Bryce: Sports Romance (The Player Book 1)

by Nana Malone

  Liar.

  “What about this line over here?” Bryce suggested as he moved to examine a series of rackets displayed on the wall. “They’re one of my favorite brands,” he told her. “The grips are amazing and they look heavy, but they’re surprisingly light. And the tension you can get on the strings—”

  Tami shook her head and interrupted him. “I could never accept something that… I don’t need anything fancy, honestly,” she protested. “If you want to replace my old racket, fine but I’m not looking to… upgrade. They have to have something secondhand, right?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Your old racket wasn’t right. It was way too heavy for you,” he told her, his tone frank. “I’ve seen some of what you can do and I know you deserve a better racket than that. Please, please, let me do this for you.”

  Tami’s mouth set in a firm line. That racket might have been junk. But it had been hers. “I don’t want you to do something for me.”

  He cocked his head. “Well, it’s either this, or pledge my sword to save your life.” He gave a wry laugh, adding, “I’ve never had to work so hard to convince someone to accept a gift.”

  “Well, it makes me uncomfortable.” She practically cringed away from the displays of merchandise. She sure as shit didn’t want to break anything.

  “Okay. I won’t go over the top, but you saved my ass. Let me give you something worthy of your killer serve.”

  When she said nothing, Bryce waved to one of the salesmen on staff and asked for three of the rackets for Tami to see. She wouldn’t look at the one he selected as he put it into her hand, but her fingers wrapped lovingly around the grip. It was so light. The damn thing felt like a natural extension of herself. God, she missed having a good racket.

  “Close your eyes.” Focusing on his voice, she did as he told her. Letting his instructions flow over her. “Move your wrist. How does it feel? How’s the balance?” His voice was low and husky, and made her feel…warm. Pliant. Boneless.

  She swallowed and flushed. “It’s…good. It feels…good.”

  “Try this one.” He took the first from her grasp and replaced it. “Better?”

  She rotated the new racket in her hand and twirled her wrist, as though returning a light serve. “Yeah. It feels…right.” She opened her eyes and looked at him. He watched her with a searing intensity, and she pressed her thighs together, trying to quell the pulsing between her legs.

  Bryce beamed. “Then this is the one you’re getting.” He covered the tag so she couldn’t see the price and chuckled as she rolled her eyes. “I’ll be right back, and then we can discuss you coming to lunch with me—the club restaurant upstairs is wonderful, and it will be my treat. Go look at the bags over there, and get an idea for what I can buy you next time you save my life—this racket won’t break over a guy’s head the way your last one did.”

  A laugh bubbled out of her before she could call it back. Bryce’s devastating grin grew. “You should smile more,” he whispered, before he and the salesman moved towards the register to finish the transaction.

  Tami ran her fingers along the seam of a tennis skirt that reminded her of the one her parents surprised her with when she was just a freshman in high school—when tennis was still the promise of tomorrow, instead of her last link to the happiest days of her past. She made the varsity tennis team that year, and one of the scouts who’d shown up to check out her opponent, a senior hoping for a college scholarship, had approached Tami, instead.

  He wasn’t just a scout for colleges, he had a number of friends who were managers and coaches looking for talented competitors as well. To be honest, most of what he’d said then had gone over her fourteen-year-old head. But there was one word that had made a lasting impression: Olympics.

  He had given her parents his card and arranged with them to bring her to a small tournament with other potential future Olympic hopefuls. All the big names were promised, scouts, coaches. Many with connections to sponsors and deep pockets. She had been nervous and her parents had gifted her with a new outfit to help boost her confidence. It was the most they could hope to afford on their own. If the scouts liked her, but sponsors fell through, they couldn’t afford to hire coaches themselves. No new outfits, no trainers, nothing.

  Over by the registers, a ruckus broke out, dragging Tami out of her reverie. She let the fabric of the tennis skirt slide out of her fingers and turned to see Bryce in an argument with a young woman, who looked like an employee. She also looked ready to cry.

