Hearts in Overtime: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (3 page)

Johnny enters first with a bright smile to match mine. And then Ryan enters.

Oh.

My.

God.

Those pictures of him online don’t even do him justice.

How am I ever going to get anything done if I have to work with this scorching hot hunk of man?

I don’t know what I was expecting the writer chick to look like, but it sure as hell wasn’t this. With the round cheeks, full lips and unruly red curls tied up in a knot at the nape of her neck, she looks like a fucking kindergarten teacher.

Ever since I went pro, I’ve been surrounded by a certain type of woman. You know the kind I’m talking about—those Barbie doll types with the dyed, fried, over-processed bleach blonde hair. They proudly display the lean, muscular bodies they spend half their lives sculpting at the gym, and they’re made up, spray tanned and waxed within an inch of their lives.

Some of them are hot; some of them are not, but the truth is they’re a dime a dozen.

This girl is different. She isn’t what you might call fat, but it’s clear that she doesn’t spend several hours a day at the gym, burning off calories like she’s shooting down enemy jets. Her bare arms are just a little plump in a strangely enticing way. I can’t help but wonder what it would be like to sink my lips onto them.

“Ryan Blake, meet Charlotte Marshall. Charlotte, Ryan,” Johnny says.

With a smile, the girl holds out a hand to me.

“It’s so nice to meet you, Ryan,” she says.

“Whatever.” I give her hand a half-hearted shake.

“Be nice…” scolds Johnny in a sing-song voice.

I turn to him, and through a clenched jaw, I reply, “Fuck you, John. Don’t speak to me like I’m a goddamn toddler.”

He sighs. The girl looks down at the table, picks up a pen, glances at it for a second and sets it back on top of the notebook. If she’s trying to look preoccupied, she’s failing miserably.

“All right, well,” Johnny says, glancing from me to the girl. “I guess I’ll leave you to it. Let me know if either of you need anything.”

“Thanks, Johnny,” the girl says.

He takes off without another word, closing the door softly behind him. The girl turns to me with a questioning smile.

“Shall we have a seat?”

With a shrug, I plop my ass into a chair across the table from her. She looks uncomfortable for a moment—out of her element. After she takes a seat, I notice her forehead is a bit furrowed and she’s biting down on her plump lower lip. I can tell her mind is whirring with nervous energy, but if she thinks I’m going to offer a few kind words to put her at ease, she’s got another thing coming.

I see her chest rise and fall as she takes a deep breath, which makes me appreciate the fact that she’s not a gym bunny. Her tits are fucking huge, and the way they work with the rest of her curvy body makes it obvious that they’re real.

Apparently the deep breath did what she wanted it to, because after she exhales, she looks a bit more relaxed.

“So,” she says, looking right at me with those vivid blue eyes of hers. “I was thinking we could start with me telling you a little something about myself. Over the next few days, I’m going to be asking you tons of questions, finding out all sorts of things about your life. I thought it’s only fair that you learn something about mine.”

I stare back at her for a moment before shaking my head and turning to look out the window. Is she really delusional enough to think I could give two shits about her background? Please.

“Whatever.”

“Great. Okay, as you know, my name is Charlotte Marshall. I’m twenty-eight years old and I live in Brooklyn. I have my own place—thank you, rent control—and I have a grumpy old cat called Bertie, as in Cuthbert, as in William Cuthbert Faulkner, my favorite author of all time. Bertie’s staying with my friend, Tracy, this week, but I’m not worried because they’ve known each other for ages and he’s stayed with her before.”

Kill me now.

If I had a sharp blade with me, I’d slice my wrists in a second.

“I’m originally from a small town in Wisconsin about two hours from Chicago.”

Gee, what a surprise…

“My whole family’s still there. In addition to my folks, I’ve got one brother, one sister and two nieces. Oh, and a brother-in-law, too.”

She laughs.

“Feels like I’ve been on the East Coast for ages,” she goes on to say as I battle the urge to bang my head against the table repeatedly.

“I came out here for college and it feels like home now. I’m still working on my dream of finding success as a literary novelist, but as you know I’m making a living writing biographies and ghostwriting autobiographies. I guess that’s about it. Is there anything else you’d like to know about me?”

I think about fucking with her by asking whether she spits or swallows, or if she enjoys taking it up the ass.

But after a moment’s consideration, I decide not to give her a hard time. Or…well, no harder a time than I’m already giving her. It’s not her fault I’m mired in this goddamn clusterfuck. If it wasn’t her, it’d be some other writer Bruce hired to ruin my life. No need to take out my anger and frustration on her.

