Halo Violation: A Secret Baby Sports Romance

by Daphne Swan

  Oh, this is just great.

  The hot football player is a loose cannon. Suddenly, the idea of working with him doesn’t seem quite so appealing.

  I click to the next page and scroll down to find a video posted a couple of weeks ago entitled, “Just who is Ryan Blake?”

  Now, that’s a good question.

  I click on the “play” button and my screen is soon filled with the image of two muscular men in dad-like sports coats—former athletes, I guess—who sit behind a massive desk like a couple of newscasters or something. Sports announcers, maybe?

  “There’s no question that Blake is a gifted player and the best thing to happen to the Brooklyn Vipers since Ozzie Wilson scored a record number of goals back in the seventies,” says the bald guy. “But just who is Ryan Blake? Why is he so secretive about his past? Is he hiding something?”

  “I would be very surprised if he wasn’t,” the bearded guy replies. “Blake’s got the worst temper of all the players in the League right now. I’d be willing to bet my beach house in Malibu that he has a few skeletons in the closet that would do irreparable damage to his career if they came out. That must be why he’s so tight-lipped about the past.”

  The bald guy nods. “I can’t imagine how he’s managed to get away with it for so long. He’d have everyone believing he appeared out of thin air on Ohio State’s football field back in 2003.”

  “And it does seem strange that not even the smallest detail from his past has risen to the surface in all this time. In this day and age, how is that even possible?” the bearded guy asks. “I mean it takes all of three seconds to find out that you were a fat kid with one hell of a mullet, Barry.”

  “Better watch yourself, Marcus, or I’ll post those pictures of you after the 1989 Super Bowl,” the bald guy says with a grin. “Point taken, though.”

  Smiling in return, the bearded guy says, “Maybe I’m a bitter, washed-up old has-been, but I think the fans have a right to know who Blake really is. They’re the ones filling the seats and essentially paying his seven figure salary.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” the bald guy says. “When you make as much as Blake does, you have to be willing to bend a little when it comes to the right to privacy.”

  As the two debate how much privacy public figures should realistically expect, I tune them out and try to make sense of what I’d just learned.

  So Ryan Blake is notoriously secretive. Great. Nobody knows the first thing about his past. He’s kept silent after being in the public eye for over a decade, and I don’t have much faith that he’ll be willing to spill the beans to me—or to be more accurate, I suspect, to unveil the skeletons.

  I can only hope that he or his manager or the team owner or whoever it is that I’m actually working for will be happy with a lively account of his football career. If I can just skate around his past and focus on the current, relevant stuff, I might just be able to pull off this biography.

  But deep down I know it won’t be that easy.

  2. RYAN

  “No. No way. Not gonna happen.”

  Johnny follows me into the locker room, his busted, out of shape ass hurrying to keep up with my long strides.

  “I’m afraid it’s a done deal, Ryan. You’re just going to have to accept that.”

  “The hell I am.”

  I yank open my locker, toss my helmet onto the pile of crap in there and peel off my practice jersey before turning back to my manager.

  “I won’t do it, Johnny.”

  “Yes, you will,” he says. “I don’t know what it is that you’re hiding, Ryan, but it’s going to come out eventually. Public hunger is insatiable as far as you’re concerned, and you have only yourself to blame. If you weren’t the hottest player in the League, maybe they wouldn’t be so hungry for your story.”

  Yanking off my shoulder pads and throwing them into the locker, I say, “Don’t fucking patronize me.”

  “Fine.” He sighs. “I’m just trying to get you to accept the inevitable and to focus on the positive. Like I said, your past is going to come out eventually and this way we can manage things. We’ll be able to parcel out the facts to a biographer who’s been hired by the team to paint you in a flattering light. Think of the alternative. Would you rather we sit back, do nothing and wait until some journalist comes sniffing around and uncovers whatever it is you’ve been hiding?”

  Man, why can’t people just leave me alone? If I knew then what I know now, I would never have agreed to play ball for Ohio State. I hate being a public figure. Hate it. Aside from the fact that I’m constantly aware of my every move being scrutinized, I live under a black cloud of fear that the events of the past will come to light.

  “What if I worked on flying under the radar?” I propose. “If I make a conscious effort to stay out of the public eye—If I stop being seen at events, quit making headlines, definitely stay out of trouble with the law—the people will forget about me soon enough, don’t you think?”

  Johnny shakes his head. “You’re in too deep already. Any change in behavior is going to get noticed. If you stop showing up at high profile events, the people will start speculating and wondering what you’re hiding—a drug addiction? A mental breakdown? An elicit love affair? Nice try, Ryan, but it wouldn’t work.”

  Instead of feeling hopeless, I feel nothing but a burning sense of rage coursing through my veins. It takes every last ounce of self-control I possess not to start throwing shit around and punching the walls.

  “You can tell the piece of shit biographer to fuck off. I won’t allow him to poke around in my past. I will not do it.”

  Johnny sighs, and that’s when I noticed the pity in his eyes.

  “Ryan,” he says gently, “you talk as if you have a choice in the matter.”

