Hearts in Overtime: A Bad Boy Sports Romance (14 page)

“So, what do you say, Charlotte?”

Shoot. What
do
I say? Obviously, I want to be with him again, but I don’t want to sneak into his room in the “residence hall” like a dorky college kid. For a brief moment, I consider tearing off his clothes and going at it in the meeting room, but something is stopping me. Ryan may not be emotionally affected by the conversation we just had, but I kind of am.

As much as I love the idea of having wild sex with him, what I really want to do is just hold him and comfort him, and I know he would not be happy about that.

Yeah, I need a little time to process. And also, I really want to get to work on the bio.

“Not tonight.” I give him a long, lingering peck on the lips. “And not in the residence hall, okay? Let’s meet back here tomorrow night. I’ll show you what I’ve come up with, and then you can come back to the motel with me. How does that sound?”

I see a flash of hesitation in his eyes. He’s probably thinking about the quality of my motel. I’m sure he’s used to staying in much more luxurious lodgings. But his hesitation lasts only for a moment.

“Sounds like a plan,” he says.

We get our stuff together and agree to leave the building separately as always. Ryan goes first.

“I’m going to come up with a kickass plan for the bio, Ryan, I promise. I can’t wait to go over it with you,” I say as we embrace at the door of the meeting room.

“I can’t wait either.” He grins.

We indulge in a deep, passionate kiss and some sweet pecks on the lips and a few on the cheeks. And we can’t seem to get our hands off each other. I trace his jaw and he strokes my hair and he squeezes my arm and I cop a feel of that rock hard ass of his.

I’m having the hardest time letting him go! And apparently, he feels the same way. But at last he finds the conviction he needs to leave the room. He gives me five quick kisses on the lips, and then he steps out into the hall.

“Bye, babe. I’ll see you tomorrow. Can’t wait,” he says, and then he turns and starts walking away.

“Sweet dreams, Ryan.”

I walk back into the meeting room, feeling indescribably light and airy. Ah, to be a girl in love…

What the fuck?

A heavy banging sound jolts me awake. I glance over at the clock on the bedside table. 5:45. Who the fuck is banging on my door at 5:45 in the morning?

I get out of bed and stomp out of the bedroom, pumped and ready to kick some serious ass. Flinging the door of the suite open, I find my manager standing out in the hall with a distressed look on his face.

“What the fuck, Johnny? What are you doing here at this hour?”

“I’m afraid we’ve got problems, Ryan. Big problems.”

He doesn’t wait for me to ask him in, but what else is new? He strides right in and takes a seat on the sofa. I reluctantly follow him. I’m pretty sure I don’t want to hear what he’s got to say.

“The good news is that it’s only popped up on sleazy gossip sites—so far—which means that there may still be a chance to explain it away as ridiculous speculation. The bad news is that whoever’s behind this shit has already enlisted a group of experts who’ve used voice recognition software and facial recognition software to determine the validity of the claim, and they’re unanimously in support.”

I rub my eyes hard, hoping to make sense of what he’s saying.

“What the fuck are you trying to tell me?”

He hands me the iPad I didn’t even realize he was carrying. And there on the screen are two pictures of me, placed side by side. One of them is a promotional still from last year’s Super Bowl season. The other one shows me in those fucking blood-soaked Superman pajamas, wide eyed and scared shitless.

Fuuuuuuuck.

“I can’t believe it.” Tossing the iPad on the sofa cushion, I get up and start pacing the room. “I can’t fucking believe it. What a fucking bitch!!!”

How could Charlotte betray me like this? I pick up a glass vase off the coffee table and hurl it against the wall. It smashes into smithereens.

“Ryan!”

Johnny jumps to his feet and grips me by both arms. I shrug him off and walk away, but he follows. The bastard will not be deterred.

“Ryan, you need to pull it together long enough to talk to me at least so I can do my job! There’s a shitstorm a brewing and I’ve got to batten down the hatches, but I can’t do this until I’ve got all the facts!”

“Fine!”

“Okay.” In a calm, steady voice, he says, “Is it true? Are you really Matthew Prescott?”

“Yes.”

Fuck! I cannot fucking believe this is happening. And I can’t fucking stand the look on Johnny’s face. He looks all sad and sympathetic. He’s now thinking of me as some sad ass little boy now, not the man that he’s known and managed for over seven years.

I will never live this down.

“Okay. Well, I’m assuming that you intended to come clean about this sooner or later—although I wish you’d discussed it with me first—but what I’m having a hard time understanding is why Charlotte Marshall decided to scoop herself. What was the point of exposing your identity prior to the release of the book?”

