Too late.
“I gotta run. I have a meeting with a new sponsor, but I’ll come in tomorrow and see you before I fly out, okay? Is your family coming over?”
I nod. The only thing worse than being stuck on my arse for weeks, bored out of my mind, is having my family around to see it.
**
By Tuesday, I am ready to kill myself—and it’s only been three days. There is no way in hell I’m going to be able to lay around and do nothing for another three-and-a-half weeks. The only saving grace is I get to leave the hospital today. I’m also actually looking forward to seeing my parents.
Don’t get me wrong, I love my family—but I love my independence more. Mum has a habit of treating me like I’m still her baby, and Dad is forever having a go at me for not fully embracing my talent. He’s a big shot scientist who I’d been trying my whole life to please. Until I just stopped trying because I knew I’d never be good enough.
I groan as I think about all the shit Hails is going to give me. Younger than me by seven years, I know my sister will take full advantage of the opportunity to embarrass the hell out of me. It will be like Christmas come early for her, and I was beginning to regret how seriously I’d taken my role as older brother when we were growing up.
Yep, I’d dished up my fair share of shit to her, and she was the type of person who didn’t forget. I wouldn’t be surprised if she had a notebook full of incidents she needed to pay me back for.
Like the time I covered her and her friends in honey as they slept in the living room: they woke up that morning covered in ants. Or the time I’d scared her boyfriend so bad that he’d wet himself in front of a whole bunch of kids when I was picking her up from school.
Yep, she definitely had cause for retaliation.
I’m dressed, lying on the bed and ready to leave, when my parents arrive. Mum rushes over and hugs me while Dad starts carrying my bags down to the car. Hailey gives me a quick hug and then sits down and pulls out her phone. I laugh, and she shoots me a dirty look.
“You think just because you broke your arse I need to give up my social life?” she sniggers.
“Hailey,” Mum warns.
“What?” she protests. But she slips her phone back into her pocket. “Is it true how you did it?”
“Hailey,” Mum snaps again.
“I’m just making conversation. Geez.” She stands up and storms out of the room.
“Sorry, she’s a hormonal teenager,” Mum explains.
I chuckle. “She’s not much different to her usual self. How are you guys? Sorry to drag you all the way over here.”
“Oh stop it, Ryder. We’re your family. Of course we’re here. Can you walk?”
“Not very well. I can sit in the chair, so long as I sit on my side.”
Mum wheels the chair closer to the bed, and I manoeuvre myself onto it. I stifle a groan as the pain shoots down both my legs like an electrical current.
“Okay, let’s go,” I say, gritting my teeth.
**
Fresh air has never felt so good. But what I wasn’t prepared for was the huge number of reporters waiting at the entrance for me. I plaster a smile on my face as Mum tries to push her way through the crowd.
“Ryder, is it true you broke your back while having sex with four women?”
“Ryder, are you really off your feet for the next year?”
“Mr Stevens, do you regret any of your behaviour last Friday night?”
I know that voice. I look over and see Anna. She grins at me and I narrow my eyes. My jaw tenses as I force myself to look straight ahead. Mum gets us to the car, where Dad is waiting to load me in. I ignore the questions being fired at me, slamming the door shut as the cameras continue to flash.
The last thing I see as we drive off is Anna’s face and that damn cocky grin.
Chapter Five
Hails dumps a bag on the bed beside me, making sure I know how much it’s putting her out to wait on me. “What do you want with all this, anyway? You’ve never given a shit about your fans before.”
I reach into the bag and pull out a letter. “Yeah, well, things change. Besides, what else am I gonna do?” I protest.
She giggles and walks out, leaving me alone. I switch off the TV and begin going through my mail. It’s all the same shit: Ryder, I love you. Ryder, you’re amazing. Marry me, Ryder. This was why I stopped reading my fan mail in the first place. I’m only twelve letters in, and I’ve already received three marriage proposals and two pairs of panties. Picking up the bag, I toss it to the floor and swivel myself onto my other side.
I feel something digging into my back. Reaching under my side, I pull out a stray letter. I’m about to throw it away when the childlike writing on the front stops me. I open it and begin to read.
To Ryder
I don't get you. You mess everything up. I used to like you cuz your good at tennis but your just a butthead. I act older than you and Im seven. Maybe you need to think about what you want. That's what mom says when Im nawty and your always nawty.
I cant do what my friends do cuz Im sick. I hate it. You have lots but waste it. It makes me mad. You dont know how lucky you are or maybe you dont care.
Your X fan Jake.
I chuckle, even though this letter doesn’t make me feel like laughing. There’s nothing like being berated by a child to make you feel like a total asshole. And a sick child, at that.
Is this really how people see me? I’ve always prided myself on not caring what people think—and to a point, you need that in my world or you’ll break—but I honestly thought I was pretty well-liked.
Why is this even getting to me? I know it has a lot to do with being injured, and drugged up to my eyeballs on painkillers. I’m feeling vulnerable. Not being at your best, when your best is what you’re known for, is pretty shitty.
I wonder what’s wrong with him. What if he is dying or something? The thought of a dying kid hating me makes me feel sick.
