Bad Ballers
A Contemporary Sports Romance Box Set
S.J. Bishop
Contents
Exclusive Offer
False Start
Kick Off
Going Deep
Hail Mary
Taking Possession
End Zone
Blitz (Preview)
Vanguard Security Prequel
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False Start
PREQUEL
Prologue
Jamie
You’re a failure! A complete and total failure. I’d never felt so miserable in my life.I couldn’t even look my teammates in the face. 3 to 2. Georgetown had beaten us in the last four minutes of the game when I’d completely miffed the pass. Because I wasn’t focused. It’s your fault!
As we walked to the locker room, nobody spoke to me. Once inside, I collapsed onto the bench and rested my head in my hands, letting my long, dark hair fall over my face. All about me, frustrated silence rang louder than the cheers on the field. Lockers slammed and gear bags were kicked across the floor.
“Hey, Jamie. It happens.”
I looked up into Fernanda’s wide, understanding gaze. “Do you want to talk about it?” she asked, taking a seat next to me on the locker room bench. I hadn’t told her about Caz and me, but I knew she could guess. Fernanda had gone through her own terrible breakup just a few months ago. It hadn’t impacted her playing, though. I wanted to throw my arms around Fernanda, bury my face into her neck, and cry. But I wasn’t going to do that. I didn’t deserve anyone’s sympathy. I shook my head.
“Okay,” said Fernanda, standing. “But if you need to chat, I’m here.”
Once I was alone, once the locker room was empty, I lost it. Oh God! What had I done? I could feel the sobs building from deep within my chest and did my best to hold them back.
Since Caz’s football season had started, I’d gone crazy. I’d lost ten pounds and couldn’t sleep. Everyone had commented on it. You don’t look so good, Jamie. You all right, babe? You’re getting kinda thin…
I’d dated Caz just over a year, and we had been so good together. We’d laughed, had hot, wild sex, and even travelled together. I’d met his parents, he’d met mine, and I’d never been so happy in my entire life. With Caz, I wasn’t just Jamie Anderson: daughter, Honor student, and soccer all-star. I was Jamie Anderson: sex goddess, tease, envy of the Stanford co-eds, and the future Mrs. Cassidy Woods. It had been a huge confidence boost when someone like Caz, a senior and the star wide-receiver, had deigned to date a sophomore (even if I was supposed to be one of the best players on Stanford’s women’s soccer team). And I’d loved him so incredibly much. He’d loved me back – at least I thought he had. Everyone had said so: I wish someone would look at me the way Caz looks at you!
But then football season had started – and it was like I’d ceased to exist. He’d stopped reaching out to me and stopped answering my calls. I’d barely seen him at all. He hadn’t even gotten me a ticket to the homecoming game. “Caz loves you,” my roommate had said to me. “Break up with him. He’ll understand what he’s lost. He’ll come begging for you to take him back…”
But I knew he wouldn’t. I knew it. And so, I’d confronted him. I’d told him, “I can’t live like this. I need more! I love you so much.” I couldn’t be second fiddle to football. I couldn’t just be some chick he picked up and put down when he felt like it. “If you love me,” I had told him, “you’d care that you’re hurting me.” He’d just stood there as I begged him to give me more time, to tell me that I mattered to him.
“I can be a good boyfriend, or I can be a good football player. We can pick back up when the season’s over.” He’d said it so definitively. I’d stared at him, willing him to take it back, to tell me that he’d try to make it work between us, that he loved me as much I loved him. I’d tried one more time; I’d said to him, “I need you to choose me.” And he’d shrugged.
So I had broken up with him. I’d broken up with Stanford’s star wide-receiver. He’d stood there, looking stunned. And then his face had gone blank, “Then you need to leave.”
So I’d failed in my relationship with Caz, and now, I’d failed in my game. And worst of all, I was full of doubt. Had I done the right thing? I could see him, his face blank, his shoulders shrugging as if to brush our entire relationship away. We were over. I let the sobs break free.
1
Caz
Chanel No. 5 flew through air and hit the wall with a magnificent crash. I ducked as shards of glass flew past my head. The heavy, too-sweet scent of perfume filled our chic, Upper West Side penthouse.
“Bastard! You pathetic excuse for a man! Ruin, infeliz, cabron, no tien las cajones…”
Karissa’s elegantly accented English devolved into a series of nasty Spanish invectives. I don’t speak Spanish well, but spend two years with Karissa, and you learn real quick what hijo de puta means.
“Babe,” I said. I knew I was baiting a bear, but a guy’s got to stand up for himself, “What did you expect me to do?”
“DO!?” Even angry, Karissa was gorgeous: a runway model with legs for days, caramel skin, and thick, dark hair that curled in perfect waves down her back. She had the face of an angel and the mouth of a sailor. When we’d first met, that had been a helluva turn-on. “I expected you to show up! It was the Victoria Secret after party! It was my shot to get them to pay attention!”
Oh fuck. This shit again? It was Karissa’s dream to walk in the Victoria Secret fashion show. She had this idea that if she attended their after party with me on her arm, they’d sign her up on the spot. She thought that because I’m now teammates with Dash Barnes, star quarterback of the New England Patriots (whose wife is a Victoria’s Secret Angel), I could somehow get us into the after party. I tried real hard not to roll my eyes. Okay. I didn’t try that hard.