  * * * *

  With my face buried in my hands, I allow the hot water to pound my shoulders, washing away all the dirt and grime from the day’s practice.

  Shit.

  I hate my life.

  I know, I know. I sound like a whiny little bitch. Yeah, I know I have a lot to be thankful for including the loft in Manhattan, the house in the Hollywood Hills, the pied-à-terre in Paris, the beach house in Amagansett, the Range Rover, the Lamborghini Aventador, all the gadgets and top-of-the-line products I could ever ask for, access to the most exclusive establishments and events in the world and a half dozen people on staff whose primary objective is to cater to my every whim.

  But to the millions of fans around the world who would kill to be in my shoes, I have this to say: when you’re a pro baller, your life no longer belongs to you. You become an indentured servant the very second you sign on the dotted line. You’ll weep with joy when you get that first check, blinking hard to make sure you’re not hallucinating all those zeroes, but after the thrill starts to wear off, you’ll realize that you’ve just sold your soul to the devil.

  Congratulations, champ. You are now public property.

  Assholes you’ve never met before in your life will get in your face and demand shit from you—autographs, handshakes or even just your time. If you don’t feel like cooperating, they’ll turn vicious. They’ll get all up in your face like they own you. Because in a way, they do.

  I’m so fucking sick of it.

  After I get out of the shower and pull on a clean pair of sweats, I head into the training facility’s players lounge where I find Johnny on one of the sofas, watching an Adam Sandler flick with a couple of my teammates. He looks up when I enter the room.

  Without a word, he gets up and walks over to one of the round tables. He pulls out a chair, takes a seat and motions for me to join him. I don’t have the energy to protest. I go over and take a seat across from him.

  “So,” he says, “has it started to sink in?”

  I shrug. It has, but I don’t feel the need to answer. After managing my career for over seven years now, Johnny knows me pretty well. He probably knows me better than anyone in the entire world, come to think of it. />
  “Good,” he says.

  Massaging the sore muscles at the back of my neck, I ask, “So how’s this going to work? Where’s this writer—this biographer—based? Can we conduct the interviews or whatever over the phone or am I going to have to meet with him in person?”

  “Interviews will take place in person. The writer will be here on Monday to conduct the first one.

  “Monday?”

  I can’t believe my ears. It’s bad enough that all this is happening, but I thought I’d at least have some time to figure out how to handle the questions before the writer arrives.

  “I’m afraid so,” Johnny says. “Bruce wants this book to be on the market by the Thanksgiving Day games.”

  I don’t know how to respond to that. Not that I know anything about the book publishing industry, but don’t these things take time? It sounds like he expects this person to write an entire book about me in a couple of weeks or something. Training season is almost over, for fuck’s sake. Thanksgiving isn’t very far away at all.

  “One other thing: the writer isn’t a he. It’s a she.”

  Fuck.

  This is just getting better and better. A woman? A woman is going to be the one who’s dead set on prying my deepest, darkest secrets out of me? I hate all journalists with a passion, but female sports journalists are the lowest of the low. Without exception, they are relentlessly pushy ball-busting bitches that are harder to shake than a shit-faced fan girl with one hand down your pants.

  Granted, I can appreciate the reason they feel they have to act like they do. In the male-dominated world of sports media, these women feel like they have something to prove, no doubt, but just because I understand the dynamic doesn’t mean I want to have any kind of interaction with them that goes beyond saying “no comment.”

  “Do I know her?” I ask Johnny. “Please tell me it’s not that ball-busting bitch from SBN Sports Night.”

  “No, not even close,” he assures me. “The woman who you’ll be working with isn’t a sports journalist at all. She’s a biographer and a ghostwriter. And she’s good. Her agent sent me copies of her books. Would you like to read them yourself?”

  I shake my head. “It doesn’t matter.”

  The fact that this biographer person isn’t a journalist is a small consolation. She’s still a fucking woman. Yeah, yeah, I know I come off as a first class chauvinistic pig, but I speak from experience when I say all women are crazy. They all have a screw loose. Or two, or three screws loose. Or they’re just completely falling apart. From the rabid groupies to my teammates’ wives and girlfriends, it’s a wonder these chicks are able to function in normal society.

  I’ve had girls breaking into my hotel room more times than I can count. Usually they’ll strip naked and get into my bed, although filling the bath with bubbles and getting in is another popular option. Sometimes it’s just one girl; sometimes it’s two and once it was as many as four. Unless I’ve had a really crappy day, I’ll usually fuck them before sending them on their way, but the whole thing leaves a bad taste in my mouth. So to speak. Don’t these girls have any self-respect? Do they have even the slightest ounce of integrity?

  And don’t even get me started on the WAGs. They flounce around like they own the universe because of who they’re married to—or who they’re in a relationship with. Whatever. They’re snotty bitches, every last one of them, and you don’t know the true meaning of the word “possessive” until you see a WAG get threatened by another woman.

  Even just last week, I was having dinner with fellow Viper, halfback Cody Washington, and his wife, Annette, who I’d never had a problem with. We were having a perfectly decent time until these two chicks came up and started fawning all over Cody and me.

