Busted Play
By Stella Marie Alden
Copyright (C) 2017 Stella Marie Alden
Cover design by Reddhott Covers
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination and are used fictitiously.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the author’s permission.
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Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
From the Author
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 1
I knock on my own damn door feeling more freaked out with each passing second. “C’mon, Des. Let me in. I know you’re in there.”
Some girl giggles and a knot tightens in my gut. Who the hell is she? At first, when my key didn’t fit, I figured it was just a mistake but now a sinking feeling takes hold and my heart braces for the worst.
My voice cracks as I shout, “You can’t do this. All my stuff is in there.”
Behind the apartment door, my boyfriend whispers for the girl to shut-up. My knees weaken and I slide down the wall. Not only have I wasted the best years of my life but I’ve got no place to sleep tonight. This can’t be happening.
I suppose I could get a lawyer if I could afford one, which I can’t. “Des, open up or I’m calling the cops. This is your last chance.”
Janice, my sweet elderly neighbor, pops into the hall and hands me her cell phone. “Here ya go, sweetie, I’ve already got them on the line.”
“Hello?” I explain to the police how my boyfriend has locked me out and I’ve got no place to go.
Their brilliant solution is to file a complaint in the morning. Dammit. As a parting shot, I kick at the door. Then on the way out, I take Des’ mail and toss it in the trash.
Knowing where he likes to park his car, I take my useless apartment key and scrape it against the length of his Camry. Then, just for good measure, I puncture all four tires with my tiny, but sharp Leatherman.
That cheating bastard. Everything I own is in my apartment. And what about that giggler? Probably some other country bumpkin he picked up, no doubt with more money than me.
How could he do this? We’re in love, dammit. At least I was. Maybe lately things haven’t been that great but every relationship has its ups and downs. Right?
Shit girl, you need to face reality.
Sex has been almost nonexistent for the last few months. He’s been too tired, too busy, or had an infection. My God, I am so, so stupid. For heaven’s sake, even when he lost his job, I stood by him and made his car payments.
Frantic, I call his cell but it goes right to voicemail. Then I text him and get no response there, either. Shit, this nightmare is really happening. My chest tightens and stupid tears flow down my face as I stand alone on the sidewalk in Bushwick.
Down at the corner bodega, people are picking up food for their evening meals and noise comes from the local bar. Happy, normal people pass me by, giving me sympathetic looks.
Oh yeah. Pathetic loser here. Feel free to stare.
I could find a place to hole up but that’ll cost a fortune. Shit. I’ll be damned if I’ll impose on my friends. I guess there’s nothing else to be done. After blowing my nose and wiping my eyes, I call the nearest homeless shelter, Gracie’s Place.
Rather than hail a cab, I walk the two miles. I’m going to need every cent I’ve got. Thankfully, it’s surprisingly warm and as my sneakers pound the sidewalk, I try to find some positives. First off, I got a couple hundred bucks in the bank and no debt on my cards. My father told me to never share accounts unless there was a wedding. If I hadn’t listened, my jerk of a boyfriend would’ve stolen those as well. It could be a whole lot worse.
Feeling a little better, I pause at the old wooden door, take a deep breath, and enter the lobby.
“Hi. Can I help you?” The receptionist at the front desk looks a lot like me, a tall, twenty-something blond with blue eyes.
I tell her my whole screwed-up story and then she takes me up a flight of stairs. There’s a dorm-like room where six other women are already settled, a couple asleep.
“You’ll need to interview with Grace tomorrow, okay?” She points to a cot.
Like I can say no? I’m so damn grateful that I just take a step forward and hug this complete stranger. When I let go, she shows me a drawer full of t-shirts which she explains are rejects from the Salvation Army.
Then, in the bathroom, I wash out my underwear and hang them on a peg behind the door. My coat and the rest of my stuff, I put under the bed. Finally, I get into bed and stare at the ceiling for hours trying to sort it all out.
When had I first sensed things were off?
I’d been in the city for just a few months when I met Des. He was so sophisticated, so New York, so wonderful. He was everything I wanted to be and when he asked me to move in with him, I was thrilled.
Lately though, I haven’t been able to do anything right. We weren’t exactly fighting, we’ve just drifted apart. I figured after four years, some of the magic had worn away and maybe he wasn’t feeling so good about himself because he lost his job.
Despite the pillow over my head, and counting down from one hundred, I can’t exorcise him from my brain. I must’ve slept a little however, because a woman stirs, waking me. Grabbing my cell phone, I moan at the ungodly hour. Whatever. I might as well get up. While she takes a two-minute shower, I wait at the bathroom door.
“New?”
I nod as the dark woman wrapped in a towel stops to stare like I’m some new species of cockroach.
She points to a closet. “One towel. Shampoo and body wash are shared by all. Make it quick because we all got to get to work. Okay?”
Without waiting for an answer, she heads back to the bedroom while whipping off the towel to dry her hair.
