Dirty Play (The Ferrari Family Book 1)

by Hazel Parker

  * * *

  Six Hours Later

  “So, let me get this straight.”

  As I adjusted my suit, my brother Brett and my sister Layla sat on a nearby couch at the family estate, drinking some of the famous Ferrari wine while taking in the show that was my explanation.

  “You saw this girl from across the hall—no, scratch that, across the stage. You held eye contact with her for all of three, maybe four seconds if I’m being generous. And that’s enough for you to send flowers to her and ask her on a date?”

  “Yep.”

  In the mirror, I could see Brett and Layla trading a look as if they were silently wondering if someone had kidnapped me and replaced me with a slightly crazier twin.

  “I’m so damn confused right now,” Brett said.

  “You think you’re confused?” Layla said. “I come back from Spain after being gone for a month and I learn that my brother has suddenly turned into a middle schooler? Did you also ask her friend to tell her that you have an interest in her?”

  “Jeez, I’m so glad I have your support,” I said as I fiddled with my tie. “You know how it is. I’m just going to be the first Ferrari grandchild to get married, and that way, I won’t have to hear Grandma and Grandpa yell at us for being past our marriage prime.”

  “Oh, Jesus, don’t get me started,” Brett said. “You’d think that it was the nineteen hundreds from the way that they talk.”

  “Actually, I’d just think that they are what they are,” Layla said.

  “I’m sorry, should we mention—”

  Layla slapped my brother’s leg hard.

  “Don’t you fucking go there,” Layla said. “I will cut you in front of the entire family before I have you tease me for that. Understood?”

  Brett nodded, still grimacing from the pain.

  “But for real, Nick,” Layla said. “Did something happen? Are you feeling some sudden impulse to get serious and settle down? You’re not Brett, but you’ve never exactly struck me as the overly romantic type, either.”

  “Nothing bad happened,” I said. “It’s just a matter of something good happening.”

  “That good being you saw someone from afar?” Layla said. “I’m not trying to mock you; I’m really curious.”

  “Speak for yourself,” Brett said, a statement that drew another elbow from Layla.

  “It’s kind of a curse when you’re famous; the type of women that throw themselves at you are exactly the type that you tire of after about six months. They’re hot, yes, they’ve got great bodies, yes, but the ones who are shameless enough to just launch themselves on you rarely have depth. The woman who works as a doctor or a lawyer or an executive doesn’t need to throw herself at you, you know? But because such a woman would be just as busy as I am, we both have to rely on a little bit of luck.”

  And this, I hope, is the lucky break I didn’t know I was looking for.

  “Huh,” Brett said. “I did not think you would say that.”

  “You don’t think he would say anything intelligent, dummy,” Layla said.

  “Hey, not all of us can be exquisite sommeliers for the family business,” Brett said in his fake, playful haughty tone.

  “Jesus Christ, why did we ever put you on the front lines of the business?” Layla said, also in playful exasperation.

  “Because what would you guys do without me? Let grandpa talk to the customers with that gruff tone of his?”

  “Hey now,” I said. “If you were grandpa, and you had four grandkids that didn’t get married, causing your wife to constantly ask when they’d get tied down, I think you’d be a little ornery too.”

  I fiddled with the last of my buttons on my shirt, smoothed everything down, and put my hands in my pockets. I was always a little uncomfortable whenever sponsors or magazine writers wanted me to pose as if I were going to be on the cover of GQ—that had not happened yet—but here, I sure did want to play the part.

  “Besides,” I said as I turned to head to my car. “If grandpa really wanted to succeed, he’d pay me enough to get me to retire and have me be the face of the business. We wouldn’t know what to do with ourselves!”

  Both Brett and Layla gave exaggerated groans as if they had just heard that they’d been fired and removed from the family will.

  “Have fun, Nick!” Layla yelled as I got to the door. “Treat the lady well. Remember, you being a Ferrari depends on you eventually finding a wife!”

