soft kiss on my neck.

“Don’t be gone too long, okay, sweetheart?”

No question. I am in love with this woman. Deeply.

I crane my neck to glance back at her and find her beautiful blue eyes brimming with worry.

“I promise. And I’m fine. Don’t worry. I’ll see you soon.”

As I head back down the hall to the elevators, I’m a walking jumble of emotions, and to my surprise, it occurs to me that most of these emotions are good. How weird is that?