Playing Dirty (A Bad Boy Sports Romance) (2 page)

The startling thing about all of it was that for most of the time we’d dated, it hadn’t been like that. Josh had been perfectly content to get some takeout, snuggle on the couch, and sometimes sleep together—as in literally sleep together in the same bed, keeping each other warm. And then as soon as I started pulling away because I thought we were spending too much time together, he got really clingy and intense. The final straw had been when I’d broken a date because I had a splitting headache, and he’d shown up drunk at three in the morning. I’d told him in no uncertain terms to piss off and then slammed the door in his face.

Predictably, he hadn’t even remembered doing it the next day.

While I usually told Lizzy almost everything, I didn’t exactly want her knowing about how bad Josh’s stalker-ish behavior had gotten. She was younger, and I prayed she wouldn’t ever have to deal with the same kind of crap from a suitor. Then again, Lizzy was a lot different from me. Over the years, I’d had to really push myself to become confident and strong, while Lizzy had been like that since the beginning. She’d been the younger tomboy to my girly girl. Hell, one of the reasons she’d gone to Manchester was because she was obsessed with some soccer team who were based there.

Thinking about Lizzy in Manchester reminded me that I should do some research. I didn’t really know anything about England, except for London. And even then, my knowledge of London was outdated—mostly from reading old novels and seeing TV shows and movies that were based there.

As I checked out a Manchester website on my laptop a few minutes later, I was pleased to read that the current weather there was quite a lot cooler than the humid NYC summers here, but I had to roll my eyes at the constant references to Manchester United. There were even pop-up ads for flights to Manchester with pictures of the team carousing and partying. Yeah, like I’d want to spend eight hours crammed into a jet with a bunch of drunk playboys, even if they
were
admittedly kind of cute.

When I went to the site for the Manchester Evening News, there was an article featuring one of the star players from the team. The large bolded headline practically yelled ‘
Belfast Playboy Plays Dirty With the Ladies,'
and splashed underneath that was a shirtless photo of a
very
muscular man named Jay Walsh. Even though I felt like rolling my eyes at the sports worship—I’d never been a particularly sporty person—I couldn’t deny that he was incredibly sexy, and my knees felt a little weak as I took in the picture.

He had a sculpted face and body—slightly wild, like he could be dangerous—and piercing blue eyes that made my stomach do flip-flops. His dark brown hair was cropped close to his head, and I found myself admiring the strong line of his jaw.

“Stop it,” I muttered to myself, slamming my laptop closed. The last thing I needed to do was start fantasizing over completely unobtainable men….especially arrogant playboys. From what the article had said about Jay Walsh, he was the kind of guy who took home a different woman each and every night.

Maybe sometimes even more than one woman.

Ugh.
As I imagined an English person might say, a man like that really wasn’t my cup of tea.

Standing up, I stretched and walked over to my closet, and after throwing the doors open, I grabbed a handful of dresses and tossed them on the bed. They were mostly the kind of thing I could wear to work; stylish, simple, attractive but not really sexy. For my job, I always had to look perky and relevant. The sexiest I could dare go on the show was ‘girl next door,’ and that was honestly fine with me.

I smiled when I saw one of the dresses in the pile that I’d selected. It definitely wasn’t a work dress; it was a close-fitting black sheath with lace sleeves and a pencil skirt that hugged my ass to perfection. It was one of the dresses I’d bought right before moving to the city, when I thought that I’d actually be going to bars and looking for men to pick up after being inspired by one too many re-run episodes of Sex And The City. I’d almost never had the nerve to wear it, and I was honestly glad Josh hadn’t ever caught a glimpse of me tucked into the silky fabric. If he had, it would probably be harder than ever to make him stay away, because knowing him, he’d try to say I was ‘asking for it’ by wearing it around him.

