Bad Ballers: A Contemporary Sports Romance Box Set

by Bishop, S. J.

  “What do you mean you don’t know?” asked Pete, surprised that I hadn’t agreed immediately. “What’s there to think about? Why waste your money on your own room?”

  I was surprised at his adamancy. “I’ve already told my teammates I’d room with them…”

  “Yes, but why room with them when you could room with me?” Pete grinned at me, but the grin seemed forced.

  “Let me think about it,” I said, putting him off.

  “I don’t know what there is to think…”

  “I don’t like reneging on promises,” I lied. “So let me see if I can find someone to take my spot in my room.”

  Placated, Pete subsided.

  * * *

  “I can’t believe you agreed to go out again with Dickhead Pete.” Abe glared at me across my desk. It was the end of the school day the next day, and I’d resisted telling him about the date until there was no one around. “This is some sick princess/ogre fantasy, isn’t it?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?” I said. I was tired. It had been a long day.

  “I’m saying you’re like that princess who lets the ogre capture her. You’re doing it so that Dash will sweep in, all white-knight-like, and save you from Pete.”

  “For your information,” I said, standing and stuffing my folders into my bag. “I haven’t spoken to Dash in almost a month.”

  Not since I’d refused to go to Virginia with him. He hadn’t texted, called, or emailed. I’d had no word from him.

  “I know you,” said Abe. “You think about your romantic relationships like they’re fairy-tale romances. That’s why you don’t ever have a boyfriend. Pete is your Mr. Collins, and Dash is your Mr. Darcy.” He waved a dismissive hand.

  “Good literary reference, Mr. Math Teacher. But you’re getting your metaphors mixed up. There are no knights or ogres in Pride and Prejudice. It’s a Georgian romance, not a fairy tale.”

  “Whatever,” Abe grumped.

  “For your information, I’m dating Pete because, before Dash, there was something I liked about Pete, and I’m not going to let Dash fantasies get in the way of me living my life.”

  “Will you live your life with someone else?” asked Abe. “I don’t like Pete.”

  “Well, you can just get over it,” I said, walking past him and out into the hall. Abe followed, still grumbling. “Change of subject,” he said after a moment. “Who are you staying with at Cromwell Cup?”

  “Are the DC Strokes racing, too?” I asked.

  “We’re sending a four. I’m in it,” he said. “And I don’t want to room with Calderone. Did you get a room already? Can I crash?”

  “Hate to break to you,” I said, “but I’m rooming with two other girls. But you know who’s looking for a roommate?”

  Abe grimaced. “Don’t tell me…”

  “Pete!”

  12

  Dash

  “What are you going to do?”

  I looked up into Cassidy Woods’ intense green gaze.

  I shrugged and stared back down at the cover of In Touch Weekly where Becca, lithe, beautiful Becca, was arm and arm with that mouth-breathing hack Gil Thrasher. But what was worse than seeing my ex-wife hanging all over the lead singer of Angel’s Craving was seeing her holding hands with the lead singer’s five-year-old son.

  “We can get out of here, buddy,” Caz was saying. “We can drive up to Montreal. Hit up the strip clubs…”

  I snorted. Poor Caz. He’d come over to hit the gym with me, only to find me raging at my desk.

  I shrugged again. “What am I supposed to do? Get drunk? Blow up her phone?” I threw the magazine across the room. Caz didn’t move a muscle. “I’m sick of this shit,” I said.

  Becca had divorced me because I’d wanted a family and she hadn’t. And yet, here she was on the cover of a gossip magazine in full color, spending a day at Disneyland with her new boyfriend and his son.

  It was an arrow to the gut. It fucking hurt. Here was proof that it wasn’t just the “kid thing” that had driven Becca away. No. In the end, she hadn’t wanted me.

  “You could go out and fuck some 21-year old,” Caz suggested helpfully.

  I rolled my eyes, “Yeah? You have anyone in mind?”

  Caz pursed his lips thoughtfully. “Isn’t that NECN reporter always texting me on and off?”

  I stared at him. What?