After I shower and dress, I stop at the receptionist’s area to give them my work number just in case. My cell phone’s about to run out of juice. At a corner bodega, I grab a coffee and egg sandwich, eating it standing up in front of the register. Then glad for my warm coat and gloves, I walk to work as the sun peeks over the high-rises in nearby Manhattan.
I keep reminding myself, it’s not all bad. At least I still got a job.
Chapter 2
Fuck this knee.
The doctors told me it would be good as new and yet after a couple weeks, I’m not convinced. Dammit all. If I don’t get back on the field soon, there’s no way my contract is going to get renewed. I need to get a whole lot better, a whole lot faster.
Stan, my manager-trainer is at the front desk, arguing about insurance. I told him I needed better care than this God-forsaken hole-in-the-wall but he insists it’s the best place in the city.
And that young woman who just came in the door? She better not be my physical therapist. She’s obviously slept in those clothes, her hair is wet, and there’s dark circles under her eyes. That’s hardly the professional that I need to get me back in the game.
She shakes hands with Stan and
puts her long blond hair into a pony tail. Then staring down at a tablet, heads my way. Under that coat, she’s probably shapely but it’s hard to tell. One thing’s for sure, those cute features, pouty lips, and thick lashes are better suited for a model.
I’m not blind. I like the way her jeans hug her tight ass and I’m sure I’d enjoy her in bed but that’s not what I’m looking for. There’s no way in hell she’s tough enough to get me in shape.
“Hello Mr. Quinn.” She holds out her hand as if she thinks I’m going to shake it.
When I stare into the space behind her head, she drops her arm back down, cheeks red. I don’t mean to be rude but this isn’t going to work out.
Stan hasn’t left yet so I jump off the table, grab my cane, and pull him aside. “What the fuck! I told you I wanted to be one hundred percent before next season. What the hell is that?” I point to the girl. “I need a real physical therapist, not a fucking Barbie.”
He eyes me like I’m a piece of shit. “You’re lucky to have her. Lucky to have anything at all. You screwed up big time.”
His attitude is totally uncalled for. “Hey. I wasn’t found guilty of anything. I’m the victim here.”
“Shit, CJ. You were in a car with a minor. The press has taken ahold of it and made you look like a rapist. Have you seen any fans lately? Any tweets that sing your praises? Now go make nice while I make sure your bills get paid.”
Dammit. I could’ve sworn on a stack of bibles that the woman in the bar that night was in her mid-twenties. I made one bad decision. I got into a car with a beautiful stranger who wanted a quick lay. I was just being a good guy, happy to accommodate but I’ll get it all sorted out. I have to. Otherwise all my dreams are down the shitter.
While I’m deep in those unhappy thoughts, Stan swivels on his heel and slams the door to let me know how pissed off he is. At least for now, I guess I’ll have to make nice with Barbie here.
My right knee hurts like a mother-fucker as I hobble back to where she’s standing. Even though she heard the whole interaction, I have to give her credit. She doesn’t seem the least bit phased. Instead of giving me lip, she takes my cane, puts it in a corner, and then points to the therapy table.
“Sit.”
Today is going to be a big fucking waste of time. Paper crunches under my butt when I hop up and cross my arms over my chest.
“Lie back.” The pretty blond removes her coat and hangs it up in a closet.
Then while I stare at the tin ceiling, she pulls my sweats up, pokes at my bum knee, which makes the tendons burn like hell.
“Next time come in shorts. It’s easier.” Her blond brows furrow, lifting my leg as if it weighs nothing at all.
“There isn’t going to be a next time.” I send her my perfected glower as she pushes my thigh into my chest.
That fucking hurts. “Enough!” I twist my leg out of her grasp.
She stares coldly, voice condescending. “Ten more times. You count.”
I do as she commands, feeling a bit childish but if she makes my injury worse, I swear I will fucking sue this place.
Once done with that torture, she turns to the treadmill, sets a too-fast pace, and says, “Walk.”
I stare incredulously at the timer. I can’t believe this little bitch. Who does she think she is? Without my cane, that’s impossible. After sixty agonizing seconds, when she’s not looking, I reach to slow it down.
Of course, she’s watching and slaps my hand. “Leave it, Mr. Quinn. Concentrate. Work on your gait. Tuck in your abs. You’re walking like a duck.”
Blow it out your ass, Barbie.
I wonder if this is payback for earlier and start to speak my mind when a blue-haired woman walks in the door with her husband. I have to hold my tongue while my blond torturer leads the elderly woman to a table, asking her questions about her hip and back.
What the fuck? Now I’m sharing my therapist?
Maybe Stan didn’t make it clear how important this is. Maybe that blond is one of those chicks who hates football and has no idea I’m worth millions but it doesn’t matter.
Barbie’s toas
t.