It doesn’t take me long to track down the number. I have the return address in Chicago on the back of the envelope and the surname, which luckily for me, isn’t a common name. I punch the digits into my phone and wait for someone to answer. A woman picks up. She sounds young, so I assume it must be his sister.
“Yeah, hi. I’m looking for Jake Calera,” I say.
“Who is this?” She sounds curious, which shouldn’t really surprise me considering I’m a grown man calling to talk with a seven-year-old boy.
“Sorry, this is Ryder Stevens. Jake sent me a letter, and I wanted to speak to him.” Silence greets me, and I wonder if she’s hung up on me.
“You’re kidding, right?”
“Nope, it’s really me,” I say. A smile creeps across my face. See, this was the kind of reaction I was used to. Maybe I’m being over-sensitive with the whole world hates me routine.
“No, that wasn’t what I was referring to. I don’t doubt for a second that it’s really you. What shocks me is that you actually think I’d let my seven-year-old speak to you.”
My mouth falls open in shock. I’m not used to being told no. Or being spoken to like this.
“What’s your name?” I ask.
“Why would I tell you my name?” she snorts. “Goodbye, Mr Ryder.”
I stare at the ceiling and try to process what just happened as the dial tone purrs in my ear. Maybe I have way too much spare time on my hands, but I’m not ready to let this go just yet. I like a challenge, and I’m determined that this kid isn’t going to die until he knows I’m a good—well, an okay guy.
I press redial.
“Hello?”
“Do you often judge people entirely on the very little you know about them? And the fact that you encourage your son to do the same makes me question your parenting abilities.”
“What? Who the hell do you think you are?”
Her voice rises so loud I wince as it echoes through my eardrums. I smile, thankful that my hook worked. I have her attention. Now I just ne
ed to work out how to get her on my side.
“How dare you question my ability to be a mother when you don’t know the first thing about me.”
“Doesn’t feel very good, does it?” I smirk. “How is that any different to you assuming I’d somehow tarnish your son’s mind with a five-minute phone call? The kid wrote to me, and I thought it would be nice to reply. Did you even read the letter he wrote me?”
“Read it?” she scoffs. “Of course I did. I mailed the damn thing for him.”
“Really?” A smile spreads across my face. “This just keeps getting better and better.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” she asks, defensively.
“It means you let your son post a letter that was not only insulting and hurtful, but completely inaccurate.”
“Inaccurate?” She laughs. “Bullshit. Everything in that damn letter was true. You are an immature, self-righteous womanizer, and I’m proud that my son was able to come to that conclusion himself.”
“Jake’s mom, do you believe everything you read in the media? You should watch yourself; a sweet, gullible woman like you could easily get taken advantage of.”
“Gullible?” She laughs again. “I recognize ignorance when I see it, Mr Stevens. I can’t believe I’m even having this conversation,” she mutters. “Thank you for acknowledging Jake’s letter, I will let him know you called. Goodbye.” The dial tone meets my ear for the second time. I chuckle as I set my phone aside.
This has been the most entertainment I’ve had all week.
**
“What are you doing?”
I shove the letter under me as Hails walks into the room, carrying a hot chocolate.
“What do you want?” I mumble.
She sets the cup down and lunges for the letter, taking it from my hands before I can stop her.
“Give it back. That’s none of your business.”
She sniggers, and ignores me as she continues to study the page. “Wow,” she says, letting out a low whistle. “This little kid sure has you pegged. It’s like he knows you. I could’ve written this. Without the spelling mistakes, of course.” She hands it back, smirking as I shove it under my pillow. “Is that why you’re in such a bad mood?”
“I’m not in a bad mood,” I growl. “I’m just bored and frustrated.” I turn to look at her and see she’s struggling not to laugh. “Am I really that much of a dickwad?”
“Honestly?” she sniggers. I glare at her, and she laughs. “Of course you’re not, Ryder.” She sits down on the bed and takes my hand. “You’re a good guy. Sure, you act more immature than me half the time, but you don’t mean anything by it. It’s part of your charm.”
“Wow, thanks,” I mutter.
“I’m serious. Sometimes you don’t think things through, but there’s no malice behind it. The papers just need a story, and often you’re the most interesting thing to talk about.” She lets out a laugh. “This kid has really gotten to you, hasn’t he?”
“I tried calling him to say hi. His mother wouldn’t let him talk to me,” I grumble.
She laughs, and I glare at her again. I’m not sure why she’s finding this so fucking amusing.
“What? Sorry, but that’s funny.” She sighs as she sits forward, as if she has something important to tell me. “Listen, you have a lot of time on your hands at the moment. It would be natural for your mind to be driving itself crazy. Just try and distract yourself. You’ll be back on the court in no time.”
“Thanks, Hails. I miss this—you and I chatting. I feel like I lose out on so much, travelling all the time.”
“You do, but you gain a lot too.” She shrugs. “It’s the sacrifice you make to be the best, right?”
“Right. So how come you’ve never pursued tennis seriously? I mean, you’re good enough. You were as good as me when you were younger.”
She shrugs. “I don’t have the passion for it. What’s the point in dedicating your life to something when your heart’s not in it?”