“Good fucking question! But for the record, I had absolutely no intention of coming clean. I’ve been working my ass off to keep my past hidden and I sure as hell wasn’t going to announce to the world that I’m actually Matthew fucking Prescott, sad little shit.”

“Then why did you tell your biographer about it?” he asked calmly.

Another good fucking question.

I wish I had an answer for him, but I don’t. I am the biggest fucking idiot on the face of the planet. How could I be so fucking stupid?! I start pacing the room again, wishing my hair was longer so I could rip it from my scalp.

“Anyway, it doesn’t matter,” Johnny says, kindly putting me out of my misery. “Make no mistake: that girl is going to pay for her greed. She violated her contract in the most dramatic way. Bruce and Fred and the lawyers will be going after her for every last measly penny she has, and she’ll be ruined when it comes to publishing circles.”

“Good. Serves the conniving little piece of shit bitch right.”

He nods. “But let’s not think about her right now, okay? Let’s talk about damage control. I’m going to schedule a press conference at five o’clock today. I know I’ll be able to figure out a way to spin this so that you’ll be seen as a fighter, as a survivor, rather than as a subject of pity. But first I’m going to need to find out more about your past. Can I trust you to be honest with me and answer all my questions?”

“Yeah,” I say without hesitation.

At least I know that Johnny isn’t out to fuck me over. His livelihood depends upon mine, so it’s like there’s a sort of insurance policy built into our relationship. I can trust him because he’s always got my best interests in mind—because they’re his best interests, too.

It’s refreshing to know I can trust one person in my life, anyway.

“Great. Okay, well, the world is going to want to know what happened to Matthew Prescott after the trial,” Johnny says. “Who did you go and live with? I seem to remember a grandmother. Is that right?”

“Yeah, for a little while,” I mumble. This is all a bit surreal. And I know I’m not going to be able to focus until I take care of a very important matter. “Give me a minute, would you, Johnny?”

“Sure, Ryan. How about I’ll make us a pot of coffee?”

“That sounds great.”

I walk back into the bedroom and grab my phone off the bedside table. Charlotte answers after three rings.

“Hey you,” she says in a groggy voice.

“Fuck. You.”

“What?” she asks, not so groggy anymore.

“You fucking bitch! You scheming, conniving, backstabbing whore!”

“What?!?!?”

“I hope you burn in Hell, you two-faced, manipulative, heartless cunt! Burn in Hell!”

“Ryan,” she sobbed, “what are you talking—”

End call.

I switch off my ringer and toss it on the bed before heading back into the main room. Johnny is working on getting that coffee ready, but I’m eager to get this over with. I flop down on the sofa and exhale heavily, looking up at the ceiling before turning to face Johnny.

“Ask me anything you want.”

What in the world just happened? I stare down at my phone, trying to make sense of the venomous attack I just got. Where did that come from, and why? The only possibility that makes even a modicum of sense to me is that Ryan is still half asleep, still in a dreamlike state, and somehow he’s equated me with his mother and all those horrible things he said to me were directed at her.

But how likely is that, really? I’ve had vivid dreams before, but it never takes more than a second or two to wake from them.

Has he had some kind of psychological break? I hate to say it, but it seems like that might have been what happened. Same with my dream theory—in his mind he’s connected me with his mother somehow—but instead of it being a dream it’s some kid of deep, psychological… I don’t know. I don’t know the terms. I’m not an expert.

All I know is that I’m worried.

The man who just lashed out at me on the phone didn’t sound at all like the Ryan I know—or the Ryan I thought I knew. He sounded more like the angry man I first met a week ago, only much,
much
angrier.

I need to talk to him. I call him back right away, but it just rings and then goes to voicemail.

What should I do? Should I drive over to the training facility?

To be honest, I’m kind of afraid to. Fact is he scared the crap out of me with all those horrible things he said,
and
with the way he said them. If I show up there and he’s still so furious, will he hit me? He’s a huge guy. He could do some serious physical damage to me with very little effort.

What’s more, if I show up at the training facility at this hour, it’ll be obvious that there’s something going on between Ryan and me and I’ll be seen as unprofessional. I need to stay out of it.

I’ll just have to trust that somebody else will get him the help he needs. There are tons of people working at that training facility—the coach, assistant coaches, Ryan’s manager, the team manager, masseuses, physical therapists, doctors, the other guys on the team, even assistants and maintenance staff. Surely somebody is around to help him.

I need to stay out of it.

But how can I just sit here and hope for the best when it sounds like Ryan is coming apart at the seams? It’s not even six in the morning yet. These people, these potential saviors, are probably all still asleep. And how many of them actually reside there at the training facility residence hall? Most of them probably drive in from the city or wherever.

