Saving Her: A Bad Boy Secret Baby Romance

by R. R. Banks

  “We really need to talk about you screwing half the hospitality staff,” Rick says when he steps into my box, closing the door behind him.

  I look over and give him an amused grin. “Why? Is the other half jealous?”

  Rick Dempsey, the current President and General Manager of the Copperheads, sits down in the plush, padded seat next to me. The large windows are open so I can hear the roar of the crowd, the popping of the pads as the players collide with one another, and soak in the ambiance of a Copperheads home game. There's really nothing else like it.

  I've visited with other owners in the league in their stadiums. Some of them like to spend their Sundays down in the hospitality suites, drinking and stuffing their faces, not even paying attention to the game. Others like to sit in their luxury box, drinking, stuffing their faces, and watching the games on the televisions that fill the suite – if they pay attention to it at all.

  Many of them just like to be surrounded by a loud crowd of hangers-on who are there to be seen rather than to enjoy a game. And that's just not my way.

  I don't understand it. You own a team and you don't even watch them play? I'm convinced that half the owners in the league – maybe more – don't really care about football one way or the other. They own a team for the status and stature of being an NFL owner.

  But not me. Football is in my blood. I played in high school and college – and if not for a blown-out knee in my sophomore season, who knows what might have happened? Maybe I'd be down there strapping them up with my hometown Copperheads too. It had been my dream at one point in time – a dream my body was unable to help me fulfill.

  Yeah, there's still a little bitterness about that in my system.

  Instead of being on the field blowing up receivers on Sundays, I'm sitting in the skybox, watching them play – the owner-in-waiting, as my lawyer, Kendrick Booth likes to say.

  The blonde I'd banged at halftime comes in with a tray bearing wings and beer. She sets it down on the table between Rick and me before giving me a flirty little wink and a smile.

  “Thank you, sweetheart,” I say.

  Rick shakes his head and sighs as she turns and leaves the box. I grab my beer and take a long swallow of it. Rick grabs his bottle and holds it, watching the play on the field unfold. Our second-rate quarterback, Jake Penn, throws another incomplete pass, bringing up yet another fourth down. It hasn't been a great game for the Copperheads. Hell, it hasn't been a great start to the season.

  “The hospitality girls,” Rick says. “I need you to lay off of 'em, Brady. Not only is it unprofessional, you're opening yourself – and this organization – up to a potential lawsuit.”

  I shrug. “They're all of age,” I reply, watching with a simmering anger as the punting team comes out onto the field. Again. “What happens between two consenting adults is nobody's business. Least of all yours, Rick.”

  Rick and I have a – contentious – relationship. To put it mildly. Mostly because I forget more about football in a day than Rick is ever going to know – and he knows it. He's only in the position because after my parents died, somebody had to step into the role – and he was available. For whatever reason, he and my father were friends and he has a lot of years in the league – many of them in a GM capacity. So, to some, that gives him some credibility around the league.

  Not that his years as a GM were good years. For any of the teams he's been with.

  If anybody had asked me – and nobody did – I would have told them to steer clear of Rick Dempsey. He drafts poorly, goes cheap on free agents, and his track record as a GM doesn't include guiding a team to a single winning season. Twenty years in the league – thirteen as a GM – and Dempsey doesn't have a single winning season to his credit.

  It's something that never fails to irritate me whenever I see his face. He's terrible at his job, but somebody else always takes the fall. It's the quarterback. It's injuries. It's a poor pass defense. The most recurrent theme is, it's the coach. Nobody ever really stops to look at his track record of drafting and signing free agents.

  I have though, and it's horrible.

  And the reason our relationship is so rocky is because he refuses to listen to my advice. Refuses to draft the players I want to target or sign the free agents I think can help the team. He simply smiles, nods, and blows me off – as if I'm just some spoiled rich kid who doesn't really know much about anything other than girls and partying.

