PLAYERS: The Complete Series (Springville Rockets (Sports Romance Books 1-3)

by Daphne Loveling

  Puzzled and a little alarmed, I grab my phone out of my shorts pocket and turn off airplane mode. A few seconds later, messages start to appear. One, two, five, nine.

  Fuck. What the hell is going on?

  The first message is from Tom, my agent. I hit the play button on the voicemail and listen.

  “Mason. Jesus. You need to give me a call. Right now. I don’t know if you’ve seen it yet, but you’re all over the goddamn news. This isn’t good. Call me back. We need to talk strategy.”

  Just as that message is ending, the phone rings. It’s Bull. I ignore it and go to the web browser instead. I type in my name, and hit the “news” button.

  The first hit makes me stop in my tracks.

  The headline reads:

  “Engagement coverup? Rockets’ linebacker charmed comeback a lie?”

  “Jesus fuck,” I breathe.

  I manage to go out a back entrance and avoid being seen. I can’t deal with talking to anyone right now, until I find out exactly what the hell is happening. Outside, I sprint to my SUV in the parking lot and lock myself in, then pull my phone back out and keep reading.

  The first article is from the website of the station Anna works for, WSPR. It’s front and center on the page, the first thing you see when you click on it.

  As I read, the full extent of the damage is laid out for all to see. The article says that unknown “sources” claim my relationship and engagement to Anna Wilder are nothing but a PR stunt, and that instead of dating Anna for a year as is the official version of the story, I was actually dating Rockets cheerleader Kayla Barnes up until a few short months ago.

  And as if that wasn’t bad enough, the picture that accompanies the article makes me shout and pound my fist on the steering wheel in fury.

  It’s a shot of me, carrying a paper bag. The building in the background is immediately recognizable. It’s from yesterday, when I went to buy champagne for Anna and me.

  The caption reads:

  “Mason Robichaud exiting a liquor store on Tuesday afternoon.”

  I sit in my car, ignoring the calls that keep coming in. I’m still too much in a daze to talk to anyone.

  None of it makes any sense. None of it. I was stupid get caught by paparazzi coming out of a liquor store, yes. That was my fault. And Kayla’s full of shit. Those stories could have been managed, though. But how could they possibly have tied all of these thread together — all of these lies — and worst of all, wrapped them around the single grain of truth?

  The only people who knew about the fake engagement were people who would do anything to keep it a secret. Only people connected to the team. And my parents. And Anna and me, of course.

  And of all those people, the only one who had anything to gain from leaking this story…

  … is Anna.

  I’m AWOL at practice. I don’t fucking care. I’ve gone home, and shut the phone off again.

  All I can do is stare at the TV. Just like Tom said, the story is all over the news on the local networks. By tomorrow, it’ll probably be national.

  I know I have to call my agent, and Bull. We have to figure out how to manage the fallout from all this.

  But right now, I’m paralyzed. By the goddamn betrayal.

  Anna’s broken the terms of the non-disclosure agreement. There’s no other explanation.

  But that’s nothing compared to the fact that in the bargain, she’s also broken my fucking heart.

  31

  Anna

  The morning after our three-month anniversary celebration, I’m humming happily to myself as I ride the elevator up to the newsroom.

  I guess it’s a testament to how happy and preoccupied I am with thoughts of Mason that I don’t notice a few people are staring strangely at me as I make my way over to makeup. The first indication I have that things aren’t quite right is when Mindy, the woman who does my hair, makes a point of looking down at the hand with my engagement ring, then snorts and rolls her eyes.

  “What’s wrong with Mindy?” I ask Sheri as she’s applying my foundation. “It’s not just my imagination, right? She did just kind of snort at me?”

  But Sheri just shakes her head. “I’m staying out of it,” she says obstinately. “I need this job, and I gotta get along with everybody.”

  I have no idea what she means by that, so I just decide to let it go. Sheri finishes up my makeup in silence. A few minutes later, another hair stylist who isn’t Mindy comes over to do my hair. I’m left to wonder what’s going on as I patiently let her work and then go down to get mic’ed up.