After a moment of hesitation, I folded the dress and put it to the side. I’d take it with me just in case, even though there was probably no way in hell that I’d get to use it. After all, staying with Lizzy didn’t exactly scream ‘single woman on the town,’ but maybe there would be a decent guy or two there…

The muscular, tattooed guy from the soccer team—Jay Walsh —popped into my mind automatically, and I laughed out loud. One thing was for sure; even if I met a man on vacation, it definitely wouldn’t be a man like
him
.

No flippin’ way.

Chapter Two

Jay

Jesus… how much did I drink last night?

“My head is fucking pounding,” I mumbled to no one in particular as I swung my legs over the side of the bed and padded across the unfamiliar carpet to the gleaming white hotel bathroom.

From the bed, there was a slight stirring sound, and I glanced up and saw a naked torso, attached to an attractive strawberry-blonde head. Blue eyes were staring right at me, dry pink lips working their way into a faint smile.

“Hello, sexy,” the girl said softly. Her voice was attractively raspy, but when I blinked and looked closer, I saw crumbs of mascara under her eyes, complete with massive circles. “Why don’t you come on back to bed?” She gave me a lascivious look and I rolled my eyes before stepping into the bathroom and closing the door behind me.

My body ached like I’d been running all over the pitch, and I blinked and shook my head, trying to clear the hangover. I could barely remember last night, but that was nothing new. I grinned as an image flashed into my mind: the blonde in my bed, plastering herself against me at a pub and slipping her hands into my pants. She’d been so hot to get me out of there, she’d practically dragged my pants off in the alley and tried to finish me off right then and there.

With satisfying forcefulness, I took a piss, sighing at the feeling of immediate relief.

“Jay, are you gonna be much longer in there?” The girl’s voice sounded loudly from the other side of the closed door. “I need to use the loo!”

“I’ll be right out,” I muttered. “Christ, can’t a man take a piss in peace?”

I heard pearls of giggles from my one-time companion, and a trace of irritation flickered through me. What was with these birds who thought that the morning was a fun time for chatting?

“Jay!” The girl squeaked when I opened the door. I thought she was going to dash past me for the loo but instead she wrapped her arms around my waist and pulled me close. “Come back to bed.”

I shook my head. “Can’t,” I said casually as I peeled her arms away from my body. “I gotta get down to the pitch. I’m already late.”

She giggled again, and I felt the mild annoyance getting stronger. “Come on, it’ll be fun,” she wheedled. Blinking up at me with vacant blue eyes, she bit her lower lip and went on. “After all, you were game last night!”

“Last night was last night,” I said mildly, pushing past her and reaching for my jumper and pants on the floor. “And this morning, it’s time for you to leave.”

She pouted. “Come on,” she said. Her resolve was clearly weakening but she shot me a hopeful smile anyway.

I shook my head.

“Jayyyy,” she continued, drawing my name out in a long, teasing way as her expression became coy. “Let’s take a shower together. I know you want to. You know…you can even fuck me in the ass if you want.”

My skin itched at the mention of a shower, but I wasn’t in the mood to share my time under the hot water, and god…her desperation was not sexy at all. “Don’t be such a melter,” I told her. “Time for you to go. Come on.”

She pouted again and I resisted the urge to go in the bathroom and lock the door until she’d gone. “You don’t even remember my name, do you?” she asked in a hurt voice.

I shot her a guilty grin and shrugged. “Don’t take it personally,” I said. “Trust me, this happens a lot.”

Yeah, I was an asshole, but at least I was honest about it.

The blonde’s smile finally vanished, and I watched with mild interest as she collected her clothes from the floor and stepped neatly into a tiny pair of pink panties and an even tinier black mini-dress.
Oh, yeah.
The black dress. That’s what had drawn me to her in the first place. I was a sucker for girls in tiny black dresses. I knew it was stereotypical, but I couldn’t help it. Every time one of those birds walked by, I felt my leg twitch like a pup’s.

The girl finally left, slamming the door behind her and stalking to the lifts in a huff, and I checked my phone and saw that Coach had called a few times.
Bloody hell
, I thought.
Just my fucking luck right now
.