  Annette went fucking postal. She started screaming at these chicks, saying how she would rip their hair out by the roots if they didn’t get their hands off her man. It wouldn’t have surprised me one bit if she’d dropped her panties, climbed up onto Cody’s lap and pissed all over him so she could mark her territory like some kind of dog. Like he’s her fucking possession or something.

  I am never, ever getting married.

  Yeah, I stand by my earlier statement. All women are crazy. Well...okay. All women are crazy with the exception of one. Betsy Murdoch was a wonderful human being. She had the kindest heart of anyone I’d ever known, and her laugh was infectious. She had a warmth about her that always managed to lift my mood, no matter what kind of shit I was dealing with at the time. I hope she knew how much I appreciated her.

  But Betsy was one in a million. She was the exception to the rule. She was the only woman I’d ever known who didn’t make me want to pound my head against the wall.

  “Why don’t you go change into something decent and I’ll take you into the city for a nice dinner?” Johnny says, drawing my focus back to the present.

  “No, that’s all right.”

  “Come on. It’d do you some good to get out of the facility for once.”

  I shake my head no.

  “Suit yourself,” he says with a shrug. “I guess I’ll head back, then. Let me know if you change your mind and you want to take a look at those books, okay?”

  “Sure.”

  “And give me a call if you need to talk. You know. About...whatever this big secret is that you’re hiding. It might be easier to open up to me—to someone you actually know—before baring your soul to a complete stranger.”

  With a groan, I dig my fingers into that damn knotted muscle at the back of my neck. I can’t even think about this right now.

  “All right. See you, Ryan.”

  I wave Johnny off with a mumbled goodbye and then get up to start heading out to the residence hall behind the training facility. I need to go lie down.

  What am I going to do? What the hell am I going to do?

  3. CHARLOTTE

  I pull my rental car into the parking lot of the training facility with a huge sigh of relief. I haven’t driven a car in almost ten years, and I am a nervous wreck. I would much rather have taken the train, but the training facility is out in the middle of nowhere and really only accessible by car. Such is life. Hopefully I’ll get used to it soon and won’t be so tense behind the wheel. I pull into an empty parking spot and breathe a sigh of relief.

  Grabbing my bag and my briefcase, I get out and start heading towards the facility. It’s interesting to find out this is where the Vipers train for the season. I’d just assumed they did the training at the stadium where they played, but that’s not the case at all.

  From the outside, the facility looks like an ordinary office building like one you might find anywhere. Seven or eight stories high, the sprawling grey and white structure has fewer windows than you might expect. The only thing that sets it apart from all the other nondescript office buildings in the world are the cars in the parking lot. There are BMWs, Ferraris, Porsches, Jaguars, and every other luxury brand you could possibly think of. In addition to the Toyota Camry I have on loan, there are a handful of other more reasonably priced cars in the parking lot. I figure they must belong to the janitors and cleaning ladies.

  It’s good to know I won’t be the only person in the building who isn’t filthy rich.

  When I get closer, I see a flag with the Vipers’ logo on it flying next to the American flag. My shoes make a conspicuous clomping noise as I make my way down the pristine cement pavement and open the big glass door to enter the facility.

  The security guard looks up and asks, “May I help you?”

  He’s so big and muscular; he looks like he could play on the team. Maybe he is on the team. Maybe the Vipers take turns watching the door of the training facility?

  Haha. Yeah right.

  “My name is Charlotte Marshall. I’m here to see Ryan Blake.”

  He nods and motions towards the pair of leather sofas off to the side. “Have a seat, Ms. Marshall.”

  I wander over to the sofas, taking everything in that I see. The reception area is
a bit sparse, but I get the feeling that it took a team of high-end decorators a dozen meetings to decide which way the light fixtures should be angled and to what degree, and what color marbles to fill the cut glass bowl on the end table between the sofas.

  They went with black. It’s a good choice, in my opinion.

  “Johnny, Ms. Marshall is here,” the security guard says into his headset.

  The display of those three coffee table books was no accident, either. I don’t want to disturb the artsy arrangement, so I don’t mess with the stack, but that doesn’t stop me from analyzing the book sitting on the top of the pile. It’s entitled simply The Fifty Year History of the Brooklyn Vipers, 1962-2012, and the cover features a player in mid-air, about to come crashing down on top of another player.

  Yikes.

  What a barbaric sport. I seriously do not understand the appeal. Why is it that so many people get enjoyment watching these massive, muscular men pummel each other? Is it really that different from the sadistic thrill the Romans got when they watched the gladiators fight in the arena?

  I shake my head clear of the thought because I know I should go into this with an open mind. It’s better to focus on the positive, anyway. For instance: I wonder if my book about Ryan Blake will be sitting on the pile of books on this coffee table here by the end of the year. It’s entirely possible that it will be. The guy is their star player after all. I can’t help but shiver with excitement.

  Obviously this isn’t how I’d planned on it happening, but the truth is in a few months time, thousands and thousands of people are going to be reading the words I’ll have written. How cool is that?

  I look up when I hear the click-clack of hard soles on the polished marble floor. A guy in khakis and a sports coat approaches me with a smile.