  Tami hadn’t known Bryce very long, but the anger in his face didn’t exactly inspire a desire to extend the acquaintanceship. Her heart went out to the girl. She’d been there before. Getting an unprovoked ass-handing from the rich and bratty. She wanted to cross the room and tell Bryce off for the embarrassment he was no doubt inflicting on the poor girl, but she froze. This wasn’t somewhere she belonged. And what was happening right now made it even more clear. Tami turned and brushed past the rack of designer tennis wear, even knocking a few outfits from their hangers in her hurry to escape.

  Bryce could have sworn Echo told him the club had fired Stella months ago. The only reason he’d been comfortable arranging to meet Tami here was that he knew she’d be gone. It was also important that the club had the best-quality rackets around. He wanted Tami’s replacement to be top-of-the-line.

  If Stella had just stayed in the break room for another five minutes, he and Tami would have been safely on their way. But—as was always the way with Stella—her timing was impeccable and her manner confrontational. As soon as she spotted him, she made a beeline for him and immediately picked a fight about the nerve he had, showing his face there after the way he’d treated her, the humiliating way he’d ended things.

  He struggled to keep his voice low and even. It didn’t work. Stella had the gall to accuse him of using her, when the only interest she had in him was rooted in his name, his money, his fame. He’d seen the change in her immediately after his injury—the moment she walked into his hospital room with a frightened look on her face, he’d known she wasn’t scared for him or his health—she was afraid she’d just lost her meal ticket, her inside line to the parties and the attention. He hadn’t had much strength with all the pain medications, but he’d dug deep, and told her to get out and not bother coming back. She wouldn’t have to find a way to stay by his side and pretend she was there for him.

  Unfortunately, a camera crew had been camped out a few halls down, waiting for a statement to be released regarding his condition. The whole fiasco had passed in a drugged-out blur, and his family said it had all blown over by the time he was released and beginning his recovery. For Stella, however, it seemed that it had been simmering.

  “Who the fuck is that? Have you been fucking her all this time?”

  Bryce pinched the bridge of his nose, a hairsbreadth away from losing his shit. “Who I bring anywhere isn’t any of your business, Stella. We haven’t been a thing for months. Besides, what do you care? I’m not the Bryce Coulter anymore.”

  Her eyes narrowed. “You are such an asshole. You knew I worked here.”

  “Trust me. I thought you were fired.”

  “They can’t fire me without me suing them for sexism. So you're shit out of luck.”

  Bryce grabbed the bag containing the new racket and turned away from Stella, breathing heavily as he fought to reclaim his earlier state of relaxed happiness. He’d kept Tami waiting long enough. Looking over to the sportswear section, he scanned the racks, searching for her dark head, but saw nothing. She wasn’t back by the rackets, either. He finally pulled over one of the salesmen walking the floor. “Excuse me, did you happen to see where the woman who came in here with me went? Tall, dark hair, green eyes…”

  “Yes, sir. I’m afraid she went out the door a few minutes ago.”

  Shit. She’d left him.

  Eight

  Tami had just pulled out of the lot, heading for the 163 freeway when her phone rang. She didn't have Bluetooth in
the car, so she fished it out one-handed. “Hello?”

  “Hey, Tami.”

  “Hi, Jim. What’s up?”

  “Sorry to bother you on your day off, but Lonnie called in sick and I need you to cover his shift. Can you get here in the next twenty minutes?”

  Hell. “Sure,” she answered, jumping on the excuse. If Bryce called looking for her, she could say she got called into work—perfect. You need help, girl. He’s not going to come looking. “I’m out running errands, but can swing by my apartment real quick and grab my stuff.”

  “Thanks, Tami. Appreciate it,” Jim muttered hastily as he hung up.

