Bryce: Sports Romance (The Player Book 1)

by Nana Malone

  Bryce

  Nana Malone

  Sankofa Girl

  Contents

  BACK COVER

  Complimentary Download

  Prologue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Thank You

  Complimentary Download

  Nana Malone Reading List

  About Nana Malone

  To my daughter who provides endless entertainment. Mommy loves you kidlet.

  BACK COVER

  Money, power, prestige…failure. Bryce Coulter is … The Player.

  Don’t call it a come back….Because no one else is. Poised to live up to his legacy, tennis player, Bryce Coulter, loses it all on one swing. Now, with the pressure on and his future in jeopardy, the last thing he needs is a smart-mouthed, training partner with attitude and a killer swing — or maybe she’s exactly what he needs.

  Rich, spoiled and moneyed — seen that, been dragged through the dirt behind that. Tami Ivey, gets enough of the bad boy trust fund kids at work. She doesn’t need it in her sanctuary too. Playing tennis is the only way to connect to the girl she used to be before tragedy struck. The day Bryce Coulter turns up at her court, she turns on that classic attitude. If there’s anything she’s learned it’s how to make a guy run. Except, he’s not running. And maybe she doesn’t want him to....

  Complimentary Download

  DOWNLOAD a complimentary copy of the USA Today Bestseller, SEXY IN STILETTOS? Just tell me where to send it!

  Prologue

  Before we get started, have you joined the VIP preorder list yet? Join here and you won’t mis the next release. Happy Reading!!

  Bryce Coulter shifted his weight from foot to foot, twirling the racket in his hand while his opponent methodically bounced the fresh tennis ball four times against the green hard court just outside the white baseline. C’mon, c’mon. Let’s do this.

  The roar of the crowd was one large blur of noise. He couldn’t pick out voices individually, but he could tell that they were on his side. Each time he’d forced the set to a tiebreak they’d gone crazy, only to calm as his opponent had slowly gotten to him and pulled the break his way.

  Now, Bryce was the one up in the tiebreak 5-1, and if he could just get those last points it would force a fourth set. No one had come this close to forcing a fourth set from Jason Cartwright all tournament. Hopefully, that would be enough for this US Open appearance. He’d made it to the semi-finals, and no one expected him to win. Even his family, who were normally hardest on him, had admitted that he had accomplished something to be proud of, and that there was no shame in losing to Cartwright as long as he played his hardest along the way, of course.

  But Bryce wanted this. He wanted that fourth set, to be the one to take a set away from Cartwright.

  The ball hit the ground for the sixth time and Cartwright held on to it, his eyes locked on Bryce. Bryce narrowed his gaze and stood in his hunched position, shifting his weight in anticipation.

  Cartwright tossed it up and swung, looking for an ace. Bryce reacted immediately, moving to his right, his arm drawn back, ready to swing and return the serve. But then his foot hit the hard top and something went…wrong.

  Pain. In his knee, in his arm from where he hit the ground. Fuck. No. No. Please, no. Bryce clutched his leg as he curled up into a ball on the court, his dropped racket still vibrating on the hard court surface inches from his face. The brilliant sun still beaming down on him.

  The noise in the stadium changed completely in a split second. But all Bryce could hear was his own pulse throbbing in his ears, matching the throbbing in his knee. In the next second, his trainer’s callused hands were on him, trying to ease his grip on his knee so they could inspect it properly. But Bryce already knew the truth. He wouldn’t be getting up any time soon—not without help, at least.

  He blocked out the roar of the crowd, and his coach’s panicked shouts. As his senses returned, and he mechanically answered the medical personnel’s questions, his mind raced. Was his family watching and listening? His parents were in the box, but his brothers and sister were all at school. If they were watching, they were listening to the commentators’ speculations about what he’d just done to his knee, and whether or not it would end his career. The Coulter family’s rising star snuffed out in a moment. Poetic and painful.

  One

  Tami Ivey leaned against her locker and squeezed her eyes shut. You will not kill your boss. You will not kill your coworkers. You need this job. This was her daily mantra. She pictured herself in an orange jumpsuit. Orange was not her color. Killing her coworkers would doom her to a lifetime of orange…and also doom her to a lifetime of being personal bitch to someone called Berta.

  After several deep breaths, her eyes snapped open, and she waited for that feeling of calm to wash over her. That feeling of peace. It didn’t come. This was why she was no good at yoga. After a day like today, only one thing would work. She needed to play. To hit something. And, as prison orange wasn’t her color, she had better make it her tennis ball.

  With quick, jerking movements, she tugged off her utilitarian uniform of poly-cotton blend fabric that didn't breathe, and threw on her cut-off sweats, sports bra, and ratty T-shirt.

  She might not win any beauty contests in this outfit, but she didn’t care. Minutes later, she was in her car, heading for salvation and sanity.