I’m pretty sure I already know the answer to this question but I decide to go ahead and ask it anyway.

“Are you a fan of the sport?”

“You mean football?” she asks.

I refuse to dignify such an inane question with an answer. What did she think I was asking? If she enjoyed watching a good ping pong match?

“Honestly, no,” she says. “It’s not that I have anything
against
football or anything like that. I’ve just never really been exposed to it. Except for the research I did this weekend after finding out about this job, of course.”

Unbelievable. Un-fucking-believable. Who’s the genius that decided to hire this clueless girl? How the hell can she be expected to write anything worth reading if she doesn’t know the first thing about the sport?

Actually, though…

This could end up working out in my favor. Since the girl doesn’t know jack shit about the game, maybe the whole thing will fall through. I’m not delusional enough to think that would be the end of it, but if they have to fire her and hire a different biographer to take over, that would at least buy me a little more time. Maybe then I’d be able to figure out a way to keep my life from imploding.

“It is strange, I know,” the girl says, “but my agent assures me she’s made no secret about me being unfamiliar with the sport. She tells me the powers that be are unconcerned about my lack of technical knowledge. She says they want a human interest piece.”

She gives me an apologetic smile and then drops her gaze down to the notebook on the table.

Interesting. Maybe this girl is not so clueless after all. She’s obviously aware of my refusal to speak to the press about personal matters, which means she knows she has a tough road ahead of her. It almost makes me feel sorry for her. Almost.

“Anyway…” she says, looking back up at me. “If there’s nothing else you need to know about me, how about we get started?”

I sigh. “Fine.”

“Excellent.” The smile she gives me this time is grateful. “Now, I was thinking we’d kick things off by talking about your time with the Vipers, starting with the day in 2007 when you got signed.”

Very interesting. Yeah, this girl isn’t clueless at all. She knows damn well what she’s doing—easing me into talking to her about events of recent history before going after the skeletons in my closet.

“Whatever.”

“Great! Now, take me back to 2007. What do you remember about the day they offered you the contract? Where did the meeting take place? Who all was there?”

Unable to see any other option, I indulge the girl, who obviously has no idea how the sport works. I take her back to that day in April to the draft selections at Radio City Music Hall. I wish I could go back in time and beat the shit out of my idiotic younger self. Seduced by the promise of riches beyond my wildest dreams, I didn’t give a single thought to the consequences of becoming a household name.

Fucking idiot.

But of course I don’t mention any of this to the girl. I share as many details as I can remember, from Fred Wilson’s booming laugh to the shiny silver keys Coach O’Neil tossed me—keys to the Audi SUV I got as a signing bonus.

It’s interesting to watch her reaction as I recall the experience. Or maybe I should say it’s interesting to see what little reaction she has. Most girls would be taking their tits out right about now. They’d be dropping their pants, shimmying off their panties and crawling across the table to wrap their lips around my cock. But this one doesn’t seem the least bit affected by what I’m telling her; she doesn’t seem the least bit impressed.

I’d say she wasn’t interested in me, but I know that’s not true. I’m not being an egomaniac here. I’m just being honest. There was no mistaking that glimmer of attraction in her eyes when I first walked into this room. It’s obvious that the girl wants me, and I have no problem with that.

If she were to proposition me right now, I’d be up for it. I’d be more than happy to bring her back to the residence hall and fuck her brains out.

But the thing is, I know she’d never say that. Which, in some strange way makes me
want
her to proposition me.

“Tell me about the first game you played with the Vipers,” she says, cupping her chin in her hand. “Were you a nervous wreck or what?”

Was I ever! I remember sitting on the bench in my sparkling new uniform like it was yesterday. I was desperate for Coach to put me in the game, but at the same time terrified that he would, scared shitless that I’d fumble and make a colossal ass out of myself with the whole world watching. I was sweating buckets that night as I sat on the sidelines. My heart was pounding out of my chest, and I felt like I was going to puke.

But this is hardly something I want the public to know about me. In no way does it fit with the image I’ve presented to them since I went pro. I spend a few seconds considering the girl’s question, working on coming up with a truthful and yet toned down answer.

“Yeah, I was nervous,” I admit. “Expectations were high because of my stats from the years at Ohio State, and I knew I had to hit the ground running if I didn’t want to be laughed off the field.”

The girl opens her notebook and glanced down at it. She bites down on that lower lip again as she reads, and then she looks back up at me.

