Dirty Baller: A Secret Baby Sports Romance (3 page)

“You apologize a lot for things you don’t need to apologize for,” he says, staring at me.

“Sorr-“ I stop myself and laugh.

“See? I’m right.” He taps his fingers on the table. “I ordered you a water.”

“Thanks,” I say. We sit in silence and I drink the whole glass the second it comes to the table. I can feel my head clearing already.

“You ready to go do this?” he asks me after about ten minutes.

I nod, still feeling nervous. But I’m warm in all the right places just from him looking at me with those green eyes of his.

He puts his hand on my lower back and steers me out of the bar and into the hotel lobby.

My heart is thudding as we wait for the elevator. The doors ding open and an old couple steps out, brushing past me. Ryan walks into the elevator first and I follow. He presses the button for the same floor I’m staying on.

What a grand coincidence that is.

The doors are no sooner shut than Ryan has me pinned to the wall with a cocky grin on his face. He misses my lips and heads for my neck, his hands feeling their way underneath my shirt, searching and finding what he’s looking for almost immediately. His muscular hands are heavy with experience as they slip up to the satin cups of my bra.

I inhale sharply as he kisses my neck.

“Ever have sex in an elevator?” he breathes into my skin.

I push him away. “What? No!”

He laughs and pulls me back toward him. “Don’t worry. Tonight’s not your night. You seem a little too inexperienced for that.”

I swallow hard. “Is that a problem?”

“See, there you go apologizing again,” he says, drawing circles with his thumbs over my nipples.

“I didn’t say sorry!”

He laughs. “You sounded apologetic. Now stop talking. You’re distracting me from my work.”

He says he’s distracted, but he hasn’t stopped once this entire time, feeling my skin like he’s looking for something. The doors ding open just as I feel like I’m going to soak through my jeans, and Ryan lets go of me and marches down the hallway.

He stops at a door and pulls out his keycard.

“You’re right next to me,” I say, shocked.

He gives me a sexy look that makes me want to tear his clothes off. “Good thing at least one of the neighbors won’t be bothered by us, then.”

I follow him into the bedroom, gulping nervously. I don’t have much time to take in the completely disheveled room before Ryan has me off my feet and on my back on the unmade bed.

“I didn’t expect to have company tonight,” he says, sliding my shirt up my stomach and pulling it off my head. “Or I would have tidied up a bit.”

“It’s okay,” I reply. My voice is so harsh and raspy because I’m breathing so heavily. I barely recognize the sound of it.

A second later, he has my bra unclasped and his lips are at my nipples, teasing the little pink buds there lightly. He nibbles at them and stands up once he has me gasping for breath. He pulls off his t-shirt and throws it onto the clothing-littered floor.

I gasp again. This guy is built like Adonis. He has an eight pack, and the lean, muscular look of a soccer player. His tattoos cover his entire body. I’ve never slept with a guy who had tattoos before, and the thought of that thrills me.

I take a deep breath and the musky scent of Ryan’s body fills my nose. He unbuttons his jeans and pulls off his boxers.

“Oh my God,” I actually whisper out loud. I clap my hand over my mouth and squint my eyes, feeling embarrassed over my juvenile outburst. But I couldn’t help it.

Are English treasures bigger than American ones? Or is this just a one-off thing?

I don’t have time to ponder this any further, because Ryan has found my bellybutton and is kissing all the way to the top of my jeans hungrily. He opens my jeans and I wiggle my legs as he pulls off the tight fabric. He finds the top line of my underwear and teases kisses all around it.

Then I realize – he’s about to lick me.

Down there.

I’ve never, not once, had a guy offer to go down on me. And now this guy – this impossibly sexy, well-hung, ripped, tattooed guy is about to do this for me.

Ryan’s hands find my bare breasts again and I arch my back, bringing my mound up to his lips. He kisses me through the cotton fabric, his breath hot and urgent.

He lets go of my breast and sticks his fingers underneath the cotton, pulling it to the side. His tongue finds places I didn’t even know existed down there. The pleasure of it is almost too much for me to bear, and he’s only just begun.

“I love the way you taste,” he whispers against me.

