Bad Ballers: A Contemporary Sports Romance Box Set

by Bishop, S. J.

  I shrugged.

  “He’s an insecure little boy with Daddy issues,” said Burke, who’d been listening nearby. Fucker. I hadn’t even noticed him. “Hey, man,” said Burke, hands up in surrender. “I can’t blame you. Must suck to wake up every morning knowing you’re not nearly the player your father and brother were. That would be a hair across my ass, too.”

  “You sack of shit,” I said, anger rising up like a tidal wave.

  “Come on.” A heavy hand clapped over my shoulder. I nearly whirled and took the dickhead’s head off, but Ryan Mclaughlin was already moving us toward the door. “We’d better get out of here before this turns ugly. The only reason Dash didn’t kick your ass is because he knows you’re right. And the only reason Ted isn’t kicking your ass, Burke…”

  “Hey!” said Burke. “He can bring it.” He held his arms wide, and I turned because that fucker was going down!

  “Not helpful,” muttered Caz. I didn’t get far either because two of the linemen chose that moment to stride out of the locker room and get between me and Burke. Mac chose that moment to push his advantage and, before I knew it, we were outside.

  Shaking off Mac’s grip, I strode toward my car. Insecure Daddy issues? I should have caved that Viking’s skull in.

  “You should be careful, Schneider,” said Caz from behind me. It didn’t sound like a warning, though. More like a suggestion from one man to another. “You play some good football, but you’re hard to like.”

  I stuck my hands in my pocket and said nothing.

  Caz shook his head. “Listen, man. One day, you’re going to be up to your neck in bullshit, and you’re going to need help. You’re going to wish you’d made some friends.”

  “We’ll see,” I allowed, opening my door and stepping into my car.

  19

  Erin

  The next few weeks were an overwhelming blur of activity. I met with two lawyers and chose one to represent me in my lawsuit – and yes, I was going to have to sue, at least for the coverage of my medical bills. My lawyer was positive we might be able to get a good deal of money for emotional damages as well.

  I also had to meet with the detective to go over what I remembered happening (which was absolutely nothing) and learn about my rights as a citizen in the case of accidents like this.

  Work was an incredible whirlwind of activity. My boss, Loretta, was so excited by my series of articles that she’d taken me off of marketing and put me solely on content. Beezeness had been teasing my articles for weeks, and it seemed like everybody was eager to hear the real life story of Prince Charming and Sleeping Beauty.

  Not that there was much of a story. It wasn’t that Ted and I weren’t spending time together. In fact, we were spending almost all of our spare time together. But I still couldn’t shake the feeling that Ted wasn’t being entirely honest with me about our history. Oh, he had tons of stories about the ten months we’d dated. And those stories painted the relationship as fun and intense and full of mutual appreciation. I’d even regained one or two memories from the tales he’d spun. But I had other memories, too. Murky ones that wouldn’t quite shape and which were accompanies by feelings of anxiety and hurt.

  Once, when he was sleeping, I’d braved a look at his photos again. There were four he’d taken. One was a photo from homecoming. I didn’t remember homecoming, but as I looked at the photo, my stomach ached and my chest hurt. He had a photo from at my house that I’d bet my mother had taken. We were sitting on a log at the edge of the forest (my childhood home bordered the wetlands, I remembered that!). Our backs were to the camera, and my head was on his shoulder.

  I finally looked at the picture of us from the creek. I was prepared this time for the emotions that welled up. That yearning, that terrible heartache. I felt tears prick my eyes, and I sat there in the darkness of his living room, just feeling. I love you. The words floated around in my head, filled the back of my mouth, and pressed against my tongue.

  Had I told him I loved him? Ted said that we’d never exchanged the words ‘I love you.’ But I knew I wasn’t imagining it. I knew what those feelings in my chest were. Love. So strong, so intense, they nearly bowed me. I pressed that picture to my chest, tears leaking down my face. What was wrong with me?

  I didn’t tell Ted about the emotions. He was perfectly content to talk, to tell me about his day, to go overs plays, drink beers, and fuck for hours. But if I pressed him for anything real, he would get sarcastic and evasive.

