Rumor Has It (Jock Star Book 1)

by Caterina Campbell

  “He’s going to be so happy.” She touches my arm and gives me a smile she’s thinking will ease the worry on my face.

  I nod, not because I agree, but because it leads me to my nagging question. “And how can you be so sure?”

  “Trust me,” she says before cheering a perfectly placed line drive by Robbins that lands him on first base and pushes Halsey to second. “If I didn’t know my brother so well, he would have gotten away with this. Truth is, he’s miserable, and you’re the reason why.”

  My eyebrows touch, but before I can choke out a sarcastic, “Thanks,” Camille grabs my arm.

  “Miserable in a good way.” She grins, squeezing my forearm, the brim of her hat flopping with her enthusiasm.

  “Why does his misery have to be because of me. Maybe it’s over you or Nikki Kline?”

  She grows serious, her smile replaced by pinched, flesh-toned lips. “Eww,” she says with about as much distaste as Bristol has when she talks about Tiffany. “I can’t believe people are still talking about us dating.” She shudders. “I can’t speak about Nikki. He’s never mentioned her, but he has mentioned you. Kind of telling, don’t you think?”

  “I don’t know. Does he talk about all his friends with you?”

  “No,” she says adamantly, leaning in closer to whisper, “until you.” A smug grin tops off her perceived mic drop.

  “I talk about my vagina a lot with my sister. It doesn’t mean I want to date it.”

  She laughs. “God, I wish I had a sister. Van never wants to talk about my vagina.”

  “That’s not what the media is reporting.”

  “Touché,” she laughs. “I threw up a bit in my mouth, but it at least cancels out some of the calories in the hot dog I ate.” She smiles, pats my hand, and groans with the end of another scoreless inning for the Renegades. “Look, Brenna. Van and I don’t talk about his conquests. I asked about you after I saw you online, and when he didn’t give me the standard ‘don’t believe everything you read’ answer, I knew he’d fallen.”

  I don’t know what to say to that, so I watch Vance return to the pitcher’s mound, heart in my throat, regret in my bones. I admire the bold confidence of the guy who exudes irreverence everywhere but on the field. He is mesmerizing to watch. Nowhere is his intensity more prevalent than it is on the mound. From the roll of the ball in his grasp to the way his body adjusts its form to the unique batter in front of him, it’s all by design. He does nothing by mistake. I’ve called him bossy half a dozen times since meeting him, but I’ve since learned it’s his innate drive and not necessarily a need for dominance. But that proves my point: Vance doesn’t make mistakes, so if he let me go, there is a reason.

  I’ve never had an even balance of discipline and drive. For me, it’s been balls to the wall chaos my entire life, and I don’t know how to live any other way than on the edge of disaster. Hesitate and you become a gossip topic or teary-eyed in a courtroom when you discover you have a half-sister who isn’t allowed to be around you because you’re a Sloan. Hesitate and you never see the top side of the rumor pile, so, driven is all I’ve ever been. With Vance, I can hesitate. I can think. I can breathe. Or at least I thought I could until the media tipped the scales.

  I look again at Camille, who I think has been watching me the whole time I’ve been watching Vance. “Why me?”

  “Why not you?” She shifts in her seat, body facing me, eyes free of her sunglasses, “Van doesn’t lose himself in people like he used to. I think you should know that everything he does now is calculated. It may not always be what’s best for him, but it’s usually what’s best for his heart and his career.”

  The game is a minor inconvenience as I listen to her, my thoughts running rampant. “Why is that?”

  Camille sighs, takes a deep breath and resigns herself to opening up to me, a virtual stranger she’s got no choice but to place her faith in if she wants to keep me in the picture. “I thought he was going to end up marrying his high school sweetheart right after they graduated. But she sold his baseball glove for five thousand dollars two days after he signed with the Renegades.” Another pause for effect. “That was his last serious relationship. So when I tell you he doesn’t fall often, I mean it. He cut her out cold turkey when she proved to be useless baggage that didn’t have his best interests at heart. Same with Eric, our brother. He cut him out the second he sold a story to the media for drug money. Both broke his heart, but he didn’t hesitate. He’s calculated, Brenna, but he’s not always right.”