“Babe,” I held up a placating hand. “I just signed the contract with the Pats. I had to go to the press conference.”
Karissa screamed, a guttural bellow of rage that, to be honest, would have turned me on back in the early days of our relationship, when I’d thought of her temper as “fits of fiery passion” (instead of as fits of flat-out crazy).
“You’re so selfish! It’s all about you! You, you, all the time…” I lost the rest as Spanish overwhelmed English. “What about my contracts!? What about my shows!? What about my press!?” She switched back to English and turned her back on me, looking for more things to throw.
It had been like this with Karissa for the last few months. I’d been busy trying to get signed in the off season and had seen her a few times. But those few times we’d gone out together had ended in such violent and public brawls that we’d made the headlines.
“And don’t think I didn’t see your stupid press conference!” she said suddenly, whirling on me, holding a large, plaster bust in her hand. “You and that blond reporter. You practically had your tongue down her blouse!”
“’Riss,” I objected. “My tongue was fully in my mouth the whole time…”
Another bellow of rage, and the plaster bust went flying at my head. Her aim was better this time, and though I ducked, it managed to graze my ear. What the fuck!? She’d just tried to give me a fucking concussion? I had to take a few deep breaths so as not to launch up and throttle her. My mother hadn’t raised an animal. You don’t touch a woman in violence, even if she’s trying to brain you with plaster busts of Hugo Chavez.
“Is that what your puta
mother taught you? You just go around and stick it in whatever bimbo catches your fancy! Well, go ahead!” she snarled at me. “Go ahead. Go see other women. I’m not moving to that icebox hole-of-a-city Boston.”
She stormed to the other side of the room, and I stood up slowly, anger giving way to exhaustion. It didn’t really matter how beautiful she was; I didn’t want her to come to Boston with me. We’d been bad for months, but to accuse me of infidelity, to nearly give me a concussion...I was beginning to suspect that Karissa loved drama more than she actually loved me.
“You know, babe,” I said slowly. “I think that’s a good idea. I don’t think you should come to Boston. In fact, I think I’m done with all of this.” I gestured at the shattered glass, at the dark perfume stain on the white wall, at the plaster, and at the pillow cushions littering the floor. “I think it’s over between us.”
I should have expected the quick change in emotion, but I nearly fell over when she burst into tears, ran across the room, and threw herself against me. I hate crying. I hate it. During my parents’ divorce, they’d spent the better part of two years crying. Tears always brought me back there. But Karissa’s sobs were loud and dry. As she buried her face into my neck, she raked her long, manicured nails lightly down the sides of my face. “Oh, mi vida, mi vida,” she cooed between sobs. “Oh love, oh no, my love. You can’t leave me. I love you…”
She pressed her body against mine, her lush lips brushing frantically against my throat. “You need me,” she urged, her breasts brushing against my chest. “You need me, and I need you…” Her hand snaked down my torso and slid up under my t-shirt, caressing my flat stomach, the hard ridges of my abdominals. Then she reached to undo my belt. “You need me,” she whispered hotly, her mouth straining upward to catch mine.
Karissa had always been able to turn me on, and even now, I was getting hard, my dick remembering all the wild times we’d had together. I took a breath. It was best to let cooler heads prevail. I was now absolutely certain that Karissa Kruise and I did not belong together. I reached down and grabbed her wrist. “Stop,” I said and took a step away from her. I looked down and saw her growing angry again. Shit, she was volatile.
“We’re finished,” I said as firmly as I could. “And I’m leaving.”
2
Jamie
“You ready for this?” Fernanda asked me.
“I was born ready.”
“You want to get dressed then?” she asked, eyeing my pink underwear, matching pink sports bra, and purple soccer cleats. How had I managed to put my cleats on before my shorts?
“It’s not my fault I got distracted,” I muttered, pulling my shorts on. “I’ve never seen a locker room this fancy. Not even at National’s Camp.” The Boston Breakers, New England’s professional women’s soccer team, were currently changing in the cheerleader’s locker room at Gillette Stadium, home of the New England Patriots. A pipe had burst at our home stadium, and management had moved our practices and our games to Gillette.
“How about a shirt?” Fernanda said, tapping her toe impatiently. I smiled at her and struck a pose, flexing my abs and biceps at her. I’m short for a soccer player, but I’m also cut. My breasts are on the small side, but a lifetime of lunges, squats, and grapevines had given me a high, tight ass. Over a decade of sit-ups meant that my abs were chiseled to perfection.
“Seriously. Put your shirt on. We’ve got to warm up.”
Fernanda and I had signed on with the Breakers straight out of college. She knew I got nervous before games and took it upon herself to “manage” me. I rolled my eyes at her and picked up my jersey. I was just tugging it over my head when I heard her mutter, “Oh shit.”
I looked up. There were TV screens in every corner of the locker room, trained on ESPN, NECN, and Fox Sports. I froze.
