The Love Game
A Bad Boy Sports Romance
Emilia Beaumont
Contents
1. Ginny
2. Damon
3. Ginny
4. Damon
5. Ginny
6. Damon
7. Ginny
8. Damon
9. Ginny
10. Damon
11. Ginny
12. Damon
13. Ginny
14. Damon
15. Ginny
16. Damon
17. Ginny
18. Damon
19. Ginny
20. Damon
21. Ginny
22. Damon
23. Ginny
24. Damon
25. Ginny
26. Damon
27. Ginny
28. Ginny
29. Damon
30. Epilogue - Damon
Author Notes
About the Author
Also by Emilia Beaumont
Copyright © 2017 by Emilia Beaumont
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Please note this title was previously published under a different pen name.
This is a standalone story set in the same world as The Playbook and The Curve Ball. It does not have to be read in order, but you may find it more enjoyable if you do.
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For Beatrice & Joseph
Love you always
1
Ginny
“Come on! You have got to be kidding me! Where the hell did you learn to drive?”
A red car darted by only inches away. I slammed on the brakes and slapped the leather steering wheel with the heel of my hand in frustration. The urge to ram the small car that cut me off for the third time in the last five minutes was rising. I was ready to pretend my rental was a fairground bumper car and just have at it, show them who’s the boss of this road. Though I knew in reality it wasn’t me. I was out of my league here. I counted to ten and urged myself to calm down. An accident wouldn’t help me. Not today. Today was going to be special.
There was only one explanation for the madness on the roads and the quick rise of my blood pressure. The drivers in France did not seem to possess any kind of driving licenses or common sense, period. That, or they willfully ignored the rules of the road. Whichever, it explained why I was wearing out the brakes on my rental car.
I must have been out of my mind when I believed it would be a great idea to drive in a foreign country when I’d finally booked my trip, thinking it was going to be like driving back home. Same side of the road after all. How hard would it be? I was dead wrong. I should’ve known the moment I got behind the wheel it wasn’t going to end well. As soon as I pulled out of the rental lot at the airport I had my first near miss. If I survived the day, never mind the rest of the trip, driving around Paris, I would demand to be awarded some kind of medal… or maybe a new, more relaxing vacation!
The light changed up ahead, cars honked, and I moved the rental forward cautiously. My nerves were just about shot, but I was ready for the next battle at the wheel.
I had landed the day before at Charles de Gaulle in Paris and managed to find my way to the quaint studio apartment in the third arrondissement a few Metro stops away from the Louvre, still shell-shocked that I was actually in France.
After years of planning and careful saving, I threw caution to the wind and decided that life was too short to wait any longer. After maintaining my family’s bar, Friction, for eight long years without a break, I was in need of a well-deserved vacation. Some me time. Away from everything. And though some had looked at me funny when I had told them I was going to France and not down to Miami or somewhere closer, I knew I’d made the right choice. Being overseas, I was far removed from my normal life. I wouldn’t have the opportunity to just turn around, chicken out, and go back.
It hadn’t been easy getting on that plane and shirking my responsibilities even though I knew I needed the break. The ten-hour flight was intense—my first time flying, anywhere. My nerves had certainly experienced highs and lows over the last twenty-four hours. Trepidation. Elation. Guilt. But now I was here and was going to make the most of it… that was if I survived driving around in the rental.
“Biegen Sie rechts ab!”
I nearly jumped out of my seat as the voice boomed from the speakers all around me again. The GPS screen on the console flashed angrily, like it was putting on a light show. The harsh German accent cried out again, and I tried to comprehend the words, but they were completely beyond me.
“We’re in France! Speak French, or at least help me out and speak English,” I muttered, not that the GPS speaking French would’ve done me much good. With some long-forgotten high-school French I barely had the basics down, only able to get by. Though I had no doubt I’d be able to ask for and find the bibliothèque without much of an issue should the fancy take me. That much from the lessons had ingrained itself into my memory, utterly useless, of course.
