Hearts in Overtime: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (13 page)

Oh my god.

My heart is breaking for Ryan. For Matthew. As soon as I Googled his name, I remembered. I know all about this case. Everyone does. I was too young to have heard about it at the time—only five years old—but it made national news, and because it was so gruesome, it took a few years before it dropped off the public radar.

I know I should refresh my memory before Ryan and I start processing it, so I click on a random link and read the article:

On 11:43 P.M. on October 15, 1993, police were called to investigate a domestic disturbance in the Bloomfield neighborhood of Pittsburgh. The neighbor who called to report the incident claimed the couple was in a heated argument that “had woken half the block.”

Officers arrived at 11:56 to find a gruesome tableau. Blake Prescott, 36, had been stabbed 62 times in total—41 times in the chest, neck and throat area and 21 times in the genital region. He was pronounced dead at the scene.

Prescott’s wife, Sabrina Prescott, 36, was discovered alive with the bloody knife in her hand. She had 4 stab wounds to the chest, which officers presumed were self-inflicted, and she was fading in and out of consciousness when officers arrived at the scene.

After ambulances arrived to transport Sabrina to the ER at Worthington Memorial Hospital and Blake to the morgue, officers conducted a thorough search of the premises. They found the couple’s son, Matthew Prescott, 8, under a pile of coats in a hall closet. His face, hands and pajamas were covered with blood spatter, but he was physically unharmed.

Oh, dear god. It’s all coming back to me now and I don’t even need to click any more links. I set my iPad aside. Cupping my face with both hands, I let it all sink in.

Ryan Blake is Matthew Prescott. They are one in the same.

It’s weird; I never wondered what ever became of Matthew Prescott. When someone finds fame (or infamy) at a certain point in life and then fades into obscurity, it’s hard to think of them growing and changing.

In my mind Matthew Prescott was frozen in time at the age of eight. I can’t imagine him being anything other than the frightened little boy from the news articles with the big blue eyes and the dark brown hair. But he’s not that little boy anymore. He’s thirty-one years old. He’s Ryan Blake. He’s a Brooklyn Viper. He’s the man I love. He’s all of these things and more, and he’s also Matthew Prescott.

I shake my head, hoping to get a firm grasp on the situation. I don’t know why I’m having such a hard time letting it sink in.

Poor Ryan.

Sabrina Prescott survived the suicide attempt and pleaded not guilty by reason of insanity in the case of her husband’s murder. She claimed she was driven to a murderous rage when she found out Blake was cheating on her, a claim that has never been proven.

The alleged mistress was a secretary at Blake’s insurance firm and she had only been working there for two weeks. I remember seeing the clips from the trial. She looked so baffled to be there on the stand, answering the lawyers’ questions.

“I hardly even knew the guy,” I remember her saying. “And I definitely wasn’t having an affair with him. I’ve got a fiancé that I’m in love with. Why would I cheat? Why would Mrs. Prescott suspect me of cheating with her husband?”

Sabrina claimed she saw them exchange “a look” when she had stopped by the office earlier on the day of the murder to drop off the car keys.

A look.

Poor Blake Prescott was brutally murdered because his wife imagined she saw something that was never even there. During the trial it became clear that Sabrina had a history of delusions although she had never sought out professional help. She was found guilty and sentenced to twenty-five years in a psychiatric facility.

Wait a minute… Twenty-five years? I do some quick math in my head. Is she
out?
It’s only been twenty-two years since the sentencing, but don’t criminals usually get out early on parole? Or is that just the impression I have from watching
Law and Order
reruns?

I reach for my iPad and within seconds, I’ve got my answer. Getting out on good behavior or whatever isn’t just something that happens on TV. Sabrina Prescott was released in January of this year.

Oh my god.

I have so many questions for Ryan. When will he come back? I glance at the clock on the iPad. He’s been gone for eleven minutes now. He might be back soon. Or not.

I can’t even begin to imagine what it must have been like to go through everything he was forced to endure. And at such a young age, no less. Well, this certainly explains a lot, starting with his secrecy and his anger issues.

One thing is for sure: it can never get out that Ryan Blake is Matthew Prescott all grown up. The public would shower him with compassion and sympathy, which would be nice for some, but Ryan’s right. It would completely destroy his image. How can you be a tough guy on the field when there’s a photo of you as a child in a pair of bloodstained Superman pajamas with tears pouring down your face imprinted in the minds of the public?

What a mess.

Oh, where is he? I want him to come back soon so I can give him a hug. I’m really glad he decided to share this with me. I’m not deluded enough to think this might mean something—I’m perfectly aware that he could never really be interested in me for a long-term romance—but maybe our friendship will endure. I have a feeling Ryan hasn’t shared the truth about his past with very many people, and I’m honored that he’s chosen me to be amongst the few.

After maybe two or three minutes, I hear the familiar sound of the elevator doors opening down the hall, and I look up with expectation as he enters the room.

“Hey you.”

I get up and walk over to him. I put my arms around him, pull him close to me and rub his back with what I hope are comforting strokes. Is this helping? It’s hard to tell. He’s so big and muscular; it’s hard to imagine that he would find my embrace to be soothing.

“So, you know, huh?” he says.

“I know,” I murmur. “I’m so sorry.”

“Thanks, babe, but I’m good. I’m fine. It was a long time ago.”

“Right.”

I let go of him and pull back to give him a sheepish smile. Deep down I probably knew that he wouldn’t want me coddling him, but how could I not give him a hug?

He leans in to give me a peck on the lips, and then he says, “Well, I’m sure you’ve got some questions for me.”

I nod. Without another word, we resume our seats. I grab my glass of lemonade and take a nice big swig. And then I take another one.