  “The little blonde one with the tight ass,” offered Caz, helpfully.

  “What would Jamie say if she knew you were checking out a young blonde reporter’s ass?”

  “Bro, why would I ever tell Jamie I was checking out someone else’s ass?” Caz muttered. “Shit. DO you know who I’m talking about or not?”

  I nodded. “I know who you’re talking about. Alex Something?” She was in my phone as “Hot Reporter.”

  Flipping the magazine over so I no longer had to look at my ex snuggling up with a metal-head, I pulled out my phone. I had a dozen text messages from my family, all checking in to see if I was okay.

  “What are you doing?” asked Caz.

  “Didn’t you just tell me to go fuck that blonde reporter?” I retorted.

  Caz blinked. “Didn’t think you’d do it, man,” he said defensively.

  “Too late now,” I said, shooting off an invitation to “Hot Reporter.” I’d take her out somewhere very public. I wasn’t above being petty. If Becca was going to Disneyland with Angel’s Craving guy, then I could go to the South End with a tight-assed reporter.

  * * *

  Fuck this fucking date.

  If Alex What’s-Her-Name tossed her hair or looked at me from under her lashes one more time…

  To say that the date was going poorly was an understatement. I’d picked up the hot reporter up from her SoWa apartment and had driven us to a five-star restaurant in the South End. I’d had my agent tip off a few members of the press, too, and had pretended to be upset when they caught us out.

  Alex hadn’t minded. She’d half-heartedly tried to hide her face under her hand, but she’d been grinning like a maniac the whole time.

  The reporter was cute and incredibly flirty, but she couldn’t stop being a reporter. She kept telling me how our dining together was just “the most amazing thing” because “you’re so private!” She kept demanding I tell her something about myself that ‘nobody knew.’

  “Off the record, of course!” she kept adding.

  I tried to fend her off. My flirting game was rusty, but I must have been doing all right because she kept giggling like a twelve-year-old. When the meal came, she actually stopped to take a picture of it and post it to social media in the middle of the date.

  Worse than having to pass time with a total bimbo (Why had I thought the seven-course tasting menu was a good idea?) was that, rather than distract me, she was making me miss Annie with a vengeance. Yeah: not Becca, Annie.

  Alex would say something inane like, “You’re so much taller in person!” and I’d think, “Annie would never say that.” Alex would bite her lip, and I’d think, “Annie does that, but when she does it, it looks guileless…”

  I shook my head. When did Annie become the new standard that all women had to live up to? I’d been thinking about Annie all month. Each time I had a spare moment, or an abstract thought, or read something interesting, I’d wanted to text it to Annie. At least once a day, I’d had to stop myself. Annie had turned me down.

  I stared at Alex, who batted her lashes at me over her small dish of cannelloni. We were only on the third course, and I was already thinking about ways to get myself out of this dinner. I sighed, pushing a piece of pork belly across my plate.

  “What are you thinking about?” asked Alex, leaning across the table. She had lowered her voice and was doing her best to seem intriguing.

  “Football,” I lied. I needed to find some topic she could talk about without my participation. “What have you heard about our new Slot Receiver?”

  As Alex prattled on, I found myself daydreami
ng about red hair and a pair of lush lips…

  13

  Anne

  The Cromwell cup was held on the Charles River in Boston and had at least forty masters teams from across the east coast. I was in two separate events, racing in an eight-person boat and a four-person boat. Our four person boat hadn’t made it out of the heats, but our eight had smoked the competition and had sailed into the semi-finals with seconds between us and the next fastest crew.

  As we finished the race and spun the boat to head back to the dock, my legs and lungs were burning, but I hadn’t been happier in weeks. My entire crew was smiling and cheering as we headed toward the Weeks Footbridge.

  “Hey, Anne,” said our three-seat, turning around to catch my eye. “I think someone’s calling you!”