I try calling him again, but it just rings and rings before going to voicemail.

All right, that’s it. I need to go over there. I don’t care if this raises a red flag when it comes to my professional image. I need to make sure Ryan is okay. He could be hurting himself right at this very moment while I’m hemming and hawing and worrying about the possibility of a few bruises and a damaged professional reputation.

I jump out of bed and throw on some clothes, and in less than five minutes, I’m turning the key in the ignition of my rental car. The motel is about a ten-minute drive from the facility, and I make great time because I don’t encounter a single car on the road.

Thank goodness the lobby of the training facility is lit up, and I can see the guard behind his desk. I was so afraid they wouldn’t have 24-hour security. Even though the residence hall is in a separate building, the training facility complex is secure, and the only way to get in is through the main entrance.

I park next to a giant Mercedes-Benz SUV and dash over to the entrance to the building. The door is locked, so I knock and wave at the security guard, while at the same time attempting a smile.

He doesn’t return my smile. He gets up and walks over to unlock the door, but instead of opening it for me, he steps out of the building.

“Hi.” I greet the guy, one of the two security guards employed by the team. I know he knows who I am. I’ve seen him at least four or five times, and we always say hello to each other. “I know it’s early, but I need to see Ryan Blake. It’s important.”

“I’m sorry Ms. Marshall, but I have direct instructions not to let you into the training facility,” he says with a coldness in his voice.

“What?” I whisper.

He doesn’t answer, but he does fold his arms across his chest in an authoritative sort of way.

I can’t leave! Ryan could be in serious trouble, and he needs help.

“Have you actually spoken to him?” I ask. “I’m really, really worried about him.”

He just stares back at me before a moment before shaking his head and giving a bitter little half-laugh. “He’s fine. His agent is up there with him.”

Well, that’s a relief. At least somebody’s with him, and I’m glad it’s his agent. From what I gather, the two of them are pretty close. But what’s up with the attitude from the security guard? He’s acting like I’ve done something to hurt Ryan.

“Could I just—” I start to say, but the guy cuts me off.

“You need to leave the premises now.”

I stare back at him. “Why are you being like this?”

“
Now
, Ms. Marshall.”

I am absolutely dumbfounded, too stunned to protest. I take a step back, and the security guard goes back into the lobby, locking the door after him. Locking me out.

What
is going on? Why is he acting like I’ve done something truly heinous? I’m not thrilled about the possibility that Ryan’s involvement with me might have come to light, but if this is the case, it’s not the end of the world. Seriously. It’s not like this is 17
th
Century New England or something.

I find my way back to the car, and then I find my way back to the motel. Once there, I have a hard time occupying myself. I get back into my pajamas and try to read the mystery I recently downloaded, but it’s impossible to concentrate. I soon give up and decide to take a shower. I set my phone on the toilet tank so it’s within reach in case I get a call. I do my best to stretch out my shower so that it takes up a good chunk of time, but when I start to turn into a prune, I know I have to get out.

The minutes continue to drag. I blow-dry my hair, I make myself a pot of coffee, and I eat a granola bar and an apple. Mostly I fixate on what might be going on with Ryan and why I’ve been banished from the loop. I just hope he’s okay. I really, really hope he’s okay.

My phone rings at 8:06 and I practically jump out of my skin. For a split second, I rejoice. I’m so certain that it’s Ryan—or someone calling with news of Ryan—that my spirits soar. But when I look at my screen and realize it’s Gina calling, they drop back down to murky levels.

“Hi, Gina. What’s up?”

“Charlotte,” she says with a sigh. “Is there something you need to tell me?”

When I don’t answer, she adds, “About Ryan Blake.”

Oh my god. She knows. Ryan must be babbling to his agent and whoever else about what the two of us have been up to. Even so, it’s not that big of a deal. I know this sort of thing is generally frowned upon, sure, but it’s hard to imagine Ryan’s manager calling up my agent to tattle on the two of us. We’re consenting adults, and this is the world of professional sports, for goodness sake. Neither one of us is married. What’s this all about?

In any case, I’m fine with coming clean to Gina. Maybe she can help me make sense of it all.

I take a deep breath and say, “Okay. I know it’s unprofessional, but the truth is Ryan and I have been hooking up. I’m sorry, Gina. I really hope your professional reputation doesn’t suffer because of it.”

Several moments pass before she responds.

“Um… That’s not what this is about,” she says.

Oh, great. Leave it to me to embarrass myself for no good reason.

“Trust me, it’s not going to be any involvement between the two of you that destroys your reputation—or mine,” she says.

