For a moment I panicked, my mind launching back to remember when we’d last slept together. I took a deep breath. I knew she wasn’t pregnant. I knew it. She was on the pill, and we hadn’t had sex in at least a month. But the press didn’t know that, and the more she rubbed her stomach and gazed longingly up at me, the more people began to notice. I saw a few cameras turn her way and start clicking.
“I’ll let Caz handle that one. Caz?”
Burke kneed me again, and I realized that Coach had just shot a question in my direction. I stared blankly at a reporter below, who looked up at me expectedly.
“Sorry,” I said. “Could you repeat that?”
“No problem, Caz,” said the reporter familiarly. “I can see you’re distracted.” The room laughed a little bit. Shit. They’d noticed that I’d been watching Karissa. “Can I ask you about that distraction?” the reporter said, glancing over at Karissa. “How are things going between you and Ms. Kruise?”
Fuck. How to answer that. “Fine,” I said dumbly. I was blanking hard.
“Yes, they look fine,” the reporter said. More laughter. “Are congratulations in order?” he continued.
I stared at him. And he stared back at me. I knew I had to say something. “Uh. I’m just here to focus on the game.”
I sounded brainless, but there was nothing else I could say because I could see her in the back of the room by the door. She looked so damn cute in a blue, strapless dress and heels that showed off her muscled calves – Jamie. But she wasn’t looking at me. She was looking over at Karissa, at all the cameras pointed at Karissa. And there was Karissa, her hand on her stomach, beaming at me.
I looked back just in time to watch the door close. Jamie was gone.
10
Jamie
When I broke up with Caz that first time in college, I’d cried and cried. I’d cried on and off for a month. Whenever a song came on the radio, I cried. Now? I felt nothing. I felt tired, and blank, and just… disappointed.
After watching Karissa very openly signal to the world that she was pregnant with Caz’s baby, I had gotten out of there fast. I’d grabbed my suitcase from the porter, called an Uber, bought a plane ticket, and was seated in a middle seat on my way back to Boston before I could even think about whether or not I’d made the right move.
Caz hadn’t lied to me. From the look on his face in that press conference, I doubted that he’d known Karissa was pregnant, but it wasn’t her pregnancy that upset me. It was the text message telling me to go to the back of the hotel – to not let anyone know we were together. It was listening to the reporters ask him questions about his relationship, about Karissa, and he hadn’t denied anything.
And I’d known – I’d known – that he wasn’t planning on announcing their split publically. Perhaps I hadn’t changed as much as I’d hoped I had. Perhaps I still wanted more from Caz then he’d ever be willing to give me.
“How are you feeling?” asked Fernanda the next morning, when speculation about Karissa and Caz had made it into the mainstream news cycle.
“Dead,” I said. “Emotionally dead. Which is maybe better than devastated.”
“Maybe,” said Fernanda, unsure.
“Come over tonight,” I said. “I can’t let this bullshit with Caz mess up my game. Come over tonight and watch the Patriots play the Saints on TV with me. I need to face this shit down. I need to watch him have his perfect game so I know, once and for all, that I’ve made the right call.”
Fernanda came over with a bottle of wine and a tin of caramel popcorn. We uncorked it, sat down on my couch, and settled in to watch the Pats clobber the Saints.
Three hours later, we were dumbstruck.
“What now?” asked Fernanda when I finally summoned the presence of mind to turn off the television. The Patriots had won – but just barely, and no thanks to Caz. He’d been terrible. He’d dropped at least four of Dash Barnes’ perfectly placed passes, and the one that he’d caught, he’d barely carried the ball for a yard before he’d gotten tackled.
“Now?” I said. “Now, I forget about him. I’m not going to let myself, for one minute, believe that he was distracted on that field because of me.”
The commentators had speculated that he might be distracted due to Karissa. Every time Caz had dropped the ball, the camera had panned to the player’s box where Karissa Kruise, in leggings and a loose green blouse, was chatting with Rebecca Barnes.