All right. Enough stalling.

I take a deep breath and ask, “Have you kept in contact with your mother?”

I see a flash of anger in his eyes, and he tightens his jaw before speaking.

“Absolutely not. That woman is dead to me.”

“I understand.”

Well…sort of. It’s hard to imagine disowning my own mom, but then again, my mom didn’t murder my dad.

“Has she ever attempted to get into contact with you?” I asked.

“I wouldn’t know. The courts granted my petition for a legal name change after the trial. Matthew Prescott no longer exists, legally speaking, so she wouldn’t be able to get very far if she did try to search for me.”

I nod. “Speaking of the name change…” I’m not sure how to word this. It’s not really a question, but it’s something I feel is probably important to bring up. After hemming and hawing a little, I just spit it out. “You chose your dad’s name: Blake.”

“Yeah.”

“You must have loved him very much,” I murmur, reaching over to take his hand and give it a squeeze.

“I did. Very much.”

I open my mouth to speak again, but he beats me to it.

“Not now, okay, Charlotte?” he says. “I’ll tell you about him one of these days but not today.”

“Okay.”

I definitely get where he’s coming from. He must be feeling so raw, and I don’t intend to make it any worse by pressing him to open up about his dad. No way. Not my style.

“What made you choose the name Ryan?” I ask.

He shrugs. “Totally random. One of the cops at the station who was really nice to me was named Ryan. I needed a new name so I went with that.”

I smile, trying not to think of him as a little eight-year-old boy, scared out of his wits at a bustling police station in the middle of the night. I’m glad Officer Ryan went out of his way to be kind.

“Okay,” I say, switching gears. “Can I ask at what point you entered into the foster system? Did either of your parents have any relatives who might have been able to take care of you?”

“Not really. I don’t really know what the deal is with Sabrina’s family. I never met any of them, which was probably a sign that there was something wrong with her—or them—or both. Dad was an only child and his father died before I was born, but my grandma was around. I went to live with her initially, but that didn’t last. I looked so much like Sabrina; Grandma couldn’t look at me without bursting into tears, thinking about what that psychotic bitch did to Dad. She turned me into over to the system after two or three weeks, and I don’t blame her one bit.”

Oh my god. I can relate to the grandmother, but for heaven’s sake, Ryan was just a little boy who’d been through so much already! I could just cry, but of course I won’t. I need to stay strong for this. I pause for a few moments to collect my wits before I continue.

“Did the two of you ever reconnect?”

With a shrug, he says, “No, unfortunately. I Googled her a few years later. I was living with the Murdochs by that time and had started dealing with all my shit. I wanted to see her again, but it was too late. She died two years after the trial.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

I squeeze his hand again, wishing I could offer something more helpful.

“Yeah.”

“Ryan…”

Damn. I need to ask him if he knows, but what if he doesn’t know? Surely he knows. How could he not?

“What is it, Charlotte?”

Here goes nothing…

“Are you aware that your mother made parole in January?”

He sighs. “Yes, I know she’s out. But would you do me a favor and not refer to her as my mother? I definitely don’t think of her that way. Call her Sabrina if you must, but there are other names that are accurately descriptive. Personally, I call her Psycho Bitch, although Bitch Whore from Hell is another favorite of mine. And you can’t go wrong with Murdering Demon Spawn of Satan or Mind-fucked Bloodthirsty Batshit Cunt.”

Oh my god.

This man is in so much pain. I am having such a hard time restraining myself. I have a desperate, almost burning urge to cradle his head against my chest and rock him back and forth. Even if he did just say the “c” word, which always makes me cringe.

But I don’t do any such thing. I even manage to join him in his laughter. Well, sort of. I eke out an awkward laugh or two. 

I feel like there are probably more things I should be asking him about, but I’ve got more than enough information to process right now.

Running my hand up his arm to give his shoulder a squeeze, I say, “Thank you for sharing your past with me, Ryan.”

“No problem.”

I shake my head in wonder. He’s such a strong person. Sure, he’s had twenty-three years to deal with the trauma of witnessing the murder, but that’s not the only hardship he’s had to overcome; the trauma would have shaped his young mind, instilling feelings of abandonment, isolation and rage that carried him into adulthood. What a heavy load he’s had to lug around all these years.

One thing’s for sure. I am going to come up with an awesome plan to show the public what a brave, strong man he is without making him seem like a victim. It’ll be tricky, but I know I’ll find a way. And I really want to get to work on this right away.

“Is there anything else you want to tell me?” I ask. “Anything we didn’t get to that I should know?”

“Nope. That’s pretty much it—cards on the table, skeletons lugged out of the closet.”

We exchange a smile.

“Okay.” I nod. “Well, I think we should call it a night, then. I’ll head back to the motel and work on coming up with an outline for the bio, as well as a proposal on how we might be able to sugar coat your early years, how we can get the point across without going into detail. I know this probably sounds like gibberish, but trust me. I’ll come up with something.”

“Can it wait?” He reaches over to pull me onto his lap and starts playing with my hair. “I was hoping you’d spend the night with me at the residence hall.”

I gaze into his beautiful blue eyes, searching for signs of pain, and the words shoot out of my mouth before I can stop them. “Are you worried about being alone tonight after what we just talked about?”

Shaking his head, he laughs, “Yeah, right.”

Like he’d ever admit to such a thing. I should have worded the question differently.

“No, I’m not worried about being alone. I just want your hot body, that’s all.”

I can’t help but laugh. He goes in for a kiss. I wind my arms around his neck, and he slides his hands under my ass. It’s tempting to take him up on the invitation—very tempting—but as far as I know, nobody has any clue that we’ve been hooking up and I’d like to keep it that way.