  In the parking lot, she scowled as she saw the customer who had ruined her day hitting on one of the stock girls. The kid had come into the store looking to get a replacement golf club and some complimentary gear because he’d broken the head off one of the ones he’d recently bought.

  The asshat claimed they were under warranty. She’d handled the original purchase and had been dragged into the exchange after her manager got involved.

  She remembered the transaction—really, how could she forget? The kid, who couldn’t be more than a sophomore or junior at some preppy private high school, had spent half the time hitting on her.

  Why, yes, as a matter of fact, she informed her manager as politely as she could, she had mentioned the additional cost for the warranty, and no, he had not purchased it at that time—her notes were in the system for everyone to see, and there’d been no reason to pull her from the stock room, where she’d been busy on inventory, to come and call it up for them. And of course, the little brat had pitched a fit and wanted special treatment. And her manager had rolled over like a lab. Tami forced herself to take another deep, cleansing breath, and focused on her destination, instead.

  The court she frequented was just three blocks away, if she went by the direct route. But since she wasn’t particularly fond of the neighborhood that route passed through, she took a slightly longer, roundabout way to reach the high school courts that sat along the edge of the park and across the street from a large church.

  By the time she got o
ff work and could make it to the school, the few evening activities they had were underway, even though parking would be a nightmare, she often practiced late, so the walk as a warm up wasn’t really an option.

  The gate had only a rudimentary latch, and the court was predictably vacant when she arrived—the school’s lights inside and out were still on, illuminating the empty court. Dropping her bag in its usual spot along the brick wall, she carefully placed her racket beside it, in order to run through her stretching routine. She heard the usual noise of people on the street up beyond the distant fence, but she ignored them. Most everyone who passed by knew she showed up to hit balls against the wall and practice her serve almost daily, even if they didn’t know her personally. She assumed her neighborhood nickname was something along the lines of weird-tennis-chick.

  After several minutes of relatively easy bouncing and returning the ball against the side of the building, Tami grabbed the other two balls from the canister and moved to the baseline. Luckily, the pair of sweats she’d re-commissioned for her workout purposes had pockets. She frequently lamented the day she’d had to throw away the last tennis skirt from her high school days. There was no way she could ever afford another as nice as the ones her parents had scrimped and saved to give her back then.

  The familiar rush coursed through her veins as the memories tugged at her heart. She tossed the first ball up, and with a loud grunt, smacked it over the net and into the far corner, just inside the line, where her imaginary opponent would find it impossible to return. Tami shifted her position to aim her serve at the other side of the court. This time, she dredged up the memory of that spoiled brat who’d interrupted what should have been a relaxing afternoon taking inventory—as relaxing as her workdays at Legacy Sports could get. Her serve was just outside the line. With one ball left in her pocket, she tried again and nailed it. This was what she needed. This was where she felt like home.

  Bryce limped down the sidewalk in the unfamiliar neighborhood, studying his surroundings. Damn. There was supposed to be a court right here, somewhere. He shrugged away a niggle of apprehension that he was overdoing it. The doctors had told him he needed to exercise the leg, hadn’t they? He wasn’t supposed to go on the court, but it wouldn’t hurt if he picked a route that went by one, right?

  Sliding the phone back into his pocket, he continued walking while his mind raced, replaying snippets of the earlier dinner conversation with his family. The reason he'd needed an escape. The most common being multiple variations of, “How long until you can play again?” or “Dude, you’ve languished long enough. Get to work.” It was the Coulter way of handling adversity.

  The family meant well—he knew they did—but none of them had ever dealt with anything like this. Sure. Maybe they’d all been laid up for a few weeks at some point, or been forced to take it easy, but they’d never been through major surgery with this kind of a recovery. They’d never had their entire career put on halt indefinitely.

  He’d had to wait a week after Tournamentpocalypse before his doctors could even agree on a course of action for treating his torn ACL. After several weeks on crutches with an air cast, he was finally starting to hobble around with only a leg brace. He still had to keep that leg stretched as straight as possible, but being able to put weight on it was a huge step forward.

  No pun intended.

  A familiar noise—the thwack of a tennis ball hitting the strings of a racket—caught his attention. He paused, wobbled unsteadily, searching for the source of the sound. Tennis was one of the ways he’d always dealt with the pressures of his family before—going out to the court and setting up the ball machine so he could practice his backhand. And now that he needed that outlet desperately, it wasn’t there.

  Listening for the next thwack, he changed direction and limped toward the sound.

  Two

  He’d found the courts, all right.

  And something else.

  Bryce stared, as a beautiful brunette in a ratty T-shirt and shorts hit balls with practiced ease. Her dark hair was pulled tightly back, but a few wisps had escaped to curl about her forehead in sweaty tendrils. She didn’t appear to have noticed him, apparently blocking everything around her out in order to focus on her serve.

  He took a moment to study the court. A ball machine sat at the far end. It wasn’t in particularly great shape, sort of like the court itself. The surface was littered with cracks, where tired tufts of grass peeked through, exhausted after a day of basking in the sun. The net was frayed and sagging, in desperate need of repairs.