I was lucky I was so good, or else my antics probably would have gotten me booted off the team, and there was no way I could let that happen. Football was my life. I loved the adrenaline of running onto the pitch with my mates, kicking and tackling our way to victory. The adrenaline after winning a match was like nothing else I’d ever experienced, and it even beat out the feeling of going home with a new girl for the first time.

There was nothing else like it in the world.

The blonde girl had flipped the TV on while waiting for me to come out of the bathroom earlier, and for a minute, I stared at the screen, enchanted by what I saw. It was a re-run of an American show called Keeping Current With Kate. The hostess was a sexy brunette who always wore shift dresses with mandarin collars, and seeing her was enough to get my cock hard and my balls aching. Even though she talked about a lot of serious issues, she managed to act playful and intelligent in turn, which really helped convey her points, and while the show was aimed at women, I liked to catch it whenever I could, just so I could watch
her
. She was one of the hottest women I’d ever seen on TV, but knowing what most media personalities were like, she was probably nervy as hell in person. I couldn’t imagine her tossing a shot of tequila down her throat and dancing with me until the wee hours of the morning, that was for sure.

Still, she was a fox. I grinned at her figure on the screen.

After my shower, I toweled off and slipped into my white shorts and red jersey. I felt almost as good as new. The lovely Kate had disappeared from the TV now, and I switched it over to the local news before rolling my eyes. There I was, or at least, there was my drunken doppelganger in a photo, his arms around a cheap blonde at a pub.

Frowning, I turned up the volume. “Jay Walsh, perennial playboy and star of Manchester United is up to his old tricks again,” said a wily female voice. “According to gossip blogger Hannah Joyce, he was seen with not one but
two
women late last night. We’ve brought Hannah on site today for an interview. Nice to see you, Hannah!”

My stomach churned as I watched the lithe figure of my ex-girlfriend parade across the screen. She was a petite platinum blonde, dressed to kill in a white slip dress and heels that were much too high for morning telly.

“Hi there,” Hannah said, fluttering her heavy black false eyelashes. She settled down in a chair and crossed her legs at the ankle. “So, are we here to dish about Jay?”

She turned to the camera and winked, and a laugh-track played. I knew that I should turn the TV off and leave, but there was something hypnotic about watching others discuss you onscreen, like you were right there in the room.

“So, Hannah,” the voiceover continued. “Is it true? You really saw Jay with two women last night?”

Hannah let out a studied giggle. Then she winked at the camera again, and I felt faintly nauseated. “Well, actually, it was more like
three
women,” she said. She pouted and the announcer cooed sympathetically. “Can you believe I used to date that playboy?”

“He certainly keeps busy,” the announcer commented. “You think he was celebrating, or this is just typical behavior from Jay?”

“Just another Monday night, really,” Hannah replied breezily.

I felt anger rise in my throat, and I finally clicked the TV off. I didn’t want to hear anything else she had to say. Even though we’d been broken up for almost a year, she still went out of her way to make my life miserable. I’d dated her when I first moved to Manchester from Belfast, and at first, it had been great. But then she started getting jealous and possessive, and we started fighting all the time. She couldn’t handle me going out with my mates.
Ever
. It was like she thought I’d take the first possible chance to cheat on her, even though I wasn’t that kind of guy. Sure, whenever I was single, I was a total player, but if I was in a relationship, I deeply respected the need for commitment.

I didn’t cheat at my sport, and I definitely didn’t cheat on girlfriends.

The jealousy had been bad enough, but the lying was even worse. Hannah had started using any excuse possible to make up shit about me to my mates and my family, trying to claim that I was a verbally abusive, cheating asshole. For a while, even my best friend Connor hadn’t talked to me. When I realized what she was doing, we broke up, but she’d obviously refused to accept the end of the relationship.

Nowadays, she worked as a sports reporter, but I most often saw her on gossip shows. She had no shame in stalking me professionally, and I knew she was waiting for the right moment to pounce and try to ruin my career for good out of revenge for me dumping her and moving on.

All I could say to that was ‘
good luck’.
I hadn’t worked my ass off to get where I was only to be taken down by a nutty ex.