  “I would have cut them off too,” I say, switching my gaze to Vance on the pitching mound, feeling sorry for his hard choices, but understanding them.

  She nods knowingly. “He thought maybe your sister had the same motives as Eric, and that’s all he saw until I pointed out that she may have called the press for publicity on your event, not to make money or to do irreparable damage. That helped for all of a second, then he blamed himself for ruining the event with his presence. He’s so egotistical, it’s maddening. I think in some crazy way, he thought that by breaking up with you, he’d be saving you from what he endured with Eric and Cassie. He didn’t want you to lose your sister.” She pauses, a sad turn to her expression. “But if he wants you, he’s going to have to get over it. And if you want him, you’re going to have to get used to it.”

  I drop my eyes and look at my feet, noticing that my toenails are in desperate need of attention. She talks a good game. She even makes this realist girl want to believe in fairy tales. “I hope you’re right.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The Renegades’ loss to the Braves by one run leaves a hungry Renegades crowd bitter and disappointed. Middle finger salutes, cuss words, and a few unnecessary fights break out as San Jose protects its own with thuggery and intimidation. They’re known as hooligans for a reason, and I’m starting to understand why we had to cross through metal detectors to get within shouting distance of the team’s tunnel.

  Camille breezes through the rabid fans like a pro who has braved these halls a thousand times. “Don’t mind them,” she says over her shoulder, hair tucked up under her hat. “They’re harmless. They’ll be buying each other drinks in an hour.”

  In the tunnel that leads to the locker room, press room, and rooms with purposes I can only guess at, Camille and I wait. The team has yet to pour through the entrance, and I look at the wide opening lit by slivers of remaining summer daylight and the lights of the stadium. It feels a bit surreal to be standing here. Not knowing what I may encounter, I sweat stress from every pore.

  “Relax,” Camille says, sneakily peeking around the corner to see if she can see signs of them. Fans have already started to fill in around the entrance, and a few brazen ones have trickled in without passes. “He’s going to be happy.”

  Despite her reassurances, I can’t help but think this is a mistake. What will I do if he publicly shuns me? Then I think even if he hated me, he wouldn’t be rude, not like Eli Perkins was years back after my boob pic. While I’m throat deep in my private worries, the tunnel takes on a hum, a resounding vibration that alerts me to change and triggers my pulse. I’m on edge, heart hammering, as the team, one by one, appears in the mouth of the tunnel, each somber face mirroring another as they pass by me.

  It’s hard to look a single one of them in the eyes, fearing the next set will be a pair of blues I won’t be able to look away from. And then I see him, head bowed, glove in hand, a wholly dejected slump to his shoulders.

  “Hey!” Camille yells, sunglasses in hand, and a couple of them along with Vance look in her direction. I think she’s a staple and most know her by face if not by introduction, but no one seems to recognize her in her Kentucky Derby disguise, and everyone but Vance continues on. He detours to her, and she nods her head in my direction.

  It takes a second, but when recognition hits, it’s solid, fierce, and absolutely soul-crushing. The even plain of his lips tightens, shoring up his detachment, bearing a wealth of information he’s
unaware of. Unsure of what I should do next, I stay put, wringing my hands while Camille speaks to him. Keeping an obvious distance from her, he nods once and walks toward me.

  My butterflies somersault. “Hi.” I’m about as creative as a sloth in a hammock, but what do you say after what was said the last time? “I’m probably the last person you expected to see.”

  “You could say that.”

  “I hope you don’t mind that I came.”

  “Mind?” He fidgets with his glove and then tucks it beneath his arm.

  “Camille thought that—” cutting myself off, I hang my head. I need to own this. For the first time in my life, I’ve chosen myself over Bristol, and I better damn well fight for why I’m here or it will all be for nothing. I lift my head and square my shoulders, looking him in the eyes. “I wanted to see you. I know you said—”

  Eyes pinched, he interrupts me. “I said a lot of things, and most of them I regret.”

