Game On (A Bad Boy Sports Romance) (3 page)

              “So you ended up giving that poor young woman a hard time?”

              I frowned a little. “I think I might have, in hindsight. I’ve been thinking about everything I said in the interview since I had it, and I don’t know. I keep thinking about what I might have said wrong, and how my tone might have been too...I don’t know, forward, maybe. And I keep worrying that it’ll come out wrong in the final report, and what if she doesn’t want to interview me again, and…”

              “Kieran,” Mom stopped me after a while, “you ought to hear yourself, you sound like you’re nervous about how a date went.”

              I felt color in my cheeks, and I realized she was right.

              “It sounds like you really do care what this young lady thinks of you,” she said in an almost triumphant tone. “You know, if you’re worried, it wouldn’t hurt to give her a call and tell her how you feel. About the interview, of course.”

              I give a half-smile at Mom’s joke, but I know she’s right. Just dodging the matter for a while wouldn’t solve anything. “Maybe. I don’t know. It might be too late for the interview part, those journalists are fast.”

              We pulled up at Mom’s house again, and after I helped her to the door, I leaned down to give her another hug.

“Thank you for your help today, dear,” she said before I reached into my pocket and pulled out my wallet. As she saw it, she narrowed her eyes. “Now Kieran…”

              “Mom,” I stopped her, adamant about my support, “these meds are getting more expensive by the month, and rent’s going up. I’m a professional sports player, I don’t need all that extra cash.” I handed her the money I knew she’d be essentially living on for the next few weeks, and she accepted it with a reluctant sigh.

              “Alright, dear, but I don’t want to hear about you scrounging because of this.” Her reluctance melted into a grateful smile, though. “But thank you. I couldn’t ask for better sons.”

              “I’ll be back before long, Mom,” I said, and she headed into the house as I went back to my car.

              Once inside, I checked my phone to see a text--one of my teammates was letting me know that Danielle’s article just went live, and he included a link to the page.

              My stomach twisted in knots as I clicked it, and I wasted no time in scanning over the words on the screen, squinting my eyes to read the tiny text on my phone. After just a few paragraphs, I felt my heart start to beat faster and my expression brighten into a boyish grin as I read the glowing interview.

              It was fantastic. It was about me, which gave me a hell of an ego boost, but that aside, it really was a well written, insightful interview. It was like Danielle had sifted through all my bullshit and picked out everything worthwhile in our conversation and put it up for the world to see. I don’t think I could have asked for better, honestly.

              Nearly giddy with excitement, I pulled up her number in my phone as soon as I finished reading. I didn’t give what I was about to do much thought. I didn’t want to--it would just make me talk myself out of it. Without hesitation, I hit the ‘call’ button on Danielle’s office number.

              After a few rings, I heard the phone pick up, and Danielle’s voice came through the receiver like music.

              “This is Danielle Allen’s office,” she said in a courteous yet professional voice.

              “Hi Danielle, this is Kieran.”

              “Oh, Mr. Michaels, I was just about to email you and let you know the article is up.”

              “I know, that’s why I wanted to give you a call. Before you ask another word about what I thought about it, let me just make you this offer: I want you to have exclusive interview rights to me from now on. Permanently.”

              I was up before dawn, as usual, to get to work before anyone else. On the way to the office I stopped to get a fancy coffee and a bagel, treating myself to a real breakfast since I was proud of my recent article for the paper. Especially considering how little I got from that crapshoot of an interview with Kieran Michaels. I still didn’t know what to think of his offer-- more like demand-- to only interview with me from now on. Just like how I couldn’t read him very well the one time we met in person, I found it difficult to determine whether he was for real.

              From what I could tell, there was no real reason why he would only want to work with me from here on out. It wasn’t like we had much of a connection, besides that electrifying hand shake, and I could hardly eke enough information out of him to form a shaky backbone for the profile piece. Maybe that was just it-- I was so terrible at my job that he felt safe with me, knowing he would never fall prey to some exposé at my hands. He could successfully dodge my questions and make a fool of me without sharing anything authentic about himself. It was strange to me, though, that he would be so cagey about his past in the first place. What could he possibly be running away from? What was the big deal? Everybody had their own hang-ups, sure, but in a way, Mr. Michaels’s reticence only made me even more determined to dig into his personal life.

              I wanted to know more about him, know how he ticked. And why he picked me.

              I strutted through the revolving glass doors at the entrance of the office building and headed straight to the elevator, taking a sip of my coffee. I looked down at my phone to see a missed call from my mom sometime last night. It hit me then how crazy it was that I hadn’t even checked my phone for that long. For me, that was pretty much the norm unless I was expecting some important email or call from a work-related contact. I kept to myself, guarding my life from others, and unfortunately that included my mom and dad.