  I blinked. I’d been lost in the noise of the oars against the water, but as I listened closely, I could absolutely hear someone calling my name. I looked up just as we passed under the bridge. The figure was tall, with dark sunglasses, a baseball cap, and a dark blond beard obscuring his features. It couldn’t be…

  But the man calling my name grinned and tipped his sunglasses down his nose. Fuck. It was Dash. My heart began to hammer, my mouth went dry, and I had to shrug and say “nobody” when the three seat asked me who the hottie on the bridge was.

  What was he doing out in broad daylight on a weekend in Boston? Wasn’t he worried someone would take his picture?

  As we sailed back into the dock and got out of the boat, our bow seat touched my shoulder. “What’s wrong,” she said. “We’re into the semis! It’s six boats in the race; three of them move on to the final, and we’ve got at least five seconds on second place!”

  I tried to smile, but my stomach was in knots. “I’m just fatigued,” I lied. “I need to sit down when we get back to the trailer.”

  I took some solace in the fact that we were launching out of the Eliot boathouse, which was at least a mile’s walk from the Weeks Footbridge. And yet, when I arrived at the trailer, Dash was there.

  Gone were the expensive jeans and the hundred dollar t-shirts. Dash wore a pair of old, worn jeans and a navy-blue t-shirt with his brother-in-law’s deli logo on it. He wore a Boston Red Sox cap and a pair of Ray Bans. With his height and his muscles, he looked like he might have been a rower, or a rowing coach. Nobody would look twice at him and see the Patriots’ Quarterback. Despite myself, I was impressed.

  Dash waited patiently while I put the boat away, and once we were through talking to our coach, I headed over to find out what the hell he was doing here.

  “Hey,” I said, striving to sound calmer than I felt. It was difficult, considering I kept imagining how good he looked out of his clothes.

  “Hey,” he said, grinning from ear to ear. “I would have texted, but I figured you wouldn’t be checking your phone. You should have told me you were in town.”

  “How did you find out I was going to be in town?” I asked.

  “You left a message for Becca on the home machine,” he explained. “She’s in Argentina right now, but I went home to grab some things, and I checked the messages. I figured I’d come by and say hi, see if you wanted to go out to dinner tonight. Do you?”

  Did I want to have dinner with Dash? God. Yes. Seeing him again made me realize just how miserable I’d been this past month. It was easy enough to distract myself during the day, but at night, he filled my thoughts. And recently, he’d been all over the tabloids.

  Last week, pictures of Becca and Gil Thrasher had surfaced. The very next day, there were pictures of Dash out to dinner with a young, blonde reporter. At least it wasn’t a model, I’d consoled myself at the time, but I had kept imagining Dash in bed with the blonde.

  “Doesn’t have to be fancy,” said Dash, misreading my silence. “We could grab a slice of pizza.”

  I opened my mouth, not sure how I was going to respond…

  “What a fucking awesome race!” The air was knocked from my lungs as Pete scooped me up from behind and spun me. He planted a hard, firm kiss on my lips before setting me down. “That sprint was incredible! What a thing of beauty!”

  “Thanks,” I said to Pete, who was gazing down at me with such pride that I felt slightly guilty for envisioning Dash naked just moments ago.

  “You looked like you were hauling the whole boat from the two-seat,” said Pete, shaking his head. “Shit. And you’re five seconds up on Carnegie Rowing going into the semis…”

  “Don’t jinx me,” I said, knocking at my head lightly, perfectly aware that I had my back to Dash. “Ah, Pete, this is my friend…”

  I trailed off, uncertain how Dash wanted me to introduce him.

  “Hey, Bro,” said Pete, cutting me off before I could make up a name. “I think I saw you a few weeks ago. You were at the boathouse, right?”

  Fuck. No grass growing on Pete. I had a feeling that he might have come over here strictly because I was taking to Dash. Pete wasn’t a big PDA kinda guy. That whole display had clearly been for Dash’s benefit.

  “I was. I’m an old friend,” said Dash, baring his teeth in something that was supposed to be a smile but looked more like a warning.

  “Cool,” said Pete, wrapping a possessive arm around my shoulder. “How do you guys know each other?”