  Hope rising, I swallow hard enough to crackle my ears, but when his expression doesn’t change, I waffle. “Regret enough that you don’t mind me being here? Or . . .?”

  “I’m so far from minding, Brenna. I’m struggling to maintain a respectable distance.”

  Relieved, I smile, eyes intent, hands itching to get a piece of his red and white shirt to tug him toward me.

  “Hatfield!” someone half-dressed yells from the far side of the tunnel.

  Vance deflates, blowing out an exasperated breath. “Yeah, be there in a minute.”

  “It’s okay,” I say, shooing him with my hand. “Go.”

  He lowers his head and then lifts it to look at me. “We have to watch game tape tonight.” Filled with something other than his initial reservations, his tone is softer and, if I’m not reading it wrong, tinted with disappointment.

  “We can do this another time,” I say softly, nearly choking on my accommodating response when all I want is to be selfish.

  “Give me a few. I’ll find a way out of it.”

  “Oh, geez, go.” Camille shoves his arm, maneuvering between us. “I’m on stage tonight at the Wicked Lantern. It’s downtown across from San Jose Improv on South Second. Brenna can come with me and you can pick her up there.” She looks at me. “Assuming you can stay?”

  I weigh my options and, deciding not to waste the opportunity I came here for, I nod.

  She grins. “It’s settled. You’ll talk later. Now go, before you get fined.”

  Surprising me, he grabs hold of my elbow, eyes searching for something. “It’ll be late, but I’ll see you later.” Dropping my arm, he backs away, walking backward toward the door he was being summoned from, and then after a few steps, he turns to walk the remainder of the way facing away from me.

  Plagued by nerves, I climb into Vance’s car a little after ten, but when he guides my head toward his the second my door closes, my insecurity seems stupid. The kiss, full of rekindled fire and weeks of reservations, takes my breath. He growls as he lets me go, holding my face long past the kiss. “I know that was probably out of line, but it will never be one of my regrets.”

  “It’s okay,” I say softly, smiling, “I’m not objecting.”

  With his hand still cupping the side of my head, he leans into me, stalling briefly before his lips and tongue take full possession. It’s hot and leaves us both breathless. When he pulls back to look at me, I’m dizzy, wondering why we both wasted so much time.

  “I don’t want to do this in the Wicked Lantern parking lot,” he says, “and I don’t want to assume there is someplace else to take it, so you tell me what you want.”

  “I wasn’t sure what was going to happen . . . I—I didn’t know what you wanted.”

  I can’t read the expression that crosses his face. At first, it looks like frustration or maybe regret, and then he recovers with a slow, almost sad smile. “I want you with me if you want to stay. We can take it slow if that’s what you want or if that’s what the rest of the night dictates, but I want you with me.”

  I nod once. “I want that too.”

  He smiles, rubs my bottom lip with his thumb and nods several times, his thoughts left unspoken. “Ready?”

  I nod and pull my seat belt across me as he starts the car.

  “Did you suffer long in there?” he asks, clearing his throat and throwing the Spyder into gear. He zips through the parking lot, slowing for a few cars without the good sense to stay out of his way.

  I grin, turning halfway in my seat to look at him. “No. It was amazing.” My enthusiastic response might be too much for just having left a strip club. It was not at all how I envisioned Camille when he said she ‘stripped.’ “You should go.”

  He hisses a breath in, looking in his rearview as he switches lanes. “I’d rather dig glass out of my eye.”

  “It’s not what you think. When she gets on that pole, holy shit, she has talent.” I rave about her while he silently cringes. “She can move, Vance. It’s not seedy at all. She’s not performing for dollar bills. They don’t even do that. What strip club doesn’t have dollar bills?”

  “Brenna, we’re still talking about my sister.” He swerves into the far lane on the freeway and stomps on the gas, whizzing us past a convoy of muscle cars and an old cop car.

  “Sorry,” I offer, turning to look forward. “I thought you’d want to know that your sister isn’t the kind of stripper you see in the movies. I also thought you should know that I make my own decisions, and I’m not going to let you make any more for me.”