Chapter 3
I’ve already reviewed hotshot’s x-rays, personal history, and his prognosis. He’s going to need some hard work if he wants to be playing ball by next season. Mostly, he needs to stop using the cane and stop being such a dick.
“Hop up on the table.” I push his chest back. Damn if he isn’t rock hard but he could be stark naked with a twelve-inch cock and I couldn’t care less.
He nods, nowhere near as arrogant as he was when he came in thanks to his little walk on the treadmill. Good. I need this job and assholes like him make it hard for women to work in the field of sports therapy.
From his gait, I can tell he’s way too tense.
“Take off your shirt.”
It comes off over his head and he smirks arrogantly when my mouth drops open. Sure, I’ve seen plenty of athletes but this guy is by far, the most ripped. Pressing my lips together, I grab a drink from my water bottle, and pretend not to notice. That gorgeous pack of abs is just muscle, that’s all.
“Please lie on your stomach, Mr. Quinn.” I congratulate myself on how professional I sound as he turns, exposing his broad back, covered in tats.
When I begin to massage his shoulders, he shivers under my touch, and then growls. “Your hands are too damn cold.”
Ignoring him, I work over his entire back until my fingers ache. He issued a challenge and I’m going to take it. He may be a hotshot in his world, but so am I.
Well, I will be someday. Regardless, he can’t act like an ass and get away with it.
I push into his body deeper, trying to think positively. My clientele is growing as is my reputation. Hotshot here, should help bring in more work. I just need to prove to him how good I am. With that in mind, I focus on each little knot in his back and smile when he moans in pleasure.
When my phone rings, the ID is from the shelter and so excuse myself to take the call. I take a deep breath, praying I’ll have a place to sleep tonight. “Hello?”
“Is this Ms. Melanie Sanders?” The tone is pleasant and so my hopes rise.
Moving further away from the tables and toward the reception area, I find a little more privacy.
“That’s me.”
“This is Doctor Jenna Jones from Gracie’s Place. Will you be able to meet with me today?”
I glance over at Mr. Hotshot who’s not even trying to politely ignore my conversation. “My shift ends at five. I can make it into the city by six. Is that okay.”
“That’s fine. See you then.”
Before she hangs up, I barge in. “Listen, can I stay another night?”
What’ll I do if she says no? I don’t even own a sleeping bag.
“Let’s talk when you get here. Bye.”
Wow. That didn’t sound so good. I turn to my client who’s eyeing me with too much interest. Then I finish him up, wishing his skin didn’t feel so wonderful under my touch.
What the hell is wrong with me? He’s a chauvinistic football jerk with an ego the size of the state of New York. I shouldn’t feel any attraction at all, let alone what’s happening inside my panties.
It must be the break up. My hormones are off. I haven’t had sex for months. Last time I mentioned making love Des said he had some kind of infection and showed me a bottle of antibiotics. I’d actually felt bad for him and made him his favorite lasagna. Meanwhile, he was probably planning to kick me out of his apartment and move in with the giggler.
Thinking of him demands that I pick up my phone and leave another message. “Damn it Des. Don’t do this. At least give me my clothes back.”
I blush when Mr. Hotshot eyes me from the coat closet, putting on a blue jacket with a Giant’s logo. I thought he’d already left.
He opens his mouth to comment but I rush past him and out the door. I have no desire to discuss my personal disaster with him or anyone else for that matte
r.
Chapter 4
It’s really none of my business that Barbie’s having relationship trouble but listening to her call makes me want to set things straight. What kind of asshole steals a woman’s clothes?
However, I need to stop my mind from where it’s going. I’m no white knight and she’s no damsel in distress. I got plenty of my own shit to work out. For instance, this morning was the first time I realized how much my image has taken a deep dive. If I don’t fix it soon I’m going to be out on my ass with no team, no adverts, and no future. Secondly, my knee is a mess.
I call my publicist and college buddy as I step out into the crisp March air. “Hey. You wanted to talk?”
“Now? Now you call? What about last week or the week before?” The petulant tone sounds a lot like my mom.
I start to say so but a car sloshes into a frigid puddle, soaking me to the bone. Fuck. Sometimes I hate this city.
Walking toward the nearest doorway to dry off, I try to defend the fact I haven’t returned his calls. “I was in surgery, then the hospital, and now I’m at PT in Bushwick. What do you want from me?”
“I want you to miraculously erase all the bad press. I want you to give a shit and make CJ Quinn a fucking holy name, like Jesus H. Christ.” His attitude is over the top but I get it. I’m his biggest client. If I fuck up, he goes hungry too.
I hobble across the street with my phone cradled to my ear. “Isn’t that what I pay you for? To make me into a nice guy?”
His voice softens. “I’m magic, hun, but not that magic. I’ve got some photo ops lined up for you. Come see me in the city tomorrow, sweetie. Okay?”
I groan. “I can’t. I’m booked pretty solid with rehab-Barbie.”
He snickers. “Seriously?”
Busted Play: A Sports Novella Page 1