  He turned his gaze back to the player. Satisfaction dominated her expression as she moved to retrieve the only balls she’d brought. She was tall, athletic. She couldn’t be in high school, Bryce thought. Her body was too…developed for that. Her technique wasn’t perfect, but it was settled in a way a younger player’s wouldn’t be—not without some serious training—and there was no coach nearby.

  He could see the muscles in her limbs bunch and shift below the surface of her smooth tanned skin. Taut and lean. She snatched up her balls, then unfolded herself and moved towards the baseline for another round of serves. When he got a good look at her face, his breath caught. With her dark hair and big eyes, combined with a pert nose and full lips, she looked like she could be a model.

  She wasn’t tall in a gangly way—there was solidness to her build, muscle and strength—but the strength went beyond the physical. The clothes she wore were functional, and had clearly been functioning for a long time. Loose strings hung from the bottom of the shorts—were those sweat pants? And her T-shirt was baggy, and had holes along some of the seams and under the arms, visible only when she went to toss the ball up and serve. Even the sports bra that peeked out from beneath the dull white T-shirt looked frayed. After each serve, she tugged at the garment, as though it didn’t fit right.

  She licked her lips and his skin heated. And was that…? Yep. His dick stirred. Bryce grinned wryly. It had been a while, so he was relieved that at least that was still working right. Truth be told, he'd been a little worried about his complete lack of interest in the opposite sex. But she was definitely his type. Strong, but with full curves.

  In another time, when he was the Bryce Coulter instead of a gimpy mess, he would be all over her. Dinner, clubbing, the whole playboy package. Maybe they’d even have headed down to the courts at the house for a little strip tennis …

  But he wasn’t the Bryce Coulter right now. He had long since lost his swagger, amongst other things. There would be no wink, no smile. No flirting. No innuendo. Not anymore. That life was over.

  The chain-link fence rattled loudly in front of his face, startling him. She’d sent the ball sailing right at him, and when he looked up, she was glaring. Nice. He chuckled under his breath, and moved the few feet necessary to reach the gate where he was able to enter the court.

  She frowned even as her delicate brows lifted, and she gripped her racket tighter, like a weapon. He crossed to where the ball had rolled, and, gritting his teeth, he carefully bent to retrieve it.

  “Your serve,” he said, slowly making his way towards her. “It’s powerful.”

  She took the ball he held for her, and he watched her gaze flicker over him, assessing how he moved. Yeah sweetheart, I’m all fucked up. I’m about as big of a threat to you as this tennis ball.

  She narrowed her eyes as a shadow of recognition passed over her beautiful face, but she frowned, as if she couldn’t place him. Up close, she was even more stunning. Beautiful high cheekbones sported a slight flush.

  “Uh…thanks.” She muttered. “What do you know about tennis?” she asked, rolling the ball in her palm.

  Bryce gave a short laugh. “Just a little,” he replied. “Like you should probably have a coach, if you don’t already. How come you haven’t been on the circuit? With a serve like that… I can only imagine what you’d be like with someone hitting them back.”

  “What makes you think I haven’t been on the circuit?”
she asked, a challenge in her tone, moving away and bouncing the ball against the ground in preparation for the next serve.

  “I’m pretty sure I’d remember you,” Bryce said. He held out a hand to introduce himself. “I’m Bryce.”

  She did a double take, and stared at his hand. Then her eyes came into focus and she pinned him with a direct look. “Bryce Coulter?” She asked, making no move to take his hand, but rather gripping the tennis ball with more force.

  “Yep. And you are…?” he prompted.

  “Me? Oh… Uh… Tami,” she stammered, finally putting the tennis ball away in her pocket to take his hand. “Tami Ivey.”

  “Pleasure to meet you, Tami.” Bryce smiled at her. The expression feeling strange and unnatural on his face. It had been a long time since he'd been given a reason for smiling.

  Tami remained frozen in place, staring at him with wide eyes that he now realized were an unbelievable shade of blue. “You gonna stand there and stare or are you going to let me play?”

  Well. This was awkward. Move on, man.

  “Do you mind if I borrow that for a moment?” Bryce asked, indicating the racket in her hand.

  “Seriously?” She sighed, but she held it out for him mechanically then shoved her hand in her pocket with the tennis balls while he assessed the grip. “This is pretty worn,” he muttered, as he gingerly made his way to the baseline. His knee pinched and he ignored the twinge. He bounced the ball, relishing the familiarity of the motion. It felt like coming home.

  Behind him, he could almost feel her relaxing, as she shifted out of the way.

  With his leg stiff and at an awkward angle for stabilization, Bryce gently tossed the ball overhead and swung the racket with a grace ingrained in his muscles from years of practice, sending the ball into the appropriate corner on the opponent’s side. It wasn’t a strong swing, but it was sure—and the first time in the last couple of months, Bryce felt like himself.