Ain't Happenin' (The Ballsy Boy Series Book 2)

by Shandi Boyes

  Not thinking, I sock him in the eye. My hand throbs, but before my brain can register that striking him for the second time will be worth the pain, an arm curls around my waist, and I’m yanked away from the mob I plan to fight to the death. From the amount of distance my feet get from the ground, it’s easy to derive the person dragging me away isn’t Lorenzo.

  My theory is confirmed when the reporters’ focus shifts from me to Elvis.

  “Carlton, were you aware of Ricci and Maine’s deal?”

  “Do you have a similar arrangement with Ms. Underwood?”

  After tossing me into the back seat of his smooth ride, Elvis gives the reporters an earful. Don’t ask me what he’s saying. Blood is pumping through my body too furiously to hear anything but the ringing of my pulse. I’m usually pretty cruisy, but after wrangling those bunch of crazies, I have more of an idea as to why people commit murder. I’m about ready to kill someone. Fingers crossed it isn’t Lorenzo.

  “Jesus, baby girl, are you okay? That reporter’s face looks as hard as a stone, and you went and put your fist right in the middle of it.”

  I stare at Danny, blinking and confused. How is he here?

  “E skipped training camp early so we could watch Enzo play. By the looks of that guy’s eye, we pulled into the lot at just the right time.” He nudges his head to the paparazzi swarming the car, his eyes already darkening from my hit. “What the hell is that all about?”

  I shrug, truly unsure. Lorenzo and I haven’t discussed our agreement in weeks. I was so caught up with school, soccer, and anything that included Lorenzo, I completely forgot a legally binding contract brought us together.

  Although I’m baffled, I do know one thing, I need to warn Lorenzo. If he walks into this disaster unaware, it could ruin his team’s chance of getting into the finals. I won’t let that happen. He’s worked way too hard these past two months to let anything affect his team’s chance.

  While swallowing down the bile scorching my throat, I yank my cell phone out of my pocket. I stare at the screen with scrunched brows when I discover the reason for the unusual ping I heard earlier. It’s a notification from my calendar, a heart-shattering reminder of how stupid I am.

  Willow peers at me from the front passenger seat of Elvis’s car when I mumble, “Today is the official end date of my contract with Lorenzo. It’s the day we agreed to ends things amicably yet in a highly publicized way.” Shock resonates in my tone, but it has nothing on my devastation.

  How could I have been so stupid to believe what we had was more than a fuck-buddy agreement?

  Seeing the chaos in my eyes, Willow endeavors to settle it. “That doesn’t mean anything, Sky. That date was plucked out of thin air months ago. It doesn’t correspond with this at all.”

  “Are you sure? Because they know more than a standard reporter dig would unearth. They have knowledge about our arrangement only a handful of people know.”

  I picture her stomach representing an hourglass when she twists in her seat, so she can face me eye to eye. “You haven’t mentioned your contract in months because legally binding documents aren’t needed in relationships until marriage.”

  “We’re not in a relationship. We’re just…”

  I’m saved from explaining myself when Elvis slides into the driver’s seat. While dragging his fingers through his thick locks, he grumbles a string of curse words under his breath. Although nothing he says makes much sense, three words frequently present, ‘fucking press conferences.’

  “Sky…” Willow sounds in warning when I hit the Safari app on my phone to search for a link to the press conference Lorenzo was scheduled to attend before today’s match. It was one of the reasons he was lenient about me traveling on the train because he knew I didn’t want to hang around for hours before the game—not even diehard fans would do that. “Believe me, nothing you find on there will help you unjumble the confusion in your head.” I shoot her a wry look, calling her out for being a kettle while calling me a pot. A press conference saved her relationship with Elvis, so perhaps it could do the same for mine. “Fine, but can you at least let me screen it for you first. Who knows what fucked-up shit you’ll find on there.”

  “Will…” This wasn’t from me. It was from Elvis, who’s looking mighty regretful right now.