NECN was airing yesterday’s press conference, and smack in the center of the camera was a blast from my past: Cassidy Woods. He was grinning at reporters, showing off the dimple in his left cheek. His eyes, thick lashed and dark blue, glimmered delightedly at a reporter’s question, and the lights shone on his rich, brown hair. The volume was off. I don’t know what he said, but in my head I heard his voice—that warm, slightly gravelly timbre. I shivered.
“He’s playing for the Pats,” said Fernanda, her voice low and worried. “Shit, Jamie.”
Buck up! Shake it off! You’re starting tonight! I took a deep breath and shrugged, but my eyes were glued to the TV. Glued to Caz. Oh God! What if he’s in Gillette stadium this very moment?!
“Come on,” I said to Fernanda, standing up and turning my back on the TV. “I’m starting tonight; I’m not going to focus on that. He doesn’t matter. He’s not going to ruin another season for me.” The season that Caz and I broke up was the worst I’d ever had. Caz was the reason I didn’t date during the soccer season. I was terrible at compartmentalizing, terrible at focusing when my head and heart were distracted.
I wasn’t a college player any more. I was a professional, vying for an invitation to the national training camp. I had to focus. I had to push Caz out of my mind. Besides, what are the chances I’d run into him. Gillette’s a big stadium, and Boston’s a big town. “I’m fine,” I told Fernanda. “We’ve got a game to win.”
3
Caz
“I’m sorry, Cassidy. I can’t advise informing the press of your breakup.”
Not what I wanted to hear. I paced around the player’s lounge, listening on the phone as my agent gave me all the reasons why I couldn’t call up Bleacher Report and let them know about Karissa. She’d been non-stop texting, trying to convince me to take her back. Telling the media we were broken up might get her out of my hair.
“Listen, the media loves you two together, and not all publicity is good publicity. You two have had enough public fights where she’s come out looking like the victim. I also don’t want this to impact your playing. If you’re looking to extend your contract with the Pats, you’re going to have to have the season of your career…”
“Karissa is not going to impact my playing,” I said, cutting that argument off. “I keep that stuff off of the field. Always have.” You can’t rely on anything but yourself. I learned that in the wake of my parents split-up. You want something? You have to go for it, guns blazing. And you can’t let anything hold you back. Mind over matter, always.
“Isn’t Karissa friendly with Becca Barnes?” Dash’s wife, the underwear model. “You don’t want to alienate yourself from your team before the season starts.”
I gritted my teeth. I highly doubted that breaking up with Karissa was going to cause as much trouble as my agent feared. But he was the pro at this media bullshit. I just caught the football.
“Okay,” I said, cutting him off. “Okay, fine. I won’t announce it yet.” Who cared, anyway? I knew I wasn’t with her. She knew we weren’t together anymore, much as she didn’t want to admit it. I had the sneaking suspicion that Karissa didn’t love me that much at all. She liked the attention that came with dating a football player, and the sex had been pretty explosive.
As I hung up the phone and sat down, I noticed a commotion coming from the vicinity of the arena.
“Yo, Caz!” I looked up as Burke Tyler, the Pat’s franchise tight end, wandered through the lounge and over to the fridge to pull out a bottle of water. He opened it and sucked it down, then looked at me. “What’s good?”
Burke makes me look tiny. He’s 6’7” with pale blond hair that he styles in some sort of braided Mohawk, shaved at the sides. I’ve seen him give press conferences. He comes across as stupid. In reality, he’s anything but.
“Agent stuff,” I muttered, standing up to stick my phone in my back pocket. “What’s the noise? What’s going on in the stadium tonight?”
Burke smiled widely, “The Breakers are playing,” he said. “Wanna go watch?”
“The Breakers?”
“Dude. You don’t watch women’s sports?”
I blinked. Women don�
�t play football. Sometimes I watch baseball. I shook my head.
“Missing out, man. Did you watch the World’s two years ago?”
Yes. Everyone watched the World Cup.
“Okay. So you know who Noemi Sax is?”
I smiled, suddenly understanding why he was so keen to go watch the Breakers play. Noemi Sax was the star forward on the women’s national team. She was still big news, with endorsement deals from Under Armor and Gatorade. She was hot. With long blond hair and these massive, sexy thighs.
“Dude,” said Burke, winking. “You gotta see her play, man. She freaking tears it up. There’s plenty of room in the box.”
“In,” I said. I had nothing else to do.
I trailed Burke through the building and toward the stadium box seats. “So, do I need to, like, tell you about soccer rules?” he asked.
I snorted. “No. I don’t watch it, but I know how to play,” and for some reason I decided to add, “I dated a soccer player in college.”
“Hot,” said Burke, giving that million-dollar grin. “I’ve always wanted to bang a soccer chick.”
I smiled back at him. “If you haven’t, you should.” But my smile wasn’t genuine. I actually felt like I’d been kicked in the gut and was having a hard time suppressing memories that kept trying to resurface. Dark brown hair, chocolate brown eyes, pouty mouth. I’d shoved all that old Jamie Anderson shit in a tight mental box and padlocked it.
Bad Ballers: A Contemporary Sports Romance Box Set Page 1