  But instead of going on for my slot, Ethan’s assistant comes down and tells me he needs to see me in his office, right away. I try to explain that I’m about to go on, but Thomas is adamant. “He says right now,” he insists, his eyes not quite meeting mine. Heaving a sigh, I pull off my mic and go downstairs to see what he wants.

  “Anna,” Ethan says in an acid voice when I stick my head in. “Come in and shut the door. Please.”

  I do as he says. There’s a definite chill in the room. Ethan’s been acting uber-friendly to me lately, and the difference is stark. I sit down across from him and wait. Something is stopping me from speaking, but I don’t know quite what it is.

  “Your little stunt got you quite a big reward, in the short term,” Ethan bites out, leaning back in his chair. He steeples his fingers together and gives me a shrewd look. “And it almost cost the station quite a lot.”

  “What?” I have no idea what he’s talking about. But somewhere in the back of my mind, alarm bells are starting to sound.

  “You’ve embarrassed the station, Anna. And you tricked me into giving you a higher profile position than you had, by riding on the coattails of your so-called fiancé.” Ethan’s upper lip curls in distaste. “Thankfully, Mackenzie was able to help us get ahead of the story before it came out somewhere else first.”

  Oh, my God. “Ethan, I…”

  “Stop, Anna,” he interrupts me. His voice is sharp and angry. “There’s nothing you can say to make this better.” He turns away from me. “We’ll see how this all shakes out in the wash, but your future at WSPR is not looking good. If I were you, I’d be exploring other options.”

  I open my mouth to respond, but Ethan’s gone back to looking at his computer screen and begins to type. Clearly, I’m being dismissed.

  As I stand up, I’m shaking. I walk out of his office, trying to muster as much dignity as I can in order to face the people outside in the newsroom. A couple of them stare at me curiously, but no one talks to me. In a horrible, surreal haze, I go to my desk and open up my computer. The home screen on my web browser is the station’s home page, of course. And staring right at me, the first thing I see, tells me everything I need to know about why I’m being suspended.

  “Engagement coverup? Rockets’ linebacker charmed comeback a lie?”

  “We did a good job on the story, I think,” Mackenzie’s voice says behind me. “Considering how quickly we had to pull it all together.”

  I whirl around in my seat to face her. “How could you?” I hiss, as my eyes fill with angry tears.

  Mackenzie laughs, an unpleasant sound that raises my hackles. “How could I not?” she challenges. The corners of her lips rise in a cynical smirk. “You dropped a story right into my lap, Anna. A great story. One that could tar and feather this station, or put us in the spotlight, depending on how it was handled. It’s not my fault you were stupid enough not to realize it.”

  “It would never have gone public, except for you,” I cry. “I trusted you!”

  “That’s not my fault, Anna. You know, you’re not a bad journalist, actually. But you have shit instincts.” She shakes her head pityingly.

  “So, is this part of your Year of Yes?” I spit out. “I didn’t know that included saying yes to betraying things your friends told you in confidence!”

  But Mackenzie only rolls her eyes at me. “Anna, you’ve got one hell of a lot to learn if you’re going to s
ucceed in this business.” She’s addressing me with a patient but condescending tone, like I’m a little child. “If you don’t want something to get out, then you don’t tell anyone about it. Especially not a reporter.” She gives me a dry smile. “And especially not a reporter who’s as willing as I am to do what it takes to get ahead.” She glances up at the clock on the wall. “Oops! On that note, excuse me. I have to get down to the set,” she says pointedly. “Ethan’s asked me to take over your slot for the time being.”

  I’m so furious I can only watch in stunned silence as she turns on her high, fuck-me heels and saunters toward the elevators.

  I thought Mackenzie was my friend, my brain keeps repeating over and over.

  I guess I really am an idiot.