  “It’s fine, E. You eventually pulled your head out of your ass and fixed your mistakes. I’m okay, I just don’t want Sky being hit by the same truck that slammed into me.” Willow rustles his hair, doubling his puppy-dog eyes before requesting me to cough up my phone. I give it to her with a whine.

  Pretending there isn’t a swarm of thirsty press circling us, she logs into the official premier league site. With the throb in her throat showing her heart rate is as high as mine, she presses play on today’s conference before squashing my phone to her ear, aware what we hear is more detrimental than what we see.

  After several terrifying minutes, she hands my phone back to me before breathing out slowly. “Okay, here’s the short version.” When her throat works hard to swallow, so does mine. “At the start, it’s a standard press conference. Stats, injuries…” I circle my hand three times, encouraging her to hurry the hell up. Nodding, she licks her lips before doing as requested. “Toward the end, the questions got more personal. They asked Lorenzo if he’s enjoyed his time stateside, and does he have any intention to sign on for a second season.”

  “And?” Danny asks as immersed in her story as me. “What did he say?”

  She only delays for two seconds, but it’s long enough for a knot to form in my stomach. “He said he’s very much enjoyed his time here, but he has no intention of signing on for a second season. He said, and I quote, ‘This country is great, but it isn’t Italy.’”

  My heart falls into my stomach. Although it could be ten times worse, confirmation he plans to return to Milan what could be as soon as next week if his team loses the playoffs is a bitter pill to swallow. I put my heart on the line only to have it squashed.

  That sucks.

  It sucks really bad.

  After taking a few seconds to gather my composure, I try to look at our scenario from another vantage point. “Did he mention our agreement?”

  A brown curl falls into Willow’s eye when she shakes her head. “No.”

  Hearing a ‘but’ hanging in the air, I verbalize it.

  Her sigh ruffles my face even with her sitting in the front seat of Elvis’s car while I’m in the back. “But… they have photographic proof of your contract.”

  Although her confession is shocking, she’s still holding back. I’m certain of it. I know her nearly as well as I know myself. “And?”

  Willow’s watering eyes bounce between Elvis, Danny, and me before she blubbers out, “And a copy of the wall calendar we mulled over in the motel all those months ago.”

  I physically gag, sickened at how horrendously my trust has been broken. I thought the media has mindreading powers. I had no clue it was Lorenzo who sold me out.

  “Can we go?” When my words crack, I grit my teeth, warning my eyes they better not let a single salty blob fall down my face. I will not add to my stupidity the past four months by crying in front of the vultures determined to tear me apart.

  “Sky—”

  “Please, Will. I’m begging you. I don’t want to unjumble my confusion here. This place is a shrine, a sanctuary, so please don’t taint it with this.”

  She can see I’m hurting, but she begs for me to give Lorenzo a chance to explain. “It may not be as it seems.”

  “How can you say that? The only person who has access to our wall calendar is Lorenzo. It’s tacked to the blind is his suite. It has to be him.”

  Her chin wobbles when a stupid tear falls from my eye. I brush it away, furious at how weak I feel. I’m being torn in two, but still, I’m stronger than this.

  “Please.” I want to say more, but I can’t. I’m too destroyed to speak. I am beyond broken. “I can’t…”

  The wetness
in Willow’s eyes matches mine when she murmurs, “Okay.”

  When she gives Elvis the signal to go, he flattens his foot to the floor. We shoot out of the parking lot as we did six months ago, we’re just missing one vital thing. Lorenzo’s tail.

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Lorenzo

  “Come on, Skylar, answer your fucking phone.”

  “Hey, you’ve reached Skylar—”

  I hang up before redialing her number for the fifth time the past two minutes, panicked out of my fucking mind. This is the exact reason I didn’t want her to take the train. I understand she wanted to experience the hype of the crowd as the league moseys toward finals month, but over the past three months, her face has become as recognizable as mine. The fans love her. The media… not so much, and I can’t protect her from them if I don’t know where she is.