              I knew they worried about me. They always had. And in their defense, I was always giving them reasons to worry-- not on purpose, of course. But the amount of times I was picked on and tortured at school, the administrators calling my mom to tell her I needed to go home early because I was sobbing in the nurse’s office… I understood why my parents regarded me as a fragile thing now. After a lifetime of being pushed around and put down they were constantly waiting for my next victimization.

              I was their first child, and I never lived up to what they wanted from me. In fact, I was a failure from day one in their eyes, even if they didn’t want to admit it out loud. My very first transgression was being born a girl instead of a boy. They had planned for a boy, hoped for a boy, someone to play sports and carry on the family name.

              Instead, they got me.

              From the moment I emerged into the world, I was a source of perpetual concern for my parents. Born underweight and a tad sickly, they fretted over me for months as I struggled to thrive. Their dreams of a ten-pound future quarterback baby boy were dashed to pieces.

              I had terrible vision, so they got me glasses. I had crooked teeth, so they got me braces. I had wild, unkempt hair, so they got me cute little hats. I was sick a lot, so they paraded me in and out of doctor’s offices and pharmacies, always with some new expensive medicine meant to make me a normal kid again. My childhood and adolescence were a never-ending string of “what’s wrong with Dani now?”

              And though they tried most of the time to make light of how big a disappointment I was, sometimes the truth slipped out. Once, when I had to be picked up from school after a particularly nasty attack by the older girls who preyed on me, my dad demanded to know why I “let” people hurt me so easily.

              As though I wanted people to call me names and make fun of me. As if it was my main goal in life to be the central source of pain and frustration for my parents. Like I did it on purpose. I remembered sitting in the backseat of my dad’s overburdened blue van, blinking sadly at him in the rearview mirror. I had no answer for him.

              I didn’t go to homecoming. I didn’t go to prom. I never had a steady boyfriend-- only the occasional fellow nerd who followed me around and said we should just be together since we were so alike and all. But I never liked any of them, not really. Especially not the boy I dated at sixteen after he spent months wearing me down. It was the first time someone older and slightly cooler than me had taken an interest in me, and years later I realized why. He only wanted me because he knew I was vulnerable enough to take whatever he unleashed on me. He hounded me to sleep with him, to give myself up. The guy was dead-set on taking my virginity and he would not rest until I agreed to let him. That night was the worst of my entire life. He was fast and cruel, calling me horrible names and totally unconcerned with whether I enjoyed it or not. I consented to it, but only barely, and begrudgingly.

              It was the only time I’d ever had sex.

              And he dumped me the next day, claiming he just “didn’t see a future for us.”

              Showing my face around school was torture afterward. He told everybody what I was like in bed, how I winced at his rough, violent touch. How he refused to hold me when I cried afterward because he was already over it. Over me. As if he had ever given a shit about me in the first place. As I walked down the hallways of my high school, people turned and snickered at me, whispering and pointing. I was the laughingstock of the population. Once again, I was nothing more than a joke. Even though some people might have seen that as just a silly, typical high school struggle, it scarred me beyond consolation. I could no longer trust anyone, and particularly men. And sex… was out of the question. I couldn’t imagine a scenario in which I could ever have a safe, happy sexual encounter with another person ever again.

              Ten years later, I was pretty much ready to embrace my destiny as a lonely, overworked spinster juggling two jobs, neither of which really fulfilled my dreams. My poor mother was beginning to think I would never give her any grandchildren. Luckily, when I was twelve my parents had a happy accident-- a late-in-life baby boy they named Alex. He was unexpected and unplanned, certainly, but he was exactly what they’d always wanted: strong, sweet, and sporty. He was every bit the all-American athlete my parents had hoped I would be. I was sure he’d grow up to sire a whole slew of equally healthy babies for my parents to spoil and adore.

              Meanwhile, I would play the role of weird Aunt Dani, married to the job, showing up occasionally to the family reunions to awkwardly dash in and steal a plate of food before disappearing again. I had it all planned out-- the whole embarrassing ordeal of my future. But the way I saw it, if I couldn’t achieve a successful love life then I could at least throw all my focus into my work instead. I was dogged in my pursuit of a fulfilling career and nothing was going to throw me off.

              And who could tell-- maybe someday we’d make a pleasing pair for my proud parents: Alex the football star and Danielle the football writer. That would probably appease them, at least. I hoped.