  “Through family,” I said quickly. I didn’t need this escalating. “He lives here…”

  “And I was just stopping to see if Annie wanted to get dinner and catch up.” He said my name with such familiarity that I felt Pete stiffen behind me. Fuck.

  14

  Dash

  Where the fuck had she found this winner? It’s hard to stare someone down when the both of you are wearing sunglasses, but that was exactly what was happening between me and Pete. I remembered Annie talking about this joker. This was the guy who’d told her on the third date that he just wasn’t that interested. Well, something had certainly changed between then and now. If his dick-head posturing was anything to go by, they were probably sleeping together.

  The thought of Annie sleeping with this Gordon Gecko wannabe made me want to punch someone. Instead, I smiled.

  “Tough break, Bro,” said Pete. “Anne and I have a reservation for tonight.”

  Did they? Fuck that. “You know,” I said, “I’m all about respecting the reservation, but since you and Annie both live in the same city, you can technically grab dinner with her any time. I, on the other hand, haven’t seen her in a while.”

  I turned my attention to Annie, who looked like she’d rather be anywhere else. Served her right. What was she doing dating a guy like this? Was I misremembering? Hadn’t she described him as a total nightmare?

  “Well, maybe she can catch up with you after,” suggested Pete, his arm tightening around Annie’s shoulders. I waited for Annie to wriggle out of his grasp, but she didn’t.

  “Or maybe she can catch up with you after,” I challenged. Come on, Annie, say something. No way was she going to blow me off for this douche-bag rowing bro.

  Pete’s arm dropped from Annie’s shoulder, and he took a step forward.

  “Hey,” said Annie, careful to get my attention without saying my name. “I promised Pete we’d go to dinner. I’m sorry I didn’t call you ahead of time and let you know I was in town.”

  I tried to keep smiling, but I knew it looked forced.

  “I’d really like to grab drinks with you after, if you have time.”

  I shrugged. I was pissed enough to cut off my nose to spite my face. It was only the certainty that Annie didn’t actually like Pete that allowed me to nod and say, “Sure. You let me know where to meet you.”

  I walked off, feeling – once again – like a loser, and not liking the feeling one bit.

  15

  Anne

  I wish my heart didn’t hurt so badly. Dash had clearly gone out of his way to track me down at the regatta and invite me to dinner. Standing between him and Pete, I’d desperately wanted to go to dinner with Dash, but I had to make the smarter deci
sion. Dash was a fantasy. Pete was a reality.

  But sitting across the table from Pete at the fancy Red Hen Restaurant, I would have given anything to trade reality for fantasy.

  Dash’s possessive display in front of Pete had apparently triggered some bizarre macho alternate reality Pete that I hadn’t yet seen before. He’d shown up at our dinner dressed like an extreme version of himself: black slacks and a lavender shirt with the sleeves rolled up, Rolex prominently displayed, dark hair slicked back off of his face, and his shoes shining.

  In my jeans and sleeveless red blouse, I’d felt underdressed.

  As we sat down to eat, Pete couldn’t stop bragging and name-dropping. As if he’d seen through Dash’s disguise, he seemed intent on making me understand that he, too, was important. I had the strange epiphany that he was trying to impress me with his snobbery. It wasn’t working.

  “You know,” said Pete, at one point after we’d ordered our entrees. “You can participate in this conversation, too.” He sounded irritated, and I thought back over the last few minutes of conversation. Nope. He hadn’t asked me a single question.

  Maybe it was my anxiety over Dash, or maybe I’d just reached my bullshit limit for the day, but I snapped.

  “I’m sorry,” I said to Pete, lacing my apology with slight sarcasm. “I didn’t see an opening. You were doing a great job holding that conversation by yourself.”

  Pete blinked, and I immediately felt like an asshole. I opened my mouth to apologize, but Pete beat me too it. “That was bitchy,” he said, sounding reproving. “Are you on your period or something?”

  It was my turn to be startled. What the actual fuck?

  “I’m sorry…”

  “You should be,” said Pete, “That was really rude, and I don’t think I deserved that.”