  When I reach Skylar’s voicemail for the eighth time, it’s the fight of my life not to smash my phone. The only reason I don’t is because it’s my only lifeline to Skylar. If she’s not with me, she’s talking to me on the phone or sending me risqué texts—usually. Today, I haven’t had a single message. Not even a plea for forgiveness for missing the first half of my game.

  “Still nothing?”

  I lift my eyes to my teammate and fellow foreigner, Harvey, before shaking my head. “Her ticket was scanned at the gate, but it’s as if she fucking vanished.”

  He squeezes my shoulder, sympathizing with me. He understands as he too has fallen in love with an American girl. “She got off the train, that’s something. How about security? There’s surveillance on every gate. Perhaps they can track her from the ticket gate she went through.”

  Under my breath, I call myself an idiot. “Why the fuck didn’t I think of that?”

  Harvey smirks. “Because when you’re in love, nothing works.” When I give him a jeering look, he snickers. “Except your cock. It seems to have its own mind.”

  While laughing at the accuracy of his statement, I head for the door. “Where are you going, mate? We still have a final quarter left to play.”

  “This is more important.”

  Skylar is more important than anything, and it’s time for her to know that.

  “There.”

  When I point to the pixelated image frozen on the screen, Bert, a seventy-year-old security veteran at 69ers’ home stadium holds the photograph of Skylar I carry in my wallet up to his security monitor. “Are you sure it’s her? The image is grainy as fuck.”

  “It’s her. I know it.” I’ve studied every inch of her face and body. I’d never mistake her.

  “All right. Let see where she takes us.” While he tracks Skylar’s movements through the stadium, I place her picture back into my wallet. It’s my favorite of her, so I don’t want to lose it. “That was quick.”

  I drop my eyes to Bert, “What was?”

  He points to the screen. “She got hit on by this guy, then was swarmed by paparazzi.”

  My blood pressure surges. “Hit? She was hit?”

  Bert wipes at the sweat dotting his brow. “Calm down, short-stuff. He didn’t hit her, he was flirting with her.”

  With my agitation high, I’m unsure which admission to focus on first. Getting the coglione details so I can visit him later, or Bert’s disclosure Skylar was hassled by the press. Both will result in me having bloody knuckles.

  Mercifully, my brain outclasses my ego—for the first time ever. “Do the cameras around the stadium have sound?”

  Bert shakes his head. “We have state-of-the-art stuff in and under the bleachers, but the gear on the streets is as basic as you get.”

  “All right.”

  I’m annoyed by a lack of security considering how much revenue this facility takes in each year, but there’s no use taking it out on Bert. I’ll save that for the hierarchies endeavoring to sign me on for a second season.

  I told the press earlier I had no intention to stay stateside, but that’s part of the ruse to encourage them to increase their purse. Any good sportsman knows, the less interested you act, the more money is offered.

  “Where did she go after her run-in with the paparazzi?” I ask, getting back to the task at hand.

  Bert’s bushy brows wiggle along with his top lip. “Into a car.”

  “A car?” My high-pitch tone represents the squawky voice I had before I grew pubic hair. “Whose?”

  You know that glossed-over look women’s eyes get when a hot guy undoes the top button of his jeans? That’s what Bert’s eyes look like right now. “Only the greatest quarterback of all time.”

  I’m out of his security office before all of Bert’s reply leaves his mouth. I don’t need him to elaborate on his answer. He voiced his praise with the same gushing commendation Skylar uses anytime she speaks about Elvis. She talks about him all the time, but thankfully, excluding our final game of Celebrity Head’s, for the past four months, he’s only been mentioned along with her best friend, Willow.

  Halfway to the lot at the back of the stadium, I run into Jonah—literally. He groans out a gargled breath while clutching his stomach. “Where the fuck have you been?” He follows me down the deserted corridor, awkwardly running in his corporate businessman getup he dons at every game in the hope of securing more clients. “Coach is threatening to sideline you for the finals, and the bozos in upper management want compensation for the fifteen minutes you failed to play today.”

