Hard Pass
Elizabeth Perry
Illustrated by
Amanda Walker Cover Design
Edited by
Hydra Productions
Contents
Prologue
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
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Epilogue
About the Author
Connect with me!
Prologue
Gia
I study the reporter. She’s gorgeous and blond; exactly his type. Judging by his track record, he’s probably already slept with her.
“Your one constant has always been that football is the only love of your life. That you’d never trade it for anyone or anything. Does that still stand?”
I inhale sharply, my eyes fixed on the television in front of me. I don’t know why I’m even watching. I promised myself that I wouldn’t. Promised myself that I’d never look at him or listen to him again. That once he walked away, he’d be nothing more than a distant memory. My one greatest mistake.
Yet, here I sit, waiting with bated breath like every other female in the world, wondering if today will finally be the day that Wyatt Anderson admits that he’s ever been in love.
When his face comes back into focus, my breath leaves me all together.
God, he was gorgeous. So sinfully handsome that it should have been a crime. I hated him for it. Missed the hell out of him. Cursed myself for even feeling like this so many years later.
“I don’t think that I understand the question, June.” He leans back in his chair, completely relaxed and totally at ease with one ankle crossed leisurely over his knee and that all too familiar slick smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “What are you trying to ask me?”
“You did an interview back in November, and there was one question that you refused to answer. Every woman in America right now wants to know what the answer really is.”
“Is it if I’m single?” I can feel his cocky arrogance radiating off of him, smacking into me through the TV. I hate the way that it causes an unwelcome ache in between my legs for him.
Asshole.
“Not exactly.” She coyly tosses her hair before adjusting the microphone. “The question was regarding a rumor. Is it true, that way back in your past, there was a woman who you almost quit football for?”
“I don’t ever recall being asked such a question.” Is it just me, or does his face darken slightly?
“Let me refresh your memory, then. Rumor has it, that right before you went and played college football, you almost turned down a full ride to Florida State over a woman. Which would indicate, and correct me if I’m wrong, that at one time in your life, there was a woman that you loved more than football. Is that true, and if so, where is she now?”
He tore his gaze away from her and looked directly into the camera. Directly at me.
“If there was ever a woman that special, one special enough to make me give up football, I would never leave her behind.”
The reporter pauses, seemingly satisfied with her answer. “So, for the right woman, you’d be willing to make a career change?”
He continued to look at the camera, his face darkening for just a second before his brilliant arrogance flooded his features once again. “For the right woman at the right time, yes. I just haven’t had the pleasure of meeting such a woman yet.”
I leaned back in my chair, fighting off the tears that threatened to fall.
If I ever questioned this, today gave me my final answer.
I still hated him.
1
Wyatt
Walking my pet hamster. Getting a toe amputated without any kind of sedation. Watching the Golden Girls on repeat while getting chased around the room by my buddy Jude’s crazy old lady friends.
All things that I’d rather be doing instead of sitting here. I feel uncomfortable and completely out of place.
Chamberlin Academy, the school that my little buddy, Damien, attends, is a stark reminder of the high school that I graduated from. This is the last place that I wanted to visit.
Tonight is the perfect reminder that I agree to do things before fully thinking them through. I’m guilty of saying yes too fast, and most often, it comes back to bite me in the ass.
For example- how I jumped at the chance to help his mom out by coming tonight without considering what I’d have to do.
Glancing down at my watch, I sigh. It’s already eight o’clock, and Shannon warned me that last year’s auction lasted over two hours.
I pull my phone out of my pocket and bring up ESPN. If I have to suffer through a two-hour auction of services that I don’t need, at least I can catch up on the news.
I turn the volume off and just watch the reporters faces, waiting to see if yours truly did anything sweet enough to make the headlines tonight. Considering it’s the off season, I doubt it, but every once in a while, I surprise even myself with the amount of publicity that I can get. I’m a few minutes in when the woman sitting next to me raises her voice just enough for me to overhear her conversation. “I can’t believe she would even set foot on that stage. Has she no shame?”
“Girl, tell me about it. Did you see the dress that she’s wearing? It’s scarlet red.” I glance over, seeing a decent looking blond snickering to the slightly prettier brunette seated next to me. “Scarlet red is the perfect color for a whore.”
Damn. It’s not like I have virgin ears. I play football for a living, so it’s fair to say I’ve heard all kinds of language. Nothing offends me anymore. But we’re inside of an elementary school auditorium. Even the worst of my teammates wouldn’t talk like this here.