“Do you even want to check his messages and see what he’s said?”
I shook my head. After the third text message demanding I pick up his calls, I’d blocked his number. “I don’t have to think about him again,” I said. “We’ve got a game on Friday to prepare for, and we’re back in our home stadium. He won’t be a problem. I’m not going to let him ruin my chances at National Camp.” Some things are more important.
Fernanda placed her hand on my knee. “I’m proud of you for being so strong, Jamie,” she said.
“You were the one who told me, ‘You’re not done until you’re done.’ Well, I’m done,” I said. “And it feels good.”
11
Caz
The last time I was this miserable was when my parents had split up. There had been something so incredibly final about their parting. I knew that I was never going to get my family back again, and that the person I’d been before the divorce was not the person I’d be after. Losing Jamie this time around felt even worse than that.
Once the press conference had let out, I’d left immediately. I didn’t want anyone asking me about Karissa. I wanted to find Jamie and… and do what? Explain what? I didn’t know, and it didn’t matter anyway. Jamie had left.
I tried calling and texting her, but after a while, the phone had just gone to voicemail, signaling that she’d blocked my calls. Fuck if I was going to go stalking her. But this shit was bad. I’d never allowed a girl to get in the way of my game before – but I’d played terribly on Sunday. Nobody had said anything to me, but I knew the drill. When we got back to practice to watch film from the game, I was going to get roasted. I’d be lucky if Barnes trusted me with a pass any time in the near future.
* * *
“Dude. You okay?” Burke jogged up to where I was pacing the bleachers.
“I’m fine,” I said. I was so not fine. I’d heard stories about what it felt like to be ripped apart by Coach – they hadn’t even come close to the truth. I’d gotten ass-reamed. Hard.
“Yah. You look fine,” said Burke, staring down at me skeptically. “Come on. No use pacing around here. Let me buy you a beer.”
“Thanks, but no thanks,” I said. The Breakers had practice this evening, and I had every intention of catching Jamie before then. Burke watched me in silence a moment before he said, “If you’re pacing just to blow off steam, cool. But if you’re waiting around for the Breakers, they’re back at their home stadium.”
Fuck. I collapsed onto one of the seats. Burke moved to tower over me. “Come on. You need a drink. I’ll buy you one.”
We went to a bar where Burke knew the owner, and we got placed in a back booth where no one would bother us.
“So, let me guess,” said Burke thoughtfully. “Karissa Kruise is pregnant with your kid, and Jamie Anderson won’t talk to you.”
I laughed bitterly. “If Karissa Kruise is pregnant, which I highly doubt she is, it’s not mine.” The waiter came, and I ordered a scotch. Burke raised his brows but said nothing.
“She’s a fame-whore,” I continued once the waiter was out of ear shot.
“Ah,” said Burke. “So, what’s going on then that’s got you playing like shit? Clearly, you and Anderson are on the outs. What’s it over?”
“Fuck if I know!” I said, frustrated at the whole situation. “I didn’t lie to her. She knew the deal between me and Karissa…”
“What is the deal between you and Karissa?” Burke interrupted. I told him. And when I was done, he was staring at me as if I was the biggest moron on the planet.
> “You’re the biggest moron on the planet.” Ah. There it was. I tipped my entire scotch back in one swallow and waved at the waiter to bring me another.
“Do you like the soccer player?”
“Jamie?”
“No, the other soccer player you’re banging. What an asshole.” Burke looked annoyed. “Listen. I was raised with sisters, so maybe I have a leg up on an only child like you – but dude. Seriously. Put yourself in her cleats for a moment. Let’s say Jamie’s up there at that press conference, and I’m standing there, telling everyone who’ll listen that we’ve fucked and that she’s pregnant with my kid. And you’re standing in the back of the room, watching the whole thing. And Jamie’s not denying shit. So then, everybody thinks that Jamie and I are not only boning, but we’re going to have a kid together.”