After heading downstairs, I checked out of the hotel, and thankfully, the valet didn’t recognize me when I handed over my ticket. By the time I was in my car and cruising to the stadium, Hannah’s pernicious lies were starting to fade from my head. Now that I was famous, I couldn’t believe the amount of attention celebrities received. While I loved meeting girls who knew my name, it often felt like a double-edged sword, and I cursed myself for getting involved with someone like Hannah and falling for her lies for so long.

My mobile phone buzzed, and I picked it up and held it to my ear. “Hey, mate,” I said. I knew it was Connor without even checking the caller ID; he often called right before a big match to wish me luck.

“Hey,” Connor replied. I frowned; he sounded more distant than usual.

“Hey, how’s things? New job any good?” I asked.

He’d just started a new job with a new construction firm after being unemployed for a while, and I was glad he’d managed to find something. We’d been best mates for years, and I hated seeing him struggle to survive, but he was too proud to take handouts, so I could never convince him to take anything from me.

We’d grown up together in the worst part of Belfast, rife with IRA violence and bombings, and despite the odds, we’d stayed mates. Connor had always supported me. He was a great friend, and I missed having him around all the time.

He let out a long yawn. “I’m tired,” he mumbled, sounding irritated. “The job is killer.”

I swallowed. “You know, man, I could always help you out for a little bit,” I said. “I’d even let you pay me back.”

He didn’t reply immediately, and I knew he was going to refuse me, just like he always did. “You know I don’t take charity,” he grumbled. “I’ll be fine, I’m just a wee bit off.”

“Right. Hope it all works out.”

“Yeah, it’ll be all right. Anyway, how about you? How’s things?”

I chuckled. “Man, I had the weirdest chick stay with me last night,” I said before launching into a story about the anonymous blonde who’d bedded me all night and then snored so loudly I barely slept. “I’ve got the worst fuckin’ hangover, too,” I finished.

“Time to get back to the bottle, then,” Connor said in an exaggerated accent. We both laughed; it was an old inside joke of ours. “Hair of the dog, they say.”

“Not today,” I replied. “I’m on the way to the pitch. I’m already late, can you believe that?”

“That’s a bit rum of you,” Connor said. He laughed. “Being late on a Monday! You’re lucky they don’t chuck you aside.”

“I’m blessed,” I said, grinning even though he couldn’t see. “Anyway, I’m driving, so I’ll let you go, mate. Talk to you soon.”

“Yep. Have fun.”

We hung up and I continued the drive in silence, mulling over the conversation. Connor had sounded far more tired than usual, and if he stayed in the construction industry for much longer, I didn’t think he’d have any joints after a few more years. He’d always been a smaller guy, and I thought a less physical job would suit him far more. I desperately wanted him to get out of the business and find something like an office job, but he was too determined to stick things out on his own.

When I pulled into the stadium parking lot, reporters mobbed my car. I groaned. “Just what I bloody need right now,” I mumbled. “Thanks, you lot.”

“Jay! Jay!” The reporters cried, and I tried to flash a friendly smile. One of them elbowed her way past the crowd and kept pace with me despite being a foot shorter than I was.

“Jay,” she began with a winning smile. “Is it true you spent last night with three different women?”

I laughed. “Love, if that were true, I wouldn’t be walking today,” I said with a grin. “You know that’s bollocks.”

The reporter giggled politely. “So am I to take it that you have a new lady love?” When I didn’t immediately answer, she pressed on. “Someone serious that you’re going to settle down with?”

I snorted. “Nope. Not at all,” I said with a grin, shaking my head.

I knew it wasn’t what she wanted to hear; she wanted to hear me say something like, ‘
oh, I’d love to settle down, I’m just looking for the right person’.
But that wasn’t true. I wasn’t looking for Mrs. Right at the moment (more like Mrs. Right Now, if you catch my drift) and as far as I could see, I wouldn’t be settling down anytime soon. If I actually did, then the woman would have to be someone special.