“For sure.” I’m not sure which one is talking. Their voices sound nearly identical, equally high pitched and annoying. “If I were her, I would have dropped out. Claimed an illness or something. I certainly wouldn’t have shown up tonight. I’m embarrassed for her, honestly. No one’s going to bid on her, and she’ll get laughed off of the stage. There isn’t a woman in this room who wants her near their husband.”
Their voices might be irritating, but they are the most interesting thing I’ve got going on right now. I turn myself slightly in my seat, making just enough noise for them to notice that I’m here so that they’ll include me in the conversation.
Inquiring minds, you know?
Both of their eyes shift to me, and as recognition dawns, I become the center of their attention.
“Oh, oh my God.” The blonds hand flies to her mouth, her eyes widening. “You’re that underwear guy, aren’t you? Stella.” She smacks her friend on the arm. “Look who it is! The billboard guy!”
First round draft pick. Football hall of fame inductee. Owner of last year’s record setting fifteen hundred receiving yards averaging sixteen and a half yards per catch. Over a hundred catches and twenty-seven touchdowns under my belt last season alone.
&nbs
p; And I’m known as the billboard guy.
“Wyatt Anderson.” I extend my hand, which the blond snatches quickly and squeals. “Wide receiver for the Saints.”
“I could receive some of you.” The brunette purrs, leaning towards me just enough to allow our shoulders to brush. I’m not interested in her in the slightest bit. She’s not my type at all. I date blonds and blonds only. I dated a brunette once, and shit got out of control, so I’ve steered clear of them ever since.
But I am interested in her story. I mean, I’m fully invested at this point and I’d love to hear who this woman is and what she did to cause such a buzz. I’m sure it’s more interesting than watching my muted phone.
“So, I overheard you two talking about the auction, and you seem to know more about it than I do.” I’m feeding into the gossip with zero shame, beating around the bush with the best of them. Drama interests me, as long as it’s not mine, of course. “Tell me about the people who will be up on the stage tonight. Who should I bid on, and who should I avoid?”
Jackpot. I’ve been around enough women in my lifetime to know that when a woman feels threatened, she’ll talk shit about another one without batting an eye. My theory is proven once again.
“Well,” the brunette practically beams as she begins to spill the tea. She flips open her pamphlet and scoots her chair closer to mine, giving me a painful amount of information on all of the parents who will be up on the stage shortly, auctioning off their services. There’s a caterer, a landscaper and…I zone out after that. For a moment, I worry that I’ve made a grave mistake opening up conversation with her. She’s not giving me any of the gossip that I was hoping for. But just as she finishes filling me in, the blond leans over. I swear to God, you can always count on a blond to tell you like it is.
“Bid on anyone you want, but just a suggestion,” she flips her hair and then smirks. “Be wary of the wedding planner. She’s a husband snatching skank.”
There it is, folks. There it fucking is.
“A wedding planner stole someone’s husband?” I feign shock even though it’s hardly the most disturbing thing I’ve ever heard. The locker room conversation’s way worse than this.
“Well, she tried. She shamelessly threw herself at the guy,” the blond seems like she’s in her prime, talking about this other woman as if it’s her own story to tell. Personally, I appreciate it. “The poor groom was famous for something, I can’t remember what, so a lot of reporters followed him around. Someone snapped a picture of her throwing herself at him. It was pathetic, honestly. The wedding was called off, her incredibly gorgeous husband Cole divorced her, and she ended up with nothing. He even got their daughter which was for the best, honestly. What kind of mother throws herself at a nearly married man?”
I can’t pass judgement on this since I have a personal vendetta against all people named Cole. I don’t even know this woman, and I’m already siding with her. If her husband was named Cole, I’m sure he was an asshat and had it coming.
“But hopefully you don’t need a wedding planner.” The brunette adjusts herself in her seat, into a position which gives me the perfect angle to look directly down her dress. I’ll admit it, I take the bait.
I’m still not interested.
Before I can answer, the lights in the auditorium dim, and the ones on the stage brighten. The curtain is pulled back and a balding potbellied man addresses us from the podium.
“Welcome, Chamberlin family, to our tenth annual service auction.” I recognize him as the headmaster. I’ve seen him a time or two in passing on the days that I pick Damien up from school. He carries on for a while, praising everyone in the crowd for being rich and choosing to send their kids to his prestigious academy. The crowd whistles and claps often, beaming up at the man and looking fondly at one another.
Yep, this place is one hundred percent like the high school that I graduated from. I remind myself to talk to Shannon about finding a less pretentious school to send Damien to. Eventually, he’s going to hate it here the same way that I hated Camden Prep.