  I know that lately, I’ve been rising quickly at the station. More quickly than she has. And I know why that is, of course. It’s not because of my talent, though I think I have some. It’s not for any other reason except that I’m Mason’s fiancée.

  I was willing to do anything it took to get ahead. Which is why I agreed to the contract with him.

  And now, I’ve been outed. And ousted. By someone who was willing to sink even lower than I was.

  I almost laugh at the sick justice of it all. In a twisted way, it serves me right.

  But I’m not the only one this is going to hurt.

  Oh my God.

  I have to call Mason. Before he finds out on his own.

  My hands are trembling as grab my bag from my desk drawer and fumble it open.

  But just as I spy my phone in the bottom of my purse and reach for it, it starts to ring.

  I don’t even need to look at the screen to know who it is.

  “Hello, Mason,” I say shakily, a rogue tear spilling down my cheek. “I was… just going to call you.”

  32

  Mason

  “I was going to tell you!” Anna is wailing. She sounds miserable over the phone, I’ll give her that. She’s breathing so fast that I’m almost afraid she’s going to hyperventilate.

  Not that I fucking care, I tell myself.

  “You were going to tell me what?” I bark back. “That you’d given our story to a fucking reporter at your fucking station?”

  “No!” she protests. “That’s not how it happened at all! I swear, Mason!” She takes a couple of panting breaths. “It just… It just came out! I thought Mackenzie was my friend. I never would have told her, otherwise!”

  “How the fuck did it just come out that we have a fake relationship and a fake engagement, Anna? You signed a goddamn contract specifically so that this shit wouldn’t ‘just come out’!” I rake my hands through my hair. “Jesus fucking Christ!”

  “I know!” Anna cries. “But Mason, you don’t understand! Kayla came to Mackenzie with the cheating story. Mackenzie was going to run it, and I was trying to convince her otherwise! So I told her what Kayla was saying wasn’t true, and then… I sort of ended up telling her how it was that I knew it wasn’t true.” She trails off helplessly. “But she promised me she wouldn’t tell anyone!”

  “Jesus, Anna, how fucking stupid do you think I am?” I roar into the phone.

  “What?”

  “That is a fucking bullshit story, and we both know it. The least you could do is just be honest, with me. Just fucking tell me you were using me. That you’re a fucking good actress, and I was a stupid fuck for letting my guard down with you.”

  “No! That’s not true!” On the other end of the phone, I hear Anna start to cry. “Mason, listen to me!” she chokes. “Please, listen! I’ve looked through the story. Everything except for the contract is all lies! And there’s no proof of the contract, anyway! All we have to do is deny everything!” Her voice is pleading. “All we have to do is keep being seen together, and tell everyone it’s a made-up story. Eventually, if nothing else surfaces, which it won’t, it will all die down. You know it will!”

  “There’s only one problem with that, Anna,” I say quietly.

  “What?”

  “I don’t want to be in the same fucking state as you anymore. Much less the same fucking room.”

  I hang up the phone before she can say another word. My hand is gripping it so tightly I wonder if I might crush it. With a noise of disgust, I toss it onto the couch. Predictably, it starts ringing again right away. Fucking nightmare. I hit my head against the back headrest a couple of times in frustration. I still haven’t called my agent. Or anyone else. I had to talk to Anna first.

  And now I know it’s true. She betrayed me.

  Maybe she didn’t write the story herself. But she betrayed me just the same.

  She’s just like everyone else in the media. Cares more about herself and her career than anything else.

  I was a fucking idiot to fall for her.

  Within hours of the story appearing on the WSPR website, all the other media outlets in the city are running it. Within a day, it’s national.

  The team’s lawyers want to sue Anna for breaching the NDA. The team’s managers and the owner are totally against it, because that would mean admitting the story is true. They basically want what Anna wants: for us to keep being seen together, in the hope that the story will die down.

  Miraculously, the team’s management seems to believe me when I tell them why I was seen coming out of a liquor store. And the media doesn’t latch on to that story nearly as hard as they do to the fake fiancée part. So ironically, even though everything’s fucked up, my supposed alcohol problem is a non-issue.