  Dempsey doesn't seem to understand that it's only a matter of time before I assume control of the team though, and will be the one calling all the shots. All he talks about is sticking to his vision and his game plan for the organization, promising that better days are ahead.

  “Be that as it may,” Rick goes on, “There is always the potential –”

  “I'm done talking about that,” I snap. “What I want to talk about – the reason I asked you to meet with me – is because of what I see down there.”

  He sighs and puts on that smug, condescending, patronizing expression that irritates me so much. I point to the field and watch in frustration as a receiver blows by our cornerback, hauling in a forty-yard gain. If not for the safety coming over to help, that would have been a score. Easily. And with the team down by two touchdowns already, it probably would have been the proverbial final nail in the coffin.

  “Yeah,” Rick says, rubbing a hand along his stubbled jawline. “It's a tough one out there today. Have to give Atlanta some credit though – that's a good squad.”

  “No, more like, we're a terrible squad,” I reply. “Did you not just see Rogers give up that forty-yard gainer? What did I tell you at the end of last season?”

  Rick shakes his head and takes a swallow of his beer. “Honestly, I don't remember,” he says. “I have a lot of things going on – as I'm sure you know.”

  “Well, let me refresh your memory,” I growl. “I told you that Rogers is a third-tier cornerback. At best. I told you to cut him and go after Bishop Mickens.”

  “Mickens signed with Minnesota,” he says.

  “Because you didn't make a play for him,” I reply. “Everybody knows he wants to come play here. This is where he grew up, for fuck's sake.”

  Rick shrugs. “The numbers didn't work out.”

  “That's a pile of bullshit, Rick,” I say. “See, I spent some time with the capologists. I know exactly how much cap room this team has. And how much more it would have if you'd cut the players I told you to cut. With the warchest you're sitting on, you could have signed ten Bishop Mickens. And I don't even want to get into the abomination that is this season's draft class. I mean seriously, Rick –”

  “Look, Brady,” he cuts me off, his tone smug and condescending. “I appreciate your passion and your enthusiasm. I really do. But I have a vision for this organiza –”

  “A vision that hasn't produced a single winning season in the two years you've been in control, Rick,” I say. “And the way this season is starting off, you're probably going to extend that streak.”

  Rick sighs and sets his beer down. A look of pure annoyance crosses his face and he looks like he wants to punch me. Part of me hopes he does – if he punches me, it might give me cause to force him out of the GM's chair.

  “I don't think I need to remind you that I'm the President and General Manager of this organization, Brady.”

  “No, you don't need to remind me, Rick,” I snap. “It's a situation I'm working to correct though. Believe me.”

  “Well, until that actually happens – if that happens,” he says, glaring at me. “I will continue to appreciate your input, but all football related decisions go through me. For all intents and purposes, this is my team and I am going to run it the way I see fit.”

  “Yeah, sticking to your vision,” I spit.

  He nods. “Exactly. Sticking to my vision.”

  “Forgive me for being skeptical,” I sneer. “But your vision hasn't exactly worked out in Buffalo. Or Cleveland. Or Miami. Or New York.”

  Ric
k's face darkens – he apparently doesn't enjoy having his poor track record as a GM thrown in his face. Good. At the moment, it's the only power I have. As much as it pains me to admit.

  “I think we're done here,” he says. “But just know that I will continue to do what I believe is in the best interest of this organization. And all decisions will continue to go through me – and will continue to do so unless and until you ever assume control of the team.”

  I nod. “Oh, believe me, I will,” I say. “And when I do, the very first thing I'm going to do is fire your ass, Rick. It is going to be one of the greatest days of my life.”

  He gives me a smirk. “Good luck with that, kid,” he says. “It's been a pleasure. As always.”

  He turns and leaves my suite without another word, slamming the door behind him. I know I shouldn't antagonize him the way I do, but I can't seem to help it. I really detest the guy. He's incompetent at his job and refuses to listen – always referring to his sacred plan like it's the Holy Grail or something.