  I shook my head, not so much at the seemingly ridiculous nature of Layla’s words, but at the actual truth that I sometimes felt when it came to the top-down pressure from the grandparents, and even our parents to some degree. At least Layla and Brett got it.

  And Leo got it, but he got it a little too much.

  I headed to my Tesla, feeling confident and suave like I was going to that GQ photoshoot I’d imagined in my head. I had on a navy blue sports coat, navy blue pants, brown dress shoes, and just a dash of cologne—so little, in fact, that even if Izzy got close enough to me to touch me and hold me, she might have doubted herself if she was actually sniffing cologne or something else. And that was the whole point, really—mystery wasn’t fun if it could be solved by something as simple as getting close.

  The drive to Voltaire’s Steakhouse was a smooth one, and I pulled straight up to the valet, tossing him my keys and thanking him in one smooth motion. I headed up a flight of stairs and found myself face to face with the front desk hostess.

  “Hello, Mr. Ferrari,” she said.

  “Hi,” I said as I checked the time. Five minutes to eight. I had done my part in showing up early. Would Izzy?

  “Shall we wait for your accompaniment to arrive?”

  “Oh, no, that’s quite all right, actually. The surprise is in her coming. So let me show you a picture…”

  I felt slightly silly at the fact that if the hostess looked closely, she would see the photo I was pulling up of Izzy was not something I had on my phone, but something culled from Google. If this didn’t scream “pro athlete out of his mind,” or, worse, “pro athlete rich and shallow enough to bring people in from a Google search,” then I wasn’t sure what did.

  But, in true professionalism, the hostess simply smiled, said, “I’ll bring her back when she arrives,” and led me to my seat, a quiet table tucked into the corner of the place.

  For some reason, up to that point, I had just taken it for granted that Izzy would show up at eight. It wasn’t like I was cocksure about it; I just genuinely believed that there was no reason Izzy wouldn’t show up.

  And now that felt like the dumbest assumption I had made since I just assumed my Fresno State coach would give me a starting job freshman year for how hard he’d recruited me.

  The main waiter brought out some bread and water, and again, true to his professionalism, he never seemed to judge, even when I saw him looking at my table out of the corner of the eye. But as the clock ticked closer to eight, as looking outside the window provided no clues about potential arrivals, it didn’t matter what he or the front desk hostess would have done, because I was giving plenty of judgment to myself.

  What, you think just because you’re a pro athlete she would have said yes? Don’t you think she’s getting hit on all the time by guys like you?

  I tried to laugh the concerns off. This was so unlike me. I felt a temptation to just text three different girls about being available and see who wanted to come over the most, just so I could have something to fall back on if Izzy fell through.

  But that just felt like I was about to text another team that I was going to join them in the off-season for leverage when I never had intentions of leaving the Bay Area. Maybe someone would have called it properly balancing, but I just called it unethical.

  Eight o’clock came.

  And Izzy did not.

  It’s OK. How often have your dates shown up exactly on time? How often does it turn out that they are just a little behind? You know how California traffic can be. You got lucky. Maybe
she didn’t.

  I just wanted desperately to shut up that stupid voice in my head. I was so damn good at it during games that my grandfather could have grabbed the PA microphone, announced to the crowd of tens of thousands that I was single, and I’d still have the concentration to hit home runs or at least get on base against some of the best in the game. But put me in a restaurant with only one person to impress and no one else watching…

  Five minutes passed.

  I told myself that if she didn’t show up within ten minutes, my stunt failed. I’d tell Marcus that I got ghosted. I would slink back to everyday life hoping that this story didn’t somehow start circulating in the media.

  But most of all, I’d be left wondering what it was about Izzy Saunders that turned a pro athlete into an amateur player.

  Chapter 6: Izzy

  “I’m not going.”

  I said those words out loud to myself as I stood before my mirror. I already had on a pearl necklace, a beautiful, tight red dress, heels that matched the color of my necklace, and more makeup than I had put on in a long, long time. I was alone in the house, having already sent Ryan to stay with my mother for the evening.