“I can only imagine the tremendous pressure you were under. I’d say it’s safe to say that all eyes were upon you with that insanely high completion percentage of yours.”

And to my surprise, I feel the corners of my lips curving up into a smile. I have to give the girl credit. She’s doing a good job with this. She’s done her research and she’s thought things through. I respect that. All things considered, things could be going a lot worse, and this girl isn’t so bad at all. Sort of the silver lining around the dark, gloomy shitstorm cloud.

After carefully wrapping the remaining slices in napkins, I stick them in my mini fridge and take the empty pizza box down to the trashcan next to the vending machines. When I get back to my room, the screen of my phone is lit up with a text from Gina.

You busy?

I text her back, replying in the negative, and moments later, there’s an incoming call. I flop down on the bed and mute the TV before answering.

“Hey,” I say in greeting.

“Hi, Charlotte. I hope you don’t mind me calling so late.”

“No, not at all. My schedule is going to be a little out of whack this week. It already is. Feels like it’s only eight o’clock or something.”

In reality, it’s just past 10:00, but it does seem earlier. The interview with Ryan went on until 8:30 or so.

“Glad to hear it. Now, please don’t keep me in suspense! How did it go today?”

“Pretty well,” I tell her, closing my eyes and picturing Ryan’s gorgeous face.

It’s a good thing I’m alone. I’m sure I must look like a love-struck dingbat. Just so we’re clear, I am definitely
not
in love with Ryan Blake. I’m not delusional. I’m well aware that he would end up pulverizing my heart if I got emotionally attached. I simply have a crush on him. And who wouldn’t? The guy is smokin’.

“Pretty well?” Gina echoes. “Oh, Charlotte. You’re falling for him already?”

I snap my eyes open. This is the drawback to having a close relationship with your agent, one that’s evolved into a friendship. She knows me too well. And yet, I feel the need to deny the accusation.

“Don’t be silly. I am most definitely not falling for Ryan. He’s hot and everything, but his ego is the size of the Goodyear blimp.”

“Well, that’s no surprise. When people worship you like you’re a living god, you start to believe you
are
one,” Gina says. “Tell me: is he as hot as he is in the pictures you can find of him online and in the magazines and whatnot?”

“He’s hotter.”

Neither one of us speaks for a few seconds. I take advantage of the silence by replaying the highlights of the interview in my mind, and of course by remembering the interaction we shared after the interview.

As we were leaving the meeting room, Ryan reached down and placed a hand on my lower back to guide me through the door. As much as I would like to believe otherwise, it wasn’t suggestive in any way. I guarantee that he didn’t mean anything by it other than maybe, “Get out of the way so I can leave the room, too.”

Even so, my flesh tingled at his touch. His hand was huge (huge!) like he was wearing an oven glove or a baseball mitt or something. I wanted so badly to spin around and press my body up against his, to run my hands up his sculpted, muscular chest and wrap them around his neck, to lift my chin and to part my lips and…

“Well…” Gina says, “at least you get to bask in his handsome glow during the interviews. In all seriousness, though, how is that going? Is he opening up at all?”

“A little. I kept the questions limited to his years with the Vipers, so it wasn’t too much of a challenge to get him talking. Tomorrow I plan to go back further to include his time with Ohio State. But after that…”

“I get it,” Gina says, and I can practically hear her nodding thoughtfully. “Here’s hoping he’ll feel comfortable enough by that time to give you a glimpse at whatever secrets he’s been keeping.”

“That’s the plan.”

“Any clues so far as to what he might be hiding?” she asks.

“I wish.”

“Do you have any theories yet?”

“Maybe…” I turn over to my other side and purse my lips in thought. “I’m thinking he might be hiding a criminal record.”

“Really?” she says, sounding unconvinced. “I don’t know about that. I mean it’s not like he’s some kind of Boy Scout. He’s already faced…is it four different assault charges on four separate occasions?”

“Three charges. One of them was dropped,” I point out.

“Right. Well, the point is I don’t think he’d go to such great lengths to hide a record since he’s already got one, you know?”

“True, but with the recent incidents—the ones we know about, I mean—the injuries he inflicted were minor. Each of the instances involved an aggressive fan who got up in his face and wouldn’t leave him alone. Ryan retaliated with his fists, but the end result wasn’t much more than a few cuts, scrapes and bruises.”

“And?” Gina prompts.