  His plan is trash, plain and simple. And as I watch Rogers give up a touchdown pass to put Atlanta up by three scores, all I can do is shake my head. That will seal this game, giving us a three-game losing streak to start the season.

  “Great plan, Rick,” I shout. “Great vision.”

  Chapter Three

  Amanda

  “Mornin'. What can I get you?” I ask as the woman steps to the counter.

  “Vanilla latte, double shot of espresso, extra foam, extra shot of vanilla,” the woman replies, her tone dismissive and condescending.

  She gives me her order without even bothering to look at me, speaking as if she were speaking to one of her maids or something. And maybe, in her mind, that's all I am. Her perfectly styled hair and manicured nails, carefully applied makeup, not to mention her obviously expensive outfit, make me think she's some wealthy suburban housewife – I've seen enough of them come through here to know the type.

  Which makes the way she speaks to me make sense – the ones I've had the misfortune of dealing with certainly have a terrible sense of entitlement about them. And this one is no different.

  The woman's face is glued to her phone – of course. It looks like she's updating her Facebook – which is one of the many, many things that annoy me about people. Hey, I enjoy my social media accounts as much as anybody – but I never fail to say please, thank you, and to look people in the eye. It's only courteous.

  In general, though, people seem to be so consumed with their social media accounts that they've forgotten things like common courtesy and manners.

  Or maybe I was just raised differently. My parents taught me to always be courteous and respectful. If I wasn't, I always got a smack upside the head or some other form of unpleasant punishment, so I learned really quickly.

  Yeah, my folks didn't win a whole lot of parent of the year awards, but at least I learned some manners from them. It's about the only thing I can be grateful to them for.

  “Sure,” I say. “Coming right up.”

  I leave the cashier to ring her up as I make the woman's drink, all the while fuming about her lack of manners. It's stupid. I know I should let it go. It's not going to do me any good to let this woman get under my skin. She really isn't worth it and I have better things to spend my energy on.

  Taking a deep breath, I let it out and try to calm myself down as I make the woman her drink. I try to focus on something else – like my upcoming test. I work part time at the coffee house to bring in some cash. It's not a lot, but I make do. I also go to school at the local junior college. I want to get all of my general education classes out of the way, so that when I transfer to a four-year school, I can focus on my major and get myself ready for my career.

  “Excuse me,” the woman snaps, her tone now irritated. “Are you done yet? I'm in a hurry.”

  “In a hurry to go bang your yoga instructor?” I mutter to myself.

  “Excuse me?” the woman asks. “What did you just say?”

  The woman's tone moves from irritated to flat out angry in the blink of an eye and I realize in that moment, that I'd spoken a little louder than I thought. Whoops. I turn to the woman and give her a small smile.

  “I said I'm almost done,” I say, putting on a smile I'm positive looks as phony as it feels. “Just be another moment.”

  The woman's eyes narrow and she stares daggers at me. “That's not what you said.”

  I shrug. “Sure, it is,” I reply. “You probably misheard me because you're staring at your phone so hard.”

  “You are incredibly rude,” she snaps.

  “Not the first time I've heard that.”

  The woman's face darkens with anger and it's all I can do to not laugh in her face – she looks like she's about to burst. I have zero doubt that her staff at home doesn't speak to her the way I'm speaking to her – and on some level know that I shouldn't either. But I can't help myself. She looks like the kind of woman who'd fire somebody for looking at her wrong – or for looking at her at all.

  In fact, I bet she's the type of woman who insists that her “hired help” does not make eye contact with her. Ever. She certainly seems to be like that.

  “I want to speak with your manager,” she demands.

  I shrug like I don't care – because I don't. “Danny,” I call out. “Somebody wants to speak with you.”

  Danny, a tall, gangly guy two years younger than me with thinning hair, pale skin, and coke bottle glasses comes out of the back and walks over to me. Danny's a good guy and we get along pretty well most of the time. He's had my back more than a few times, but I know that I'm on thin ice with him. I know he's getting tired of having to smooth things over for me.