  He stomps harder on the gas. “Is that so?” He tries to hide his grin, but even in the dark, I can see it.

  “I’m not afraid of a little paparazzi. For me, you’re worth it.”

  I have to hold on as he suddenly jerks the car across three lanes of traffic to pull off the freeway. He barrels down the ramp and pulls into the nearest parking lot, bringing the car to a stop in front of a closed Home Depot.

  He leans across the car and cups the side of my head with his hand, his fingers pressing into the back of my neck to urge me toward him. My heart beats so fast it pounds in my ears, drowning out my second thoughts and also my thoughts of coming clean about telling Bristol Camille’s secret.

  His lips crash into mine, relentless in their possession and certain of their message. “The past few weeks have killed me.”

  “Vance?” I drag out his name, tilting my head slightly, my body questioning him as well.

  “Screw it all, Brenna. I’ll find a way to live with it—all of it. I want you.”

  “What are you saying? Sometimes you’re all over the place. This time, I need you to say it.”

  “I want only you, Brenna. I want . . .” he runs his hand down my arm and over the top part of my hip where it stays. “I want this—you—all the time. Just me and you.”

  I open my mouth and a rough impersonation of a frog tumbles out. Any eye contact I had before falls away, and I’m looking down between us at the center console.

  Using two fingers, he pulls my chin up and waits for me to look him in the eyes again. “What do you say we try this?” His eyes search mine for a response I’m not quick to give. “I want this, Brenna. I want you.”

  I stare at him, eyes unseeing. After seconds that seem like minutes that feel like hours, I finally speak. “You’re going to break my heart, aren’t you?”

  He drops my chin and brushes a thumb across my cheek, and I close my eyes. “Not intentionally,” he says softly. “Never intentionally.” I feel his lips on mine, and at this moment, I can honestly say I understand why my mother has searched all these years for this feeling.

  I slip out of my seatbelt without breaking our kiss and climb into his lap. The maneuver isn’t easy, as the car is cramped and I’m not skip-a-meal thin, graceful, or double-jointed. Add to that his long legs, and this could be my next disaster. I straddle him, holding his face in between my hands while my hip pretty much pops out of its socket. I have no doubt the discomfort will be worth it.

  “Br
enna?” He could say my name that way all day, but the wailing horn drowns out the intoxication of it. I laugh into his neck and lift my ass up to silence it.

  “It was meant to be sexier than this, I promise.”

  “It’s sexy,” he reassures me as he places a kiss on my neck and maneuvers the seat back as far as it will go. I pivot my hips, trying for a different position, and he grips my hips with his hands, pulling me into his abdomen. “God, I want you.” He runs his hands down my thighs and then up under my dress, growling when he finds my sweet spot.

  By the heat my cheeks are suddenly putting out, I’m probably blushing. “I want you too.”

  Vance abandons his self-restraint, and almost instantaneously my panties are torn and on the floorboard of the car, along with my shoes, purse, and Vance’s ringing cell phone, which he tossed without thought to pull his cock free of his pants. It’s probably his manager, who used to call him every day when he was in Milagro Beach.

  “Leave it!” Vance barks breathlessly when I break stride to look over my shoulder at it. He brings my face back to his. “It can wait,” he whispers.

  Bracing myself against his chest, I lift and lower myself onto him, regaining the lost momentum. I bounce and writhe, desperately needing him to quench the ache of not having him for weeks.

  “Damn, you feel good.” He groans loudly, helping lift and raise my body with his hands on my hips as I falter, growing tired. “I’m close, I promise baby. Don’t stop.” It’s more encouragement than command, and I push on, weakening but not spent.

  I lay over his chest, practically smothering him as I grab hold of his shoulders for leverage. His grip on my hips tightens, holding me steady as his upward thrusts increase to take us both higher. I tighten around him, not wanting it to end but needing relief. “Ah, Jesus, Brenna. Fuuuck.” Hot doesn’t explain the fire burning within us. It’s been too long, and neither of us wants to quit, but I can’t keep this pace. I can barely breathe, let alone move. Thank God Vance is an athlete, or we’d both have to finish each other off with a hand job.