  “I’m not going.”

  The past two hours had felt like a burst of energy, a dragging of fear, followed by a burst of energy, then a dragging of fear, then another burst…and on and on and on. In the moments of energy, I felt maniacal—I felt like the only person who would have the balls to pull off a stunt like that was Nick Ferrari, for no one else I knew of would pull a gutsy move like that. I was a worn-and-torn princess discovered by a prince who would take me in…hopefully even after he learned of all of my baggage.

  In the moments of fear, I wondered what it said about whoever had done this—I no longer assumed it was Nick when the darkness hit—that they would not ask me out face-to-face.

  Why would it be any different than Malcolm? In fact, why wouldn’t it possibly be worse than Malcolm? He’d at least first asked me out to my face.

  Maybe this guy thought he was being charming but was actually incredibly creepy. Maybe it was someone at the office, someone who was unattractive, awkward, creepy, and possibly even dangerous, just not in the overt, man-in-a-dark-alley kind of way. Maybe he thought he was being so nice that he deserved to have me sleep with him, and when I wouldn’t…

  “Goddamnit, I guess I’ll go.”

  And there was that burst of energy.

  And now, I really had nothing left to do in terms of actual preparation. I had all my makeup and clothing on. I had taken care of all responsibilities that needed to be taken care of. The only thing left to do was just go.

  While still surfing the wave of euphoria at what might come, I hurriedly grabbed my keys, ran to my car, and pulled out. This was so unlike me—work made me operate in a steady, focused state that was almost impossible to break. I would feel utterly exhausted, sure, but in the act, I didn’t move like a wave; I moved like a steady line, going up only as needed to meet the criteria of the given situation.

  But, then again, getting a surprise bouquet of flowers and an invitation to one of the fanciest restaurants in Sacramento was not exactly like normal life, either.

  I got all the way out to the highway when the sickening feelings of doubt crept in again. It had to be a trick by Malcolm, didn’t it? He’d upped his game since he’d gone to prison. No longer was it enough just to beat me or call me a fucking whore; now he had to shame me in public without getting his ass thrown in jail.

  You’re just…

  Breathe.

  I closed my eyes for half a second, took a deep breath, and inhaled.

  It wasn’t enough to totally calm me, but it kept me from doing anything drastic. I really was going to go on this date, consequences of looking silly or embarrassed be damned.

  * * *

  When I pulled up to the restaurant, I immediately did a U-turn.

  Thirty bucks to valet my car? In downtown Sacramento? I was not a cheap bastard by any stretch of the imagination, but I had my limits. Even though it was one minute to eight, whoever had bought me those flowers and arranged for this date to happen would just have to wait.

  I eventually settled on paying a ten-dollar flat fee for a nearby parking deck; I really wanted street parking, but knowing how California drivers were, I just settled on paying a small fee so that my car wouldn’t get dinged and nicked for the next hour. Or two, or three, depending on whether or not there are drinks.

  You mean, next hour. First date, Izzy, and quite possibly with someone you don’t want to see.

  I walked up the flight of stairs, my stomach roiling like it hadn’t in years. Every step felt like it was destroying my legs; I’d had workouts lasting two hours where my legs burned less than this.

  The sight of the open doors, with a host waiting for me with a smile, was the point of no return. I mean, really, I’d said that to myself multiple times already, but this really was the last chance. In truth, Nick—or, I mean, whoever had invited me—could probably see me right now, waffling and being afraid to enter like a fool. He may have thought that I was some prize worth chasing, but there was no way he was feeling that right now.

  I put one foot forward. I did not see Malcolm anywhere. And frankly, with the number of executives, athletes, and actors I recognized from my days recruiting people for events, there was no way Malcolm could afford a place like this. Even if he had pooled all of his resources to get a night here, he wouldn’t have; there were more economical ways to try to hurt me and take advantage of me.