  It was doing a number on me. All of my self-confidence, all of my surety, seemed to falter around Ted. Around Ted, I was never quite sure if I was good enough. Surrounded by the luxury of Ted’s apartment, my life seemed dim. When going out with Ted, who was dressed in a pair of jeans that would have cost me two weeks’ pay, I felt drab.

  And it was no use looking to Ted for validation. He always turned my words back on me (Do I look nice? Do you think you look nice?).

  His second and third games were away games, and he had a bi-week in which he went to Cleveland to celebrate a buddy’s bachelor party.

  I got together with Casey and tried to sort through what was going on. “I don’t know what to tell you,” my friend said when I was over at her house on Friday, about four weeks after the accident.

  “I know,” I said. “And I don’t know what to think. At night, he holds me like it’s all he wants to do in the world. But if I ask him what he likes about me, he rolls his eyes. We spend a lot of time together, but he avoids the future to the point where he won’t even make plans for the next day. I have to wait until he texts, or I have to text and suggest we go do something. And I have the strangest feeling he’s not telling me the whole truth about our high school relationship.”

  “Why don’t you think he’s telling you the truth?” asked Casey.

  So I told her about all of the strange emotions and about Ted’s odd behavior. Casey shook her head. “Maybe it has something to do with the accident?” she suggested. “You should ask your doctor.”

  I’d had a few appointments with Doctor Marx since the accident, and the next time I went back, I told him about the photos and about the strange emotions.

  “We really only understand about 10% of the brain,” said Doctor Marx, frowning. “But emotional memory is a very real thing. In fact, there are people who say that emotions are so powerful that things like trauma can be passed from generation to generation. Most likely, you’re remembering emotions associated with an event. But there’s no way to prove that, and no science that corroborates it.”

  He asked me if I was getting any early memories back. I told him about remembering my childhood home but having difficulty recalling details from high school.

  “Most likely,” he said, “it’s because you weren’t very involved in your past. You never went home for reunions, right? You don’t talk to friends from home. Speaking of which, is your high school friend coming soon?”

  Lucy! Yes. She was coming in a few days, and I was eager to see if her yearbooks, diaries, and photos would jog memories. So was Dr. Marx, who had me make an appointment for two weeks from now.

  “Just be patient with yourself,” he advised me. “Take things one day at a time.”

  20

  Ted

  Erin had texted me earlier that morning to say that she’d meet me at the restaurant. I’d chosen a small, non-touristy place in the Italian End. We weren’t celebrating anything, but I’d just come back from Cleveland, where I’d spent way too much time in strip clubs.

  I felt seedy and gross and had been overcome by the need to have a nice dinner out with a nice girl.

  I arrived at the restaurant a bit early, happy to sit and think for a little while. When my old quarterback, Tom Price, had asked me how I was getting along with the Pats players, I’d told him the truth. “Shocker,” he’d said, rolling his eyes. He’d clapped me on the shoulder.

  “What the hell is that supposed to mean?” I’d demanded.

  “Listen, bro, you got a
serious ego on you. But you’re not a bad guy. I’ve met your dad; I’ve seen how he lays into you. Kids only survive that in one of two ways: they crumble, or they become Teflon. You’re Teflon, buddy; nothing sticks. But anything you see as a challenge to your status… My guess is that playing for the Pats, where you’ve got some of the best players in the game, you’re feeling a bit outdone, so you come on even stronger. Needing to put people in their place, needing to ensure that everyone knows you’re the shit. I saw you do it every year with the rookies, man. Remember when Paul Pearson joined on?”

  Shit. He had a point. Paul was a Heisman winner, and I’d ripped him to shreds.

  “Listen, man, let your playing speak for itself. Go easy on the guys. You could pull that shit in Cleveland because you were that good. But Caz Woods is that good. Burke Tyler is that good. Dash Barnes is that good.”

  Ugh. Between Price and the strippers, I was feeling seedy and vulnerable. I wanted to feel good. Erin made me feel good.