“Then what?” I ask her. I can hear the desperation in my voice. “I feel like I’m going crazy here. The security guard gave me all sorts of attitude when I showed up at the facility today. He acted like I was a criminal. Like I’d been caught hacking into their computers or something. Ryan called me up at five forty-five this morning
screaming
at me like wanted me to drop dead so he could take a piss on my corpse. At first I thought he was having some sort of psychological episode, but now I’m not so sure. None of this makes one bit of sense.”

“So, you didn’t do it then?”

“I didn’t do
what
?”

“Charlotte,” she says, in a calm, placating voice. “Turn on your TV. Turn to one of the news channels.”

And I do. And there it is: the answer to all the questions I’ve been asking myself since Ryan first called me this morning. The newscasters are having a field day with this one.

They’ve called an expert in to show how Matthew Prescott and Ryan Blake are indisputably the same person. He starts with that famous photo of the traumatized boy in the bloody pajamas and goes through a series of age progression photos, ending with one of Ryan looking sexy as hell in his football jersey.

And they’ve got footage.

“Thank you for joining us. We’ve got research scientist Ted Fields from the Biometric Center of Excellence here with us to talk about the accuracy of voice recognition tools and software. Thank you for being here, Mr. Fields.”

“Happy to be here.”

“Now, the jury is still out on whether or not Ryan Blake is in fact young Matthew Prescott all grown up, but if we can determine the authenticity of the footage that’s recently surfaced, it should clear things up. Let’s run that clip.”

I watch in horror as the TV screen is filled with an image of Ryan and me in the meeting room at the training facility. We’re holding hands and gazing at each other with fierce intensity.

Ryan takes a deep breath and says, “Have you ever heard of Matthew Prescott?”

I tilt my head to the side and after a moment, I say, “The name sounds familiar…”

“It’s my real name.”

The clip freezes and the newscaster says to his guest, “Now, Mr. Fields, can you say with any certainty that this is actually Ryan Blake’s voice?”

“Without question. We’ve run it through the system and come up with a positive match.”

“So there’s no possibility that the footage is a fake?” the newscaster asks.

“That’s not necessarily true, based solely on the authenticity of the voice. Anyone could have created an audio file by cobbling together a set of individual words into sentences. Ryan Blake has been in the public eye for so many years. Even though he’s notoriously tight-lipped, there are still plenty of accessible clips online of interviews and whatnot for harvesting individual words.”

“I see,” the newscaster says, visibly disappointed. “So this could actually be a hoax.”

“I didn’t say that,” says the science guy with a condescending look for the newscaster. “If you’ll notice, the camera is focused directly on Blake. Anyone with even the most basic lip-reading skills can plainly see that he is actually speaking the words we hear. I myself have impeccable skills when it comes to the art of lip-reading.”

“So the footage
is
authentic.”

“Without question.”

Oh my god. What a disaster this is for Ryan. Now that this is all out in the open, the image of the badass starting quarterback he’s built up over the years is going to be completely shot to hell. Things are going to change from this point forward. Maybe it won’t be as bad as he feared—and I dearly hope this is the case—but it’s going to be a long time before this news blows over, and Ryan is going to be hounded by the press and the fans alike. My heart is breaking for him.

And then it hits me.

He thinks I’m responsible for this! It all makes sense now—the vitriolic phone call this morning and my banishment from the training facility. He thinks I exposed his deepest, darkest secret. How could he think that? How could he ever think I’d be capable of such heartless betrayal?

“Oh my god,” I murmur, my eyes brimming with tears.

“I know. It’s pretty awful, isn’t it?” Gina says, reminding me that we’re still on the call. I’d pretty much forgotten about her.

“I’ll say.”

“So, I assume you’ve gathered that they think you’re the one responsible for leaking the story.”

“Yeah.”

“And I assume they’re wrong.”

How can she even ask me that?

“Of course they’re wrong.”

“Good. I’m sure once they look into things they’ll be able to clear your name, but for now, the project is nixed. You need to check out of the motel this morning and come back home. I’ll deal with the Vipers and the publishers. You just hang tight and don’t talk to anyone.”

“Okay.”

“I mean it, Charlotte. The press are going to be hounding you, and you won’t be doing yourself any favors by speaking to them. Not even if it’s to deny your involvement. So don’t even think about it.”

“I won’t.”

We go over a couple more things, and when we hang up, I start packing my belongings up in a daze. I still can’t believe all this is happening. Before I went to sleep last night, I was bursting with love for Ryan, for his strength and for his bravery. I felt so close to him, so grateful that he trusted me enough to confide in me. But today has been a waking nightmare ever since I first opened my eyes.