  “Hi,” I said to the front desk. “I’m Izzy Saunders, I, uhh, have a…I guess you’d call it a blind date?”

  That sounded so high school. What was I even doing here?

  “Oh, yes, Miss Saunders, of course. Right this way, please.”

  Right this way. So he’s here. He’s really here.

  My heart rate must have easily jumped into the triple digits by this point. Even though I didn’t think anyone else at the restaurant knew me, I just had the gut feeling that all eyes were falling on me. If that wasn’t the case, I was analyzing everything enough myself that the weight was as if a thousand pairs of eyes rested on my every move.

  “And here we are,” the waiter said after just a single turn.

  Nick Ferrari.

  It was him.

  It was really fucking him.

  Thank God it’s not Malcolm.

  “Izzy Saunders?” he said, that literal million-dollar smile beaming as he rose and offered his hand. His hand? Wait, should I go in for the hug? “I’m Nick Ferrari; it’s a pleasure to meet you up close.”

  I opened my mouth to speak, but the words would not emerge. I had plenty to say, plenty to ask about, plenty to question him with, but the sheer amazement at how this was unfolding prevented me from saying a single word. Just…just recounting it seemed even more ridiculous than it was in real life.

  “Are you all right?” he asked.

  It was almost unfair how much calmer he was than me. It was like I was the floundering idiot, unable to so much as even say hello, and here Nick was, as cool as he had looked on stage at Fresno State. Who was the organizer of that again? Had it really been me?

  “I’m fine, I’m fine,” I finally said.

  And then I just started laughing as I took Nick’s hand. How else could I react? Nick waved the waiter away before turning his eyes back to me.

  “I hope I didn’t offend you by doing this,” he said.

  “No!” I said, my voice still broken up with laughter. “It’s just…wow, I couldn’t have planned this on stage if I wanted to! It’s just so…it still doesn’t seem real.”

  Nick put a hand on my shoulder, and my entire body felt a rush of warmth coursing through it. I looked into his eyes and could not lie; the temptation to just keep going with this absurdity was stronger than I ever would admit in the future. If we’d come this far, why not…I don’t know…I didn’t want to say what was on my mind, but it involved a lot of thi
ngs that would feel really, really good.

  “Well, it’s real, and I assure you that I am genuine and not playing any games,” he said. “So, would you like to have a seat and share some wine and food?”

  “Um, sure,” I said.

  I’d finally stopped laughing, afraid that doing so looked like I was mocking Nick rather than expressing utter disbelief. Nick put his hand on the small of my back—again, sending all sorts of urges and desires through my body that would have been wholly inappropriate to act upon in a public place like that—held the seat out for me, and then headed back to his side of the table once I was seated.

  OK. It’s real. It’s not a game, and if it is, you at least know you’re getting food out of it. Just…chill.

  “How…why?” I said when Nick was seated and back to flashing his megawatt grin to me.

  “Why?” he said. “Well, I suppose it would make sense after something like this to just get right to it, doesn’t it?”

  He grabbed his glass of water, held it to his lips, and carefully eyed me as if analyzing the proper way to say his words. I almost felt like he was undressing me psychologically, and it was just as hot as the look a man would give when he was undressing me physically. Even though he had taken all the risk in setting this up, I felt like the one with the most to lose—or gain—here.

  “I’m not going to lie to you and say that there aren’t perks of attention when it comes to being a professional athlete,” he said. “But ironically, that flood of attention can make it so much more difficult to find a woman who is strong, determined, and capable. When I read your email, I felt a certain curiosity—I know a lot of the administration and planning people at Fresno State—”

  “Oh, I’m not with the university,” I said. “I just work for a firm that handles a lot of their event planning.”

  “Oh,” Nick said, looking sheepishly dumbfounded—but not embarrassed. “Well, that explains that. But anyway, I nevertheless will admit that I was curious to learn more. And, well, as ridiculous as this might sound, I think I should be honest and say I looked you up. And you had a certain fire to your eyes that most people don’t have.”