I’m just about to turn my attention back to my phone, since my chatting partners have lost interest in me and are now watching the stage intently, when the flash of a woman catches my eye.
I’m not sure how I even noticed her. While the rest of the parents who have put their services up for auction are standing in a line behind the headmaster, basking in the spotlight, this woman stands back from them, hidden in the shadows. Maybe it was the flash of her scarlet red dress, or perhaps the mane of thick, wavy dark hair that hangs down past her shoulders. I can’t pinpoint exactly what it is about her, but once my eyes find her, they can’t look away.
An unwelcome rush of emotions washes over me, as my brain tries to catch up with what my eyes already know. But then the light shifts, shining down on her.
It’s the moment that my heart stops. The second that I feel the earth shift and stop turning all at the same time.
It’s been nine years since I’ve seen her, but I would recognize her anywhere. The one woman who almost changed my entire life blinks down into the crowd, and as she does, suddenly, it all clicks.
She fucking married that guy.
She divorced that guy.
My Princess is single.
The auction just got interesting.
2
Gia
Strong women are built by the storms that they walk through.
I saved that quote this morning on Pinterest, and I’ve been repeating it to myself all day. I don’t need a quote to tell me that I’m strong, but even the fiercest woman needs a little reminder every now and then.
Handling my demise with class just might be the strongest thing that I have ever done, and for the last year, I’ve navigated more landmines than any woman should ever have to. I’ve kept my cool while people have talked about me behind my back, I’ve ignored the pictures of me in a compromising moment that have gone viral, and I’ve managed to bite my tongue around the people in the audience today.
But enough is enough.
It’s been over a year now. You’d think that these people would find something better to talk about. Turns out, I’m still the biggest scandal to have ever shaken the walls of Chamberlin Academy. I suppose I should be flattered, but instead, I’m just irritated.
For crying out loud, I’m here tonight for charity. Let that sink in. I’m here to help raise money for the Chamberlin scholarship fund, so that a kid whose parents can’t afford this level of education can send their child here for free.
These women are acting as if I’m here to snatch their husbands.
So far tonight, I’ve been called a whore, I’ve been whispered about as I’ve walked past, and I’ve been glared at by just about every woman in this room.
I’ll admit it, there have been a few times tonight that I’ve been left shaking in my red bottom shoes, but for the most part, I’m just fed up.
I smooth out an invisible wrinkle in my floor length dress and force myself to take a few steps further onto the stage. While I’m more comfortable standing away from the bright lights, I can’t hide back here forever. Plus, as Patrick Swayze once said, “Nobody puts baby in the corner.”
I straighten my spine and take a deep breath before scanning the crowd.
It’s all of the usual suspects, the rich elite fucks that I used to rub elbows with. The ones who think that they are superior to all because they have money and a pretentious zip code. I hate to even admit that for most of my life, I’ve fit in well with this crowd. A year ago, I too had a house in the hills, a bank account filled to the brim, and a storybook marriage complete with the perfect child.
But it was all smoke and mirrors.
My marriage was crumbling before any of the things that happened were blasted on social media. Practically losing my business was an unexpected side note that I could have never seen coming. And the hatred spewed at me from these mouths was sadly, expected.
But I’m here because, despit
e what other people want to say about me, I’m a woman of my word. I made a commitment to the school board last year to stand on this stage and auction off my services for fifty percent of the bid. These assholes can say whatever they want about me, but deep down, I’m here because I follow through with what I say that I will do, and no amount of catty bullshit will ever take that away.
“Do I hear twenty thousand?” I focus my attention on Amelia, one of the other parents on this stage and the one currently up for bid. She’s a chef, an amazing one at that. Plus, she’s not a prick like most of the people here. She’s one of my allies.
The bidding continues until she scores a sweet price of fifty thousand. I clap along with the crowd and then take a deep breath. My turn.
“And finally, last but certainly not least, we have Gianna Richards.”
Please don’t fall. Please don’t fall. Please don’t fall. My feet move, one in front of the other, teetering slightly, but staying steady. By the time that I make it across the stage to my position next to the headmaster, my knees are bucking so badly that they smash together. My eyes close for just a moment, I exhale slowly and when they finally open, I manage to compose myself.
Five minutes, and I’ll be off of this stage.
I can do anything for five minutes.
“Gianna Richards is the founder of Ever After, a wedding design company focused on making dreams come true.”
“More like a focus on destroying relationships,” a woman in the front row coughs, muttering those words underneath her breath. I run my sweaty palms down my dress, forcing myself not to react.
Hard Pass (Saints of Love Book 3) Page 1