  “What's up?” he says.

  I shrug and point to the woman. “She wants to speak with you.”

  He gives me a look and then a quiet sigh – this isn't the first time he's had to field a complaint about me. Turning to the woman, he gives her his best smile.

  “How can I help you?” he asks.

  “You can start by firing that little bitch,” the woman snaps.

  Danny raises his hands. “Come on now,” he says. “There's no need for that kind of language. What seems to be the problem?”

  “For starters,” the woman hisses, “this little bitch insinuated that I'm having an inappropriate affair with my yoga instructor.”

  So, she does have a yoga instructor. Figures. And yeah, she's probably fucking him. Danny turns to me, his eyes wide, a look of disbelief on his face.

  “Amanda, is that true?” he asks. “Did you suggest –”

  I shake my head. “I don't know what she heard,” I lie. “But I didn't say that.”

  “She's a liar,” the woman almost shouts. “A goddamn liar.”

  I shrug. “I didn't say that, Danny,” I say, looking him in the eye. “She must have misheard me.”

  The woman's voice is raised so loud that the other customers are starting to pay attention to the little drama unfolding. Some of them are smirking, others look like they're hoping to see some bloodshed. If nothing else, at least they get a little show while they wait for their drinks.

  Danny looks at me long and hard, trying to decide if I'm telling the truth or not. I don't like lying and generally do everything I can to tell the truth at all times. But I also need to keep this job. It's not easy to find work these days – especially work that will be as flexible with my school schedule as Danny is.

  “Seriously, Danny,” I say softly. “I didn't say that.”

  Danny gives me a small nod and turns to the woman. “I'm sorry for the misunderstanding –”

  “You're taking her side?” the woman screams.

  He shakes his head. “I'm not taking anybody's side,” he says calmly. “I'm just trying to resolve the situation. I'd like to refund you the price of your drink and offer you another drink the next time you come in, on the house.”

  The woman looks at him aghast. “You actually think I'm going
to set foot in this place again after the way I've been treated? Seriously?”

  “I understand,” Danny says. “And again, I apologize for the misunderstanding. Please, let me try to make it right.”

  I feel bad that Danny is taking all the heat for me. He doesn't deserve that. But at the same time, what else can I do? I genuinely hadn't meant to say that out loud – it was supposed to stay in my head. But somehow, it slipped out. And I couldn't afford to lose my job. All I could do was deny the hell out of everything and then try to make it up to Danny later.

  “Do you even know who I am?” the woman snaps.

  Yeah, an entitled, snooty bitch, I think to myself and then take a quick look at Danny to make sure I hadn't actually said that out loud. He's still focused on the woman though, so I think I'm in the clear.

  Danny looks at her a long moment as if trying to figure it out before shaking his head. “No, I'm afraid I don't.”

  She actually looks more horrified that he doesn't know who she is than she is by me saying she's banging her yoga instructor.

  “I happen to be the wife of the Deputy Assistant District Attorney,” she huffs.

  “Oh, I'm sorry,” Danny says awkwardly. “I didn't recognize you.”

  He's trying to appease her and say something nice, but what he said only serves to infuriate the woman even more. She looks positively apoplectic. But seriously, who knows the Deputy Assistant District Attorney – let alone, his wife – look like? Or even who they are? Talk about arrogant and entitled.

  “Screw you,” the woman hisses. “I've never been treated so poorly in my life and I'm telling all of my friends to stop coming here. And I'm going to post a horrible review on Yelp. This business is going to fail. I'm going to destroy you. Mark my words. You messed with the wrong woman.”

  The woman turns on her Christian Louboutin heels and storms out of the coffee house. Some of the customers in line are snickering and shaking their heads, discussing the little drama amongst themselves. Danny looks at me, his face grim.

  “In my office,” he says as he turns and quickly walks to the back of the store.