“And I’m saying what if he wasn’t always so good about holding back? What if he inflicted some serious injuries on someone in the past? Like injuries that are serious enough to damage his already shaky reputation?”

“Hmm.” After a moment’s pause, she goes on to say, “If that’s the case, it should be easy enough to find out. Have you done a thorough Internet search?”

“Of course.”

“I’m guessing you didn’t find anything,” she says.

“Right you are. And it’s not just when it comes to Ryan’s criminal history. I didn’t find a single post, photo or anything else about him that pre-dates his college football career. No photos of his old high school team posted on Facebook. No random posts from childhood friends bragging about how they knew him way back when. Nothing.”

A silence follows, and I’m wondering if I ought to clarify what I’m trying to get at here when Gina speaks again.

“You’re thinking Ryan Blake is not this guy’s real name,” she says slowly.

“I’d bet money on that.”

“Interesting…”

For a moment, neither of us says anything. I can’t speak for Gina, but I’m preoccupied with wondering how in the world I’m going to get Ryan Blake—or the man who calls himself Ryan Blake, rather—to open up to me. Sure, I’m off to a good start since I’ve got him talking about his time with the Vipers. And I’m pretty sure it won’t be hard to get him talking about Ohio State either. But as far as anything that occurred prior to him getting drafted to play for Ohio State goes…

Maybe I’m being naïve thinking I’ll be able to get him to open up to me. Changing one’s name is a pretty drastic move, and he’s not going to blow his cover just because we have a decent rapport. He’s not going to want to do me any favors, certainly not if that means uncovering some deep, dark secret.

Then again, he’s probably well aware that he doesn’t get much say in the matter. It’s actually written into my contract that this book is meant to be about Ryan’s background. The working title is
The Man Behind the Uniform
but the biography could just as easily share a title with that news report I watched online after Gina called to tell me about the job:
Just Who is Ryan Blake
?

I would imagine that Johnny or the team manager or the coach or even Bruce Maddox must have informed Ryan that he was going to have to disclose the truth about his past.

Yeah, somebody must have told him. And actually, that would explain why he was so sullen and petulant when we first met. Maybe he isn’t usually
that
big of an asshole.

In any case, I just need to keep doing what I’ve been doing. Tomorrow should be easy enough. Wednesday is a whole other story, but as they say, I’ll jump off that bridge when I come to it.

After ending the call with Gina, I press the “mute” button again and turn my attention to the sitcom rerun on my TV screen. I stretch out, making myself comfortable, and get ready to zone out, but this is easier said than done. As much as I try to concentrate on the situation comedy du jour, my mind keeps drifting back to thoughts of Ryan.

He’s just too gorgeous. Really, it ought to be illegal to be as handsome as he is. The truth is I didn’t think it would be that much of a shock to meet him. After all, I’d spent most of the weekend doing research on the guy and I’d come across hundreds or maybe even thousands of drop dead photos of him. Even so, beholding him in person was an experience entirely unto itself.

I guess I’m used to seeing perfection in the media. We all are. But we also know that what we see is an illusion of sorts. Everyone knows that celebrities are always thoroughly airbrushed and Photoshopped before appearing on the pages of our magazines and whatnot. In real life, they have flaws. I guess I’d half expected to discover some acne scars on Ryan’s face. Or maybe I’d notice a thinning hairline or some lines across his forehead.

But, no. Impossible as it may seem, Ryan looks even better in person than he does on the covers of magazines and on the home pages of websites. Talk about criminal.

God, he’s hot.

I reach for the remote and switch off the TV. There’s no point in trying to concentrate on the story onscreen. Not when I’ve got that big, muscular man-god on my mind.

My lower back tingles with the memory of his touch. I roll over onto my side and reach back to massage my skin where he touched it. Closing my eyes, I imagine my hand is actually his.

Oh, god.

I hurry to unbutton my jeans and slide them down my legs and off my ankles, quickly followed by my panties. My pussy is already drenched, and I don’t waste any time. I coat my fingers and going straight for my clit.

With Ryan Blake’s gorgeous face fresh in my mind, I batter that brilliant little ball of nerve endings until my entire body is convulsing. Moaning and thrashing about on top of the motel bedspread, imagining myself straddled on Ryan’s lap, riding his cock like a wild woman, I come fast and hard.

At the height of my orgasm, a strange and entirely unexpected statement pops into my head:

She shoots, she scores.

Oops. Wrong sport.

Caressing my throbbing lips and clit as I come down from my high, I breathe a sigh of contentment and imagine Ryan’s big, strong arms around me.