  I was halfway through a beer when Erin swept into the restaurant. Dressed in a blue skirt and white blouse, with black ankle boots, she looked nice. Erin’s hair was in loose curls down past her shoulders. She wore a plain gold necklace and simple gold earrings. Her makeup was light and highlighted already spectacular features. Her bruises were almost gone.

  I relaxed. I hadn’t known I was tense, but seeing her made me relax. When I went on dates with women, they usually went out of their way to look good. But good usually meant sexy: tight dresses, high heels, hair straightened within an inch of its life, lips red and glossy, and every inch of them screaming ‘sex.’ And hey, don’t get me wrong – I fucking love sex. But sometimes you just want to enjoy someone’s company.

  “Am I late?” she asked, eyeing my half-consumed beer.

  “No,” I assured her, “I’m early. You look great.”

  Erin frowned at me. “I do?” She stared down at her outfit and took the seat the waiter held out for her. “Glass of pinot,” she said to him, politely.

  “So how was your weekend?” I asked her.

  “How was yours?” she countered. “You look done in.”

  I grimaced. “Seedy. My weekend was seedy. And cliché.”

  Erin grinned. “Strippers and cocaine?”

  I rolled my eyes. “There were strippers. No cocaine. We get drug tested. But there was a shit-ton of loud music and a lot of cigars.”

  “So what would you want to do at your bachelor party?” she asked, leaning forward and grabbing my hand across the table.

  I looked down at her hand and flipped my palm over, relishing the feel of her fingertips across my calloused skin. “Never entertained the idea,” I said.

  “No?”

  “The idea of marriage has never appealed to me.” I shrugged.

  Erin’s smile grew tight. Ah, shit. Better change the subject. “What did you get up to this weekend?”

  Erin sat back, taking her hand with her. I missed the contact. “I had an appointment with Doctor Marx. We did a few brain exercises.” She looked away, looking troubled. “I got a few more memories back.”

  My stomach dropped. What did she remember?

  Then she smiled self-mockingly, “Did I play an instrument in high school?”

  My stomach unknotted, and I nearly sighed in relief. Had she? I thought about it.

  “Because I keep hearing poorly played…”

  “Flute,” I supplied.

  “Yes!” she exclaimed, beaming at me. “Did I play the flute?”

  “I think so,” I said. “There was a flute in your bedroom at home. But, ah, you weren’t playing that flute in your bedroom.”

  “Nice,” Erin said, rolling her eyes but smiling. She tapped her finger on the table thoughtfully. “I’ll have to ask Lucy about it.”

  “Lucy? Lucy Sharpe?” I said abruptly. Shit. Lucy Sharpe was one of Erin’s friends from high school. If Lucy was coming to Boston, she’d probably bring high school yearbooks, mementos, and diaries... Lucy had been incredibly close with Erin when we were in school. There were dates that Erin and I had gone on together that had ended up being a weird third-wheel situation because Lucy would show up halfway through.

  “She’s coming tomorrow,” said Erin, her eyes scanning the pasta section.

  The waiter showed up to take our order. I ordered the veal scaloppini, and Erin ordered the gnocchi a la vodka.

  “Can I ask you a question?” Erin asked.

  I nodded.

  “Will you answer it honestly?”

  “I’m always honest,” I said.

  “Why did I break up with you? Really. And don’t say you don’t know. You had to have known.”

  I shifted in my seat, suddenly uncomfortable. “We’ve talked about this already.”

  “We didn’t talk about. I’ve asked you questions about it, and you’ve avoided them.”

  “That’s not true,” I said sharply. “I’ve answered them every time.” Come on, Erin. Don’t fucking ruin this. Just let it alone!

  “Well, then answer me again,” said Erin stubbornly.

  I rolled my eyes. “You told me you didn’t really see us going the distance. That we were too different. You said that you wanted to focus on your studies in college, and you wanted me to be able to do the same.”

  Erin shook her head. “That just doesn’t sound right.”

  “Well, how would you know?” I demanded. “You don’t remember.” I realized I’d snapped only when Erin sat back, looking surprised.

  “Sorry,” I said, not meaning it. I tilted my beer back, finishing it. Suddenly, I didn’t want to be here with her anymore. I wanted to get up before I ruined everything.