              I settled into my swivel chair and opened up my laptop to get started on my workload for the day, which was staggering. I had several articles to edit for the journal here as well as updating the associated blog page and writing up another stats piece for the paper. I cracked my knuckles and jumped right in before the clock even struck six AM, sipping my coffee and nibbling my bagel as I worked. By the time nine o’clock rolled around I was already halfway done, feeling proud of myself. I was on fire today, not even letting the thought of Mr. Michaels’s proposition distract me too terribly.

              Of course, when my lovely coworkers started filing in for the day, my uninterrupted work flow hit a substantial snag. As usual, they gave me their typical annoyed glares. I knew I made the rest of them look bad by working so hard and being an overachiever, but this was the only way I knew how to be.

              When I was growing up, the only way I could ever surpass my peers was through getting better grades. I could never be as cool or pretty as the other girls in my class, but I could definitely be the smartest one in the classroom. So that’s what I did, over and over again, without fail. Even the constant torture I endured at the hands of my classmates couldn’t deter me from making straight As and ending my high school career as valedictorian. Of course, in college, people were much more apt to leave me the hell alone, which was a godsend. When I went away to university, I’d fully expected the bullying to continue, even though we were all older and (supposedly) more mature. And for the most part, it did.

              College was a breath of fresh air for me, finding that at last I could exist in the same world with people my own age without having them turn on me. It helped that over the summer between my senior year of high school and my freshman year of college I suddenly blossomed into a much less awkward young woman. My braces came off, I traded contact lenses for my crooked glasses, my hair finally tamed down, my skin cleared up completely, I grew an inch taller, and my baby fat melted away to reveal an almost modelesque frame beneath it.

              It was like leaving the toxic environment of secondary school had given me the freedom and relief to finally come into my own. I was suddenly a real person, it felt like. For the first time in my life, men turned to look at me when I passed by-- not to sneer and poke fun at my looks, but to gawk at my long legs, shiny dark hair, and bright green eyes. Finally, puberty released me from its cruel, clawlike grasp and gave me a chance to feel attractive and worthy. I was the very definition of a late bloomer. But those years of pain stayed with me still, leaving an indelible mark on my psyche, on my soul.

              It was weird-- when I was younger, boys made fun of me for being too unattractive, implying that my intelligence didn’t matter because I didn’t look good enough. There wasn’t a pretty enough face to present my ideas, so they were immediately discounted. And now that I was older, men claimed my intelligence didn’t count because I was too attractive-- that any success I achieved was due to my being pretty rather than my actual talent. The boss couldn’t possibly value me for my skills and hard work, it had to be that he just had a
thing
for me.

              I’d seen both sides of the same nasty coin, and realized that the problem wasn’t whether I was ugly or pretty, smart or dumb. It all came down to the fact that men needed an excuse for their own inability to compete with me. And I was used to enduring misogyny in many of its various forms by now.

              At just that moment, as though summoned by the spectre of misogyny itself, one of my most angry and unpleasant coworkers, Brett, appeared by my cubicle, glaring down at me with an eyebrow raised. At first I simply endeavored to ignore him, typing away even as his shadow cast its darkness over me. But then he reached down over the little wall and pushed my laptop closed, almost snapping my fingertips in the process. I instantly gasped and looked up at him in indignation.

              “Yes?” I sighed. “To what do I owe this spectacular invasion of personal space?”

              He scoffed, “Just have a question for Chuck’s golden boy-- oh, sorry. I mean girl.”

              “I prefer woman, but go ahead,” I urged him, folding my arms over my chest.

              “Is there any good reason why you have to show up at the ass crack of dawn while the rest of us normal guys come in at the scheduled open time? Is it just to make the rest of us look bad or is there some secret early morning slumber party between you and Chuck we aren’t invited to? What do you do? Just hang out in his office and paint each other’s nails? Have sexy pillow fights?” he sneered.

              “Chuck doesn’t come in until you guys do. But I’ll be sure to let him know you find him sexy, though,” I remarked simply, opening my laptop again.

              “Don’t you ignore me while I’m talking to you,” Brett growled, leaning down and glaring hatefully at me. I didn’t know what I’d done to incite such rage, but there it was, staring me right in the face.

              “What do you want? You want help editing something? Want some pro-tips? What?” I shot back, shrugging my shoulders as I felt that familiar flush of mingled fury and fear taking over me. I didn’t know how to deal with this anymore. I was so tired of it. I was tired of lazy, entitled guys acting like I needed to tone down my own success just to make them feel better.

              “Like I’d ever ask for your help,” he laughed. “I just wanted to check in on our star writer and make sure you’re not coming in this early just to use the office to work on projects for some other paper or something. That’s not what’s going on, is it?”