  The last place she wanted to be right now was work. But maybe it would distract her. Working retail at the high-end sports equipment retailer, Legacy Sports, was not her dream job and it came with assholes. But it was a paycheck, and she was grateful for it. What had she been thinking, going with Bryce to a place like that?

  You have to be honest about why you ran. She shoved the thought to the back of her brain. You think he’s just like Michael. Amy had said Bryce wasn't like her ex, but they were awfully similar. And she didn't want to end up heartbroken again.

  Bryce muttered to himself as he drove through the neighborhoods near the court where he’d first met Tami. On the seat next to him, the racket sat, all zipped up in its protective case.

  So, you’re what? Going to stalk her? Fuck, he’d never had this much trouble getting women to pay attention.

  His phone rang. “Hey, Dad.”

  “Bryce, are you near La Jolla? I need you to go by the store for me and sign off on the accountant’s audit. I can’t make it there today.”

  “Dad, I'm sort of busy.”

  “Oh, yeah? Doing what?” His father waited for an answer.

  That shut him up. “On my way.”

  After his errand he would call her and apologize. He had wanted today to be low stress and fun for her…and it hadn’t been.

  Legacy Sports had been started by his grandparents after their retirement, while his father’s career was still in full swing. His old man had been losing stamina, as far as running around the basketball court was concerned, but had been enjoying getting back into baseball, and was on the cusp of making his decision to try out for the MLB official. There had been publicity all around, and the sports equipment chain had taken off.

  Bryce hadn’t had much to do with the stores growing up—his father had kept him and the rest of his siblings all focused on sports and academics. After retiring from the pros himself, his father had joined his grandparents on the company’s board, and they worked together to expand the brand.

  Bryce had been dragged to a few of the company’s events for photo-ops, and then to Rory’s retirement party, when his grandfather had stepped down as CEO, and his father had taken over.

  The whole corporate atmosphere was too much for Bryce, and he couldn’t understand how or why it had appealed to first his grandfather and then his own father—to be honest, it was why he dreaded his father’s comments about his future beyond tennis. The conversation hadn’t headed down that path yet, but Bryce could already see the signs, and he had the overwhelming urge to run the other way. Like far the fuck away. No way that was the life for him.

  Today, Bryce’s biggest fear walking through the door was that someone would recognize him, especially as he’d had to start using the crutches again for a few days after the mugging.

  Before, he’d welcomed that feeling of instant recognition from strangers. It validated his hard work. It generally proved useful. But in the Legacy Sports stores, it also had a tendency to put people on edge, and not in the good way. More like the try-too-hard-to-impress-the-boss kind of way.

  He doubted the only thing he tried would be enough to conceal his identity, especially since he’d dressed up a bit for Tami. He should have listened to her about going to someplace more…casual.

  He needed to find the manager, then make a quick escape.

  The tennis stuff was towards the back of the store, near a large display of skiing gear. Ducking his head and running a hand through his hair to muss it up in an effort to dress down a bit, Bryce limped over. Moving between the racks of athletic wear with his limp was more difficult than anticipated, and the store was more crowded than he’d realized. An employee pulling a hand truck loaded with boxes barked at the customers in the aisle to move, startling a young kid. The kid dove into the center of the shelled clothing rack, sending it into Bryce. He went down hard.

  It wasn’t as painful as the fall he took when the mugger had kicked his crutches out from under him. This time, he landed against a rack of towels covered in professional sports team logos. This time, though, there were a fuck ton of witnesses to his embarrassment. Worry snaked around his spine that someone would recognize him.

  A soft voice he recognized said, “Are you all right, sir?” Bryce felt a familiar tingle of electricity as hands on his shoulders and upper arms helped him upright again.

  “Tami?” He cranked his head to peer at her, and her eyes widened. “Funny finding you here.”

  Several employees had come over to see the commotion, as the mother of the startled youngster held the boy by the shoulders and instructed him to apologize to Bryce.

  “It’s all right,” Bryce assured the mother and child. “No harm done, I promise.” He turned his attention to Tami. “Can we talk?”