  “Give them anything they want.”

  Jonah scoffs, horrified. “Do you have any idea how much fifteen minutes of your time is worth?”

  I push open the rear entrance door of 69ers’ headquarters before cranking my neck back to Jonah. He needs to work out more often. He’s sweaty, and his cheeks are flushed. “At the moment, I don’t give a fuck. All I care about is getting to Skylar so I can work out why she was hounded by the press so relentlessly, she had no choice but to flee.”

  “Skylar was hounded by the press?”

  Although he’s asking a question, he doesn’t wait for me to answer. He just signs into his cell phone before logging into the Sports First app on his phone. They’re so quick at featuring the hottest sports stories in the country, it almost appears as if they’re live-streamed. They even featured the article Skylar wrote about me last month. It wasn’t a gushing exposé on how I’m the best fuck she’s ever had, but the word ‘best’ was mentioned multiple times, so my chest swelled about the same as it does every time she whispers my name in the midst of ecstasy.

  “Fuck,” Jonah breathes out, spinning his phone around to face me. “They know about your agreement with Skylar.”

  Before I can ask him how, when, what, and where the media contingency that had Skylar running scared hours ago swarm me like bees do their queen.

  “Mr. Ricci, can you advise the current status of your relationship with Ms. Maine?”

  “Are you aware your visa could be revoked if you broke the law?”

  “Are you leaving the game early because you’ve been cautioned over your alleged involvement with prostitution?”

  That question stops my feet as fast as my heart, but before I can act on one of the many inane thoughts in my head, Jonah curls his arm around my shoulders and barges us through the media.

  “No comment. No comment. No comment,” he says on repeat, not once nibbling at the bait their throwing out with the hope I’ll respond.

  He’s aware of how expensive a tussle with a sports star costs, let alone a member of the media. My run-in with Joshua drained my bank account of a few million dollars.

  Even if I had known the outcome of our exchange before it occurred, I wouldn’t have changed a thing. That was the night Skylar officially became mine. Millions of dollars don’t compare to what I gained.

  When we reach my car, I slide into the driver’s seat without opening the door. While Jonah enters the old-fashioned way, I jab my finger into the start button. The engine fires to life long before Jonah has his seat belt attached, and we rocket out of th
e lot even faster than that.

  The media try to follow us, but my love of the gas pedal soon leaves them for dust.

  I run my hand across my jaw, tracing the tremor there before shifting my focus to Jonah. “How does the press know about my contract with Skylar? That information was confidential.”

  While Jonah hunts for answers on his phone, I hit the speed dial for Skylar’s phone.

  It rings.

  And rings.

  And rings.

  I give up on my fourth attempt before switching my focus back to Jonah. He’s breathing heavily like he’s seconds from meeting with his maker.

  My assumption is proven accurate when he says, “The press has copies of your contract along with the wall calendar tacked to the blind in your room.”

  It was stupid of me to display my desperateness in any form, but at the start, I wanted to keep a close eye on the number of days I had to woo Skylar. But, as the weeks went on, I stopped using it as a reminder of how many days we had left, and instead, used it as a reminder of the memories we’ve created.

  Our calendar is evidence of all the special moments we’ve had together. The first training session Skylar attended without me needing to bribe her, her cousin’s wedding where we danced the night away, and the heartfelt event she allowed me to be a part of when she switched codes for Riley’s benefit, making that one dollar ninety-nine wall calendar one of my most valued possessions. It, along with the first professional league contract I signed, will forever be a part of my prized assets.

  Although memories are holding my emotions hostage, they’re not potent enough for me not to understand there’s only one way the press got a hold of our contract. “You sold me out.”

  Jonah’s eyes snap to mine, his jaw falling open. “No, Lorenzo. I’d never do that.”