A thrill of pleasure at these words rocks my body and Ryan takes full advantage of the moment. He’s tasting me like I’m the best dessert in the entire world. He licks and rubs every part of my slit. I’m so wet I’m pretty sure he could slip inside of me and I wouldn’t even feel it.

Well. That’s a lie. I know that I’d feel it.

How could I not feel
that
?

I don’t have time to think about it any longer. My pleasure is building and building and –

“Aaaaah!” I scream out, my back arching, my toes curling. Ryan puts his hands under my ass and lifts me up as I wrap my legs around the back of his head. It’s too much. I feel like I’m going to pass out. I finish, panting, but Ryan is ready to go again already.

He might actually kill me with pleasure.

I wonder vaguely if anyone’s ever died from sex before. I just might be the first.

CHAPTER FOUR

RYAN

If I don’t get inside this delicious piece of American ass soon, I’m going to blow my load all over the duvet.

I have no idea what it is about Hayley, but my balls are as blue as they’ve ever been. I pride myself on being able to last for a long, long time. But she might be the first exception to that rule.

I pull my mouth away from her sweet nectar and reach into the nightstand for a condom. I nearly drop it I’m in such a hurry. As I lean over Hayley, she runs her hands over my abs.

Women always love my abs. The fact they’re covered in tattoos is just the icing on a very, very muscular cake.

Or so I’ve been told. I’d hate to brag.

Just kidding.

I fucking
love
to brag.

I unwrap the condom and slip it onto my cock.

Then I slip inside of Hayley. I go slowly at first, but she starts bucking against me to get me inside of her faster.

Who am I to argue with that?

Soon, we’re fucking like animals. Hayley’s nails are digging into my back and from the sharp pain, I’m pretty sure she’s drawing some blood. She yells and screams in pleasure and my theory about shy girls is confirmed for the hundredth time.

She’s wild. She’s completely unhinged.

I ride her until she’s begging me to stop and lick her again. That’s the part where I release my load and then I follow her instructions.

Back to her delicious pussy it is for round two.

I don’t even know what time we fall asleep, but I know I basically passed out after the third time we needed to use a condom. Between the alcohol, rabid fucking and the stress of the last few weeks, I’m exhausted.

I wake up when sunlight falls through a gap in the curtains. I realize I fell asleep with my arm around Hayley and I can’t get it extracted fast enough.

She’s so exhausted from the jet lag she just rolls over and goes back to sleep. I hop in the shower as fast as I can. I don’t want us to wake up together.

Besides that, today’s the first day of practice and I need to be at the football pitch early.

As much as I pretended to agree with Devon last night; this – peace and calm - is what I need for my career. I knew that I was careening out of control, and joining Hounslow is exactly what I need.

I slip into the bedroom and grab a clean uniform and tracksuit bottoms from my unzipped duffel bag, shove a clean pair of cleats into my practice bag, and head out of the room.

I sigh with relief as the door shuts behind me.

I successfully avoid the dreaded morning after chat. Usually I kick women out of my place in the middle of the night. This one got lucky. She got to spend the entire night next to me.

It’s an uncharacteristically sunny day in London and the streets are filled with shoppers and business people. London has changed so much in recent years; especially in the city center where I’m staying, people are dressed in suits that cost as much as a house in the country did when I was a kid. It’s such a stark contrast between the haves and the have nots.

I pass a woman not much older than me in slightly tattered clothes.

“Big Issue!” she yells.

I reach into my tracksuit bottoms and pull out a fiver to hand to her. She thanks me and I take the paper, shoving it into my bag. Of course I won’t read it. But she reminds me of my own mother, selling papers on the corner so she could buy me milk for my breakfast cereal.

I jog down into the Tube station, slipping my Oyster card into the ticket machine. It whirs and spits it out. I grab it and jog down the steep, narrow central staircase instead of taking the packed escalator. It’s a good workout, though not as good as running
up
the stairs.

I wait on the Tube platform for the screeching arrival of my train. A rush of commuters pushes out, grumpy looks on their faces. I stand up near the door and check the map. I feel like a little boy, my mother holding my hand on a rare day into the city.