Huh. I nodded. What was the point?
Chapter Six
I stare at the number logged in my phone. It’s been so long since someone—besides Matt—has actually spoken back to me. And I loved it.
I press call and hold the phone to my ear. I must really be fucking bored. This woman was probably going to end up getting a restraining order against me.
“Hello?”
“Hey, Jake’s mom.”
“You again?” She laughs. “You didn’t get the hint yesterday?” Is it just me, or does she sound pleased to hear from me?
“I’m not known for my ability to pick up on hints. You’d know that if you read the papers.” I chuckle. “Are you going to let me speak to Jake today?”
“Nope.”
“Okay, I guess I’ll just have to speak to you, then.”
“What if I don’t want to speak to you?” she asks.
“You haven’t hung up yet. If you really didn’t want to speak to me, then you would’ve hung up as soon as you realized who it was. But you didn’t.”
“That’s ridiculous,” she scoffs. “We’ve been talking for two seconds. I’ve barely had time to process all of this.”
“Which means on some subconscious level you are glad that I called again.”
“Oh my God, you’re such an ass.” She laughs. “I’d think you were kidding, but I know what you’re like.”
“That’s right.” I chuckle. “I forgot. You’re a woman who believes everything she reads.”
“So you’re telling me it’s all wrong? Poor Ryder Stevens, always painted in a bad light. It’s never your fault, is it?” she teases.
I laugh and run my hand through my hair. It’s not lost on me that talking to a stranger is the happiest I’ve felt since my injury. “I’m not saying that at all. I’m just saying that the media like to misconstrue things to make a story bigger.”
“So you didn’t fall out of a hot tub full of naked women and break your tailbone?” I pause, and she laughs again. “Uh-huh. That right there was the only response I needed.”
“So I’m clumsy,” I protest. “Is that any reason to persecute me?”
“I’m not blaming you. You are who you are. You can’t help it that you have more money than sense, or that you don’t take your tennis very seriously. I mean, if you did, you wouldn’t have been partying the night before a grand slam final. Just like I can’t change the fact that I’m a single mother who works full-time, studies, and looks after a sick seven-year-old.”
“Wow,” I mutter. “Way to make me feel bad. So what’s wrong with him?” I ask. “He said in his letter he was sick, but he didn’t elaborate.”
“Cystic fibrosis,” she replies softly. “Do you know what that is?”
“I know it’s a lung condition.” I also knew it often required a transplant, and sometimes resulted in death, but I didn’t add that.
“It’s where his lungs produce too much mucous, making it difficult for him to breathe. That’s why he wrote you that letter. He would love to be able to play tennis, or play football with his friends, but he can’t. He gets angry when he sees people wasting their lives.”
And just like that, I feel about two inches tall.
“Wow, I’m sorry,” I mumble.
“Don’t be,” she replies. “I mean, it’s not your problem, right?”
“I’m sorry if I came across as rude,” I say. And I mean it. “I’ve spent the last week lying here doing absolutely nothing but thinking about the letter your son wrote me. I really did only want to speak to him. I wanted him to know I wasn’t the shallow, egotistical womanizer that I’m made out to be—well, not completely.”
She laughs and lets out a groan.
I can just imagine her sitting there, shaking her head.
“Ryder, when was the last time you did something for someone else?”
“What?” I ask, confused. What did that have to do with anything? I lived alone, and spent most of my time on the road. In my world, eve
rything was about me.
“Answer.” She encourages me. “I bet you can’t even remember. Am I right?”
“When was the last time you did something truly selfish? As in, completely for yourself?” I fire back. “I bet you can’t even remember.” I mimic her tone.
“I’ve got a sick little boy.” She laughs in disbelief. “It’s hardly the same thing.”
“Why not? What are you teaching him by not making time for yourself?” I argue.
“You don’t know the first thing about me,” she fires back. “I could be a crack-smoking prostitute for all you know.”
“Are you?”
“Well, no.”
“So, answer me: how long has it been since you were truly selfish?”
She doesn’t answer and I grin, knowing I have her. “Listen, smartass, I’ll tell you what: over the next three days, do three things for someone else. I’m talking completely unselfish acts. Then I’ll let you speak to my son,” she says.
What? What the hell am I supposed to do while lying on my arse? I can barely handle doing things for myself at the moment.
“Fine. But you have to do something for me.”
“No,” she protests. “That’s not how this works. You can’t put provisions on my provisions.”
“I can do what I want. I’m Ryder Stevens,” I say smugly. “Over the next three days, you do one thing for yourself. I’d have said three as well, but I wouldn’t want to set you up to fail.”
“Oh my God, you are unbelievable.” She laughs.
“I get that a lot.”
“Fine. Whatever. I have to go and get Jake from school.”
“Wait,” I yell, catching her before she hangs up. “Do I get to know your name yet?”
She laughs. “Scarlett. My name’s Scarlett.”
Chapter Seven
Seven days.
It’s the longest I’ve gone without sex in eight fucking years.
That is possibly the worst thing about being injured. I can handle the pain, and the boredom, but no sexual contact? That’s too much.
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