  At this point, I don’t give a shit about any of it, though. I just want Anna out of my life.

  A week after my life explodes around me, I arrive at the stadium a little late. I’ve learned it’s best not to get there too early these days. After clashing with the team in the locker rooms my first day after the bullshit with Anna, I pretty much realized I’m alone in all this shit.

  It’s a fucking nightmare. And it gets fucking worse with each day.

  The head coach, Phil Porter, is there as I walk in, as if he’s waiting on me. When he sees me, he approaches me instead of the other way around, probably because I’m still out of view of the other players. I’m trying to psych myself up for practice, but with everything going on, it’s just… pretty fucking difficult.

  “Hey there, kid.” Phil’s voice is somber as he speaks.

  I lean against the wall and sigh, thumping my head back. “Today’s gonna be another shitty day, huh,” I mutter to myself, and don’t even try to hide that I’m feeling bitter.

  Phil sighs. “You can't blame them, kid. They feel betrayed, they’re gonna act out.”

  I groan and run a hand down my face. “If they feel betrayed, how about what I feel?”

  “This woman, Anna Wilder, she was the condition put on you by the management to sign you, right?” he says, voice gruff. “I don’t know why you picked her specifically. But the way I see it, this is technically the management’s responsibility.”

  Only, no one else would fucking see it that way, even if I could bring myself to explain it.

  “If you’d rather skip out—”

  “No,” I say immediately, rejecting that offer. “You can't give me special treatment. It’ll just make things worse.”

  Then I sigh, because there’s no way things can still get worse, right?

  I roll my eyes at myself. Wrong.

  “Sorry I can't be of much help to you out there,” Coach offers.

  But I wave it away. I don’t know why he’s being so goddamn nice to me. Coach Porter is not known for being a warm and fuzzy kind of guy. I suppose it should make me feel better, but instead it does just the opposite.

  I go through to the locker rooms, which are thankfully empty. Mine is wide open though, and when I look inside I have to take step back, wrinkling my nose. Someone dropped a bunch of dirty socks and jocks in there, and it fucking stinks.

  “What are we, in fucking high school?” I growl as I ignore the locker and just leave everything in my
bag.

  At least my equipment is fine, because they know they can't mess with it without receiving some penalty. It’s not enough to make me feel better.

  The second I’m on the field, and the others see me, there’s jeering and trash talk thrown at me. I’ve learned after the past few practices, to just let it all wash off my back.

  My plan’s just to wait it all out. But the moment practice starts, I wonder if I can survive that long.

  It’s happened already, but there’s nothing I can do while we’re practicing games to avoid injury when it seems every player on the field is after my ass. I’m not the fucking quarterback, I barely even get to touch the fucking ball throughout the entire game. Yet, a total of five times, the assholes jump all over me.

  “Fucking shit,” I mutter after the last hit. That one felt like I’d broken a rib, or at least bruised it. “Dammit,” I hiss, pushing myself up.

  The guys just laugh and go on. But Coach has had enough.

  “Mason! Get your ass over here. You’re done for today.”

  The rest of the team has some choice words to say about that. I’m limping, holding onto my side, and try not to hear what they’re muttering in my direction.

  “Anything broken?” Coach Porter asks, voice low, once I sit down.

  “Nah,” I breathe out. “Just aches something fierce.”

  I hear a growl, and look up to see the dark, fierce look on his face.

  “This shit ends now,” he growls.

  “Look, just leave it alone,” I retort, shaking my head. “They’ll get sick of their games eventually.”

  I don’t know that it’s true. But I do know that making a bigger deal out of it won’t help me at all.

  Just as a precaution, and because I’m already injured, I wait for everyone to leave before heading for the showers. It’s a cowardly move, but fuck it. I’ve had enough for one day. The showers are empty, and I feel some relief as I pull my bag from where I left it under a bench, and take off my equipment. Then I head in to shower.