I had a sudden, unwelcome image of Jamie straddled atop Burke Tyler and saw red.
“Exactly.” Burke reached across the table to whack me lightly on the forehead. “Idiot. You want that girl back? You’re going to have to open up about Karissa. And who gives a shit if the media attention takes away from your playing. Your game’s already fucked to hell as it is.”
I took a deep breath, and the waiter delivered another glass of scotch.
“Listen,” said Burke, sounding calmer. “Do you want a future with Jamie Anderson?”
“Yes,” I said. I wanted a future with Jamie. I wanted Jamie in the player’s box, Jamie at the press conferences, and Jamie in my bed, beneath me.
“Then get rid of Karissa Kruise.”
12
Jamie
When the phone rang again, I was afraid to look and see who it was. But Fernanda’s name popped up on the screen, and I picked up the phone, relieved. “Oh my god,” I said by way of greeting. “Fernanda, where are you?”
“I’m on my way over,” she said. “I’ll park on the street behind your building. You can exit the back and meet me in the lot next door.”
“You’re a life saver.”
“How many reporters are there?”
I got up and went over to the window to peer between the blinds. “I think only two now. And the reporters are gone. It’s just the photographers. I think they’re waiting to either follow me or see if Caz is going to come here.”
“You should talk to one of the news outlets, maybe. Tell them there’s nothing going on between you and Caz…”
I didn’t have an agent to handle these things. I wouldn’t even know who to talk to. I had asked Noemi, who had an agent, and she’d texted back: I wouldn’t say anything. There’s no need to respond. So I was keeping quiet.
Caz had posted a picture of me on his Instagram account that Wednesday – it was an action shot from a game two years ago. Beneath it, he’d captioned: Boston Breakers, Jamie Anderson #womancrushwednesday. I’d gotten a few calls then, but I think most people had just assumed Caz was a soccer fan.
On Thursday, however, there was a photo of Karissa Kruise at the Taj with none other than Pats’ safety Vic Ferguson. I’d come home from practice Thursday night, and there were reporters and photographers camped out on my doorstep.
Whatever Caz was up to, I didn’t care anymore. I’d had a great last few days at practice, and if I played well in tonight’s game, I’d get an invitation to National Camp for certain. It was time to keep my head in the game. For the first time, I think I understood Caz a bit better. It’s easy to let the outside world distract you. It takes discipline to push it all aside. Or, barring discipline, it takes heartbreak. You have to reach the end of your rope to really find out what’s important. Is love important? Absolutely. But love is a two-way street. At the end of the day, you’ve got to rely on yourself. You can’t let yourself down. I was beginning to understand that.
“You all right?” asked Fernanda as I jumped into her car.
“Blast the music,” I told her. “I need to stay focused.”
•- -
At the game, there were more reporters than usual, and security was keeping them away from the player’s parking lot. Coach met us at the door.
“Anderson,” he barked as we neared. “What the fuck is going on? The press office has been fielding calls all day.”
“I don’t know, Coach,” I said honestly. I hadn’t let myself think about it. “I’m not paying attention to it. I’m here to play.”
Coach eyed me, assessing the truth. He knew me, knew that when I was distracted, I played like shit. I could see him weighing his options. I spoke up. “Really,” I said. “It’s not a problem. I’m ready to kick ass. You just need to put me out there.”
Coach nodded curtly. “Fine. Get going.”
I got dressed in silence, visualizing corner kicks, decoy runs, and dummies.
“Jamie,” said Fernanda as we lined up to take the field. “I’m not trying to distract you, but do you think that the Instagram photo, the breakup with Karissa – do you think he’s trying to get you back?”
I shrugged. It wasn’t important.
The game was phenomenal, and I was on fire the first half. But the score was tight. Not everyone was on their game, and at four minutes left of play, the score was tied 4 to 4. Noemi took a shot on the goal, but it was ultimately blocked by Red Stars’ winger, Ella Tierney. Coach called me over to take the corner kick.