  “I'm working, Bryce.” She shook her head even as she backed away.

  He frowned, then took in the dark pants and polo. Holy shit. She worked for his family.

  Tami stared at Bryce, amazed at how her day had managed to get even worse. As soon as she had arrived at the store, Jim had made a show of thanking her for coming in on her day off. The floor wasn’t as busy as his desperation over the phone had made it sound, so she’d begun tidying the floor displays, making sure her walkie-talkie was on in case someone needed her help.

  In the tennis section, someone had knocked over several canisters of tennis balls and left a few rackets on the floor propped against the wall. She put the canisters back on their shelf and bent for the rackets. She gripped one racket’s handle tightly, evaluating the weight and balance without thinking. Light. Strong.

  She had considered it before, entering a local tournament or two just to see how she would do after all that time practicing alone, but she also knew she couldn’t afford to keep going if she enjoyed it. Once that bug bit her again—and she was positive it would—she was afraid she wouldn’t be able to leave it alone, and the wanting, the dreaming, and not being able to have it, to do more for it, would eat her alive. No point wishing for something that would never happen.

  She found the appropriate prongs jutting out from the wall and hung the racket back up by its strings.

  It was better to put the dreams away before they made life miserable with the unquenchable wanting. She knew she wasn’t the only one who worked at the store that had been forced to do so. One guy, Tom, had broken a leg when he crashed into a tree practicing for a skiing competition, and an infection in the bone had destroyed whatever chances he’d had at a pro career; Karen had been a pairs figure skater for years growing up, but her partner had quit and she’d never found anyone else she paired with half as well. So there went her chance.

  Maybe a career-ending injury would have made the whole thing easier? At least then there wouldn’t be that constant wondering of whether or not she could, only that opportunity and funds weren’t the issue. Her mother would have wanted her to try, Tami was certain of that. She would have been disappointed to see Tami using her illness as an excuse to give up. It wasn’t an excuse. She had wanted to spend as much time with her mother as possible. The fear of failing hadn’t kept her away. Liar.

  She picked up another of the rackets and sighed. She didn’t spend much time dwelling over lost opportunity. The decision had already been made, end of story, there was no going back now. But the wave of regret lingered.

  It was probably because it
had been a few days since she’d been able to play. Even if it wasn’t what she’d dreamed of as far as her career was concerned, it was being on the court and playing that kept her happy.

  Or worse… Maybe some of it had to do with having met Bryce Coulter. That guy had been messing with her pseudo-happy status quo ever since she met him. He’d asked about coaches, and it had planted that seed in her head again, and he’d watered it with his persistent questions. If it had been anybody else, she was sure she’d have been able to chalk his compliments up to just an attempt to get in her pants. But there was something about how he talked about her playing and potential that she just desperately wanted to believe. She wanted him to be right about her.

  Of course, it was easy for someone like Bryce to say things like “you need a coach” and “enter a tournament” when he had more than just his family’s money at his beck and call—he had the Coulter name. Even if he couldn’t afford to hire the best coach, his name alone would get him enough sponsors to foot the bill. He’d probably had coaches offering to help from the minute someone saw him swing a racket.

  From what she’d seen on television and in the tabloids, she’d assumed Bryce was probably just another arrogant, rich kid—talented, sure, but with no sense of the real world; everything filtered through his privilege—one more entitled asshole who didn’t even have the capacity to understand just how lucky he was.

  But…maybe she wasn’t entirely right in her presumptions. There was something about him that she…that she was…drawn to. The goosebumps on her arms every time she was around him. The sincerity she sensed when he spoke to her. He’s probably a player who knows how to charm. She didn’t want to like him, and yet… No, she would just stay away from him. It was the only way. If he called, she wouldn’t answer. If he kept calling, she’d look into changing her number. There were no such things as fairy tales. Bryce Coulter was not a knight in tennis whites.