  Erin looked like she wanted to say more but she wasn’t sure what to say. I knew I should follow up, explain why I’d become upset, but I had nothing to say for myself.

  “Was it really that bad? Our breakup?” she asked.

  “It wasn’t bad at all,” I lied, waving to the waiter to get me another beer. “You were always good with words, Erin. You edited the school’s literary magazine. You knew just what to say to let someone down easy.”

  “So, you think I was letting you down easy.”

  “I think there were other reasons why you broke up with me,” I said testily. “But if there were, you didn’t share them with me. And to be honest, I’d rather not dwell on them. We’re having a nice time now, aren’t we?” Dwelling on the why would bring those memories back for sure. And she’d tear my heart out all over again.

  But how could she tear your heart out if you’re not in love with her?

  I ignored whatever voice of reason had decided to pop up and opted, instead, to reread the list of entrees.

  Beyond my menu, Erin was watching me. I didn’t have to look up to know her expression was troubled.

  21

  Erin

  “I wish you weren’t, but I think you are right,” said Casey. “It sounds like he’s hiding something.”

  “But what on earth might he be hiding?” I asked.

  “I don’t know, Erin, but – well – here are the facts: You dated him in high school and you broke up with him, apparently for what sounds like a very slim reason. Years later, you accidently run into each other and you’ve conveniently forgotten why you broke up with him in the first place. And miracle of miracles, he’s interested in re-establishing some kind of relationship with you.”

  “Yeah, but what kind?” I muttered. The more time I spent with Ted, the more I realized that I was falling head over heels in love with him. When I wasn’t pushing at him, when he wasn’t being moody, he was fun, funny, and considerate, and he approached sex with that same single-minded intensity with which he played football. I’d begun to live for those moments when he’d reach over and turn the lights out, and I’d lie there, tucked into his arm while he planted soft, worshipping kisses against my temple.

  “I don’t know, sweetie. But let’s get back to the point at hand…”

  Casey and I were
speaking over the phone. I was currently sitting in Cell Phone Lot at Boston Logan airport, waiting for Lucy to text me from the curb.

  “…he’s interested in establishing a relationship with you. But he’s not being the most forthcoming about your history together. Each story he tells you makes it sound like you guys had the perfect relationship. If I had to guess, I’d say he’s intentionally keeping the bad things from you so that you don’t have to relive the reasons why you broke up with him. If he didn’t care what you thought, he’d probably tell you.”

  “So you’re saying it’s a good thing he’s hiding something from me!?” I exclaimed.

  “No,” said Casey quickly. “Just thinking of reasons why he might not be telling you everything. If I were him, I’d be afraid that saying the wrong thing might trigger a memory I didn’t want you to have.”

  I groaned. “Oh, Casey, this isn’t good!”

  “Maybe you’re just being insecure,” Casey suggested. “To be honest, that’s what it sounds like. He’s interested, he calls you, he takes you out, you spend time at his place, and he spends time at your place. He’s clearly interested in being with you. I feel like maybe you’re searching for something that’s wrong because you just can’t believe that someone like Ted Schneider is actually Prince Charming.”

  “There’s no such thing as Prince Charming,” I said, thinking about Damon. “And Ted is not charming. He’s sarcastic and moody and…hang on.” My phone was buzzing. It was Lucy.

  “Gotta go,” I said. “I’ll grab Lucy, and we’ll head to your house for dinner.”

  “Okay, see you later.”

  I put the car into drive and circled back toward the arrival gates. I hoped that seeing Lucy might jog some memories. As I drove up, I scanned the curb, spotting a small, dark-haired woman scanning the cars. I pulled over to her.

  “Oh, thank god,” said Lucy, throwing the door of my car open and throwing herself into the passenger seat. She reached across the seat and enveloped me in a hard-armed hug. “You’re okay. You don’t look half dead!” She smelled like cigarettes and verbena. An interesting combination and one that triggered a few more vague memories: Lucy and I outside the gym by the bleachers. Lucy and I sitting beneath the stairwell eating lunch.