Part of the reason I spent the last few nights in the City of London proper is because I wanted to relive some of those days. And I wanted a long Tube journey just to see if I could feel her presence.

It’s sort of working.

I go over my route in my head. The District Line at Embankment to South Kensington. Transfer to the Piccadilly line all the way to Hounslow Central. My mother used to make me repeat the stops on our journey until she was sure I had memorized them. She always wanted to make sure that if we got separated, I could find my way to our meetup point.

I close my eyes as the train stirs into motion, bracing my feet and balancing as best as I can. I feel like Tube surfing should be its own national sport.

Forty-three minutes later, I’m stepping back out into sunshine and walking to the club. It’s not far from the station, and I’m enjoying the weather. I walk up the rickety wooden steps to the clubhouse and open the door. It smells like beer, old carpet, and cigar smoke.

I see a balding, round-bellied man sitting at a small table with a fresh batch of fish and chips near his left hand. In his right hand is a pen and a playbook.

“You must be Ivan?” I ask. Ivan Maier is the manager of Hounslow.

He doesn’t glance up at me right away, instead scribbling a bit more in his notebook. He puts his pen down and looks up at me. “And you must be our newest arrogant berker.”

I hold out my hand. “Ryan Mackenzie. That’s right.”

He takes my hand. “You going to behave here?”

“I’ll do my best,” I say. I look around the room at the photos of teams over the years and the case of trophies. “Bit quieter here than where I’m used to.”

“We don’t tend to let the players hang out at a bar early in the mornings. The team is already changed and waiting for you in the locker rooms.”

I’m late. I feel like a fucking daft prick. “Sorry, I thought I’d be here early.”

Ivan stands up and walks over to the door. It’s crooked on the hinges. Jesus, this place is utter shite. “Downstairs. We start at seven in the morning sharp. Don’t be late next time.”

The locker room, all sweat and muggy air and masculinity, grinds to a halt when I walk inside. Everyone is glaring at me. I find an open locker and shove my bag into it, pulling out my trainers.

“Hullo,” I say to the room at large.

Everyone is sitting down except for the captain who is going over plays on a white board.

“Right. Everyone, this is Ryan Mackenzie. You should know him from the gossip pages more than his work on the pitch. I think his crowning achievement at his last football club was six different drink driving penalties.”

They all laugh.

“Yeah, yeah,” I reply, finding a seat. “Let’s move on from that.”

The captain crosses his arms over his chest. “I’m the captain. I’ll be telling you when we move on from something.” He claps his hands together. “Starting with warmups. I think we’ll do thirty laps around the field to get started.” Everyone groans. “You can thank pretty boy here for that. Since he decided to be late on his first day, I think the whole team should be punished for that to
really
teach him a lesson.”

Players bump into me roughly as we file out onto the pitch. I get my legs under me and start running. Immediately, the sunny day isn’t nearly as pleasant. Sweat pours from my hairline and into my eyes.

I run to the front of the pack and make sure I stay there.

I might just be a pretty boy to them, but I need to show them that I can play a mean game of football. If they’re going to hate me, I want it to be for how bloody good I am out here, in my element.

I’ll show them all who I
really
am. I’m more than a party boy with a bad temper.

I’m Ryan fucking Mackenzie.

CHAPTER FIVE

HAYLEY

I’m late.

Like, really, really late.

Ryan, of course, left me before I woke up. I kind of don’t blame him.

I mean, it’s not like this was meant to be anything more than a one-night stand. I stand up and stretch, feeling the soreness between my legs.

And that was one
hell
of a one-night stand. I stumble out of the room with my clothes clutched to my chest.

Just my luck; the cleaning crew is on this hallway. One of the maids nods a hello at me. I can tell she’s hiding the judgment in her eyes, but only barely. I slip as quickly as I can into my room and double-check the clock.

Yep. I’m two hours behind. No breakfast for me.

I take a taxi out to Hounslow; it’s almost two hundred dollars. I’ll expense it, but I know that Sandra won’t be happy about it. The Tube would put me even further behind; the good news is that a lot of the rush hour traffic has cleared out. I slip the driver an extra twenty pound note and tell him to drive faster.