Breathing deeply, I lasered in on the goal. This is what I’d been practicing for. If I could get this angle right, Noemi could head it in. If I could bend it perfectly, I’d score the goal myself.
I set the ball down. I’d never been so focused in my life as I was in this moment. I took a step back, two, three, and then let fly. My whole being went into that kick, and when my foot connected, I didn’t even have to look. It bent perfectly, sailing past the Red Star defense, past the goalie, and into the net.
The stands erupted; I erupted. My teammates and my coach rushed the field. Everyone was running, screaming – I was screaming the loudest. I’d done it. I’d kept my head on straight; I’d focused on my game and on not letting my team down. And we’d won.
It took a while for us to calm down, to go over and congratulate the Red Stars on a game well played.
I was still beaming ear to ear as we headed back to the locker room. And I wasn’t the only one. Standing just out of view of the cameras, over by the doors to the locker rooms, was a tall, incredibly sexy man in jeans and a neon yellow Boston Breakers’ t-shirt. His dark hair was trimmed close at the sides and swept off of his face at the top. His dark blue eyes were sparkling with excitement and something else, something much more carnal. Caz.
I swallowed. Being over him was great in theory, and seemed easy when he wasn’t present, when I could push him out of my mind and not think about him. But as he stood there, wearing that stupid yellow t-shirt and smiling that million-dollar smile, I wanted to run to him. I wanted to fling my arms around him and kiss him until neither of us could breathe. I wanted to… apologize. I really wanted to apologize for not understanding him better in college. I got it now.
“Hey, Caz,” I said, walking up to him.
But he held out his hand, asking for my silence. “Jamie,” he said. “Jamie, I’m so sorry…”
“No, Caz, I’m…”
“Let me finish, Jay.” He reached and gripped my hands in his. “I never told you, though I hoped you knew: I was so in love with you in college. And when you broke up with me, I pushed all of it away. I tried to forget it, and I succeeded for a while. But I never stopped loving you either. And I’m sorry I couldn’t handle you and football. I think I was afraid of what love did to my dad. It just ruined him. And it was easier to push you away and blame it on football.”
He reached into his pocket and pulled out a…
“Fuck.” I said it out loud. I didn’t mean to say it out loud, but he had a ring. I took a step back, but he held my hand in his and pulled me closer.
“I’m not proposing, Jay. It’s okay,” he said, laughing a little. “But I wanted you to know that I bought this for yo
u in college. I was really drunk – and all the inhibitions were gone. And I knew I wanted the rest of my life with you. All the other bullshit that I let get in the way of that...” He swore under his breath. “I’ve got to learn to face my fears, Jay. And I’ve got to work on being a little less selfish, I know.”
He turned my palm over and placed the ring in the center of it. It was small – and the diamond on it was tiny – but he’d bought it for me six years ago, and he still had it. “I want to be with you, Jamie Anderson. I promise, when I propose, the diamond’s gonna be huge. But that ring is what I was going to give you, and it’s my promise that I’m going to do my best to make us work. It’s not going to be perfect, but I’m going to do my best.”
I didn’t realize I was crying until he reached out to brush one of the tears away.
“I wanted to tell you that I was sorry, too. Not about the Karissa thing,” I clarified, shakily. “That was just dumb…”
“She’s not pregnant. She never was.”
What a bitch! “Forget her,” I said. “I should have been more understanding. I get it now. I get the importance of focusing on your future. If you can be a bit better about not shutting me out, I can be better at being a lot more understanding when you do.”
“So, you’ll wear that?” he asked.
I stared down at the ring, a symbol of all we could have been and all we could be soon, and I slid it on my finger.
I was in Caz’s arms in a second, my feet dangling above the grass as he kissed and kissed and kissed me.
“Fuck, baby,” he growled, low and gravelly in my ear. “Let’s get out of here. I’ve got a big problem I need you to tackle.”
Bad Ballers: A Contemporary Sports Romance Box Set Page 5