Squinting and at the same time trying to keep my eyes on the road before me, I glanced quickly at the console that was glitching out. I needed to catch sight of the blue arrow in between the flashes that would lead me to my destination… and hopefully less crazed drivers. But I wasn’t holding my breath. That was the one thing it seemed very capable of—finding traffic and madness. I had no idea why the thing was so confused. I’d done exactly what the lady at the rental desk had said and programmed it with the addresses I needed for the trip. Why on earth the little gizmo was suddenly so adamant to speak to me in German was beyond me. Maybe the little Volkswagen decided it wanted to go home, back to the motherland. And for a second, with it shouting at me and the cacophony of blaring horns surrounding the car, I knew exactly how it felt. I was out of my element. In a strange land. All by myself.
The blue arrow indicated that I should turn right, and I snatched the wheel that way, nearly taking out a few pedestrians in the middle of the road.
“Sorry!” I yelled and winced, then waved an apologetic hand in the direction of the angry voices I passed. Even though I couldn’t understand their words, I heard their intent. They were totally swearing at me, and I couldn’t blame them. Perhaps the short few hours I’d spent on the French roads were starting to rub off on me. When in Rome, right? Or in this case, Paris.
Still, I should’ve left the car at the lot and let a cab drive me around in this madness. Better yet, I could have walked or used the Metro.
“Biegen Sie links ab!”
“Yes, yes, I heard you,” I muttered.
All I wanted to do was get to the French Open in one piece. Roland Garros was waiting for me, and yet I felt like I was just going around in circles. All the buildings were starting to look the same. I had no idea if I was even going in the right direction anymore. The SatNav was busted; sooner or later I would have to admit defeat. But I didn’t want to give up on my dream. Not yet. Not now that I was finally here.
I’d been infatuated with tennis all my adult life, ever since I’d watched my first Wimbledon tournament at fifteen. Unable to leave the apartment at the time, I’d sat glued to the screen, watching every match I could with fascination. While I didn’t have the skills or the opportunity to play the sport, I was
nonetheless enthralled. I enjoyed the players’ grit and their determination, and there was something about that little yellow ball that got my heart racing. So I was not about to miss seeing some of the finest players in the sport play on a national stage.
Roland Garros was of course no Wimbledon, but it wasn’t less exciting. It was a different beast altogether. And while going to London for Wimbledon would’ve been my first choice, the tickets for the tournament were way out of my budget. Besides I would’ve had to wait till the summer to go, and I really needed the break right then, not months down the line.
If only I could get to the French Open in one piece, I thought. Not even this hot mess driving could put a damper on what was about to happen. It would all be worth it once I was in my seat, staring down at a fresh clay court, ready to watch the action.
The traffic light turned red, and I slowed to a stop, looking around at my surroundings anxiously. I swore I’d already passed that building once already. The clock in the car told me I had only thirty minutes before the first match of the day, and I didn’t want to miss this once-in-a-lifetime experience, not even a second of it.
I stared at the traffic light ahead and willed it to change. Needed it to change.
Then disaster struck.
The jolt hit me out of nowhere. The entire car lurched forward. I ceased to breathe as my body was slammed hard into the seat. The thick seatbelt went taught, tight across my chest, as the headrest managed to cradle my head from the blow.
“You have got to be kidding me,” I breathed, my hands tight and slightly shaking upon the wheel. This can’t be happening. There was no way I was going to get there on time now.
I looked in the rear-view mirror and saw the monstrosity of a car that had hit me from behind. Far too close, and I could only imagine the damage it had done to the rental’s back end. Bye-bye rental deposit.
I quickly ran through a mental check. My neck was a tiny bit tender, as if I’d slept funny the night before, but feeling no further the worse for wear, I released the seatbelt and turned on the hazard lights.
Reaching for my phone in my purse, I started to dial 911 before laughing. Who was I going to get? Someone back in Florida? I could hear myself now, looking like a fool. The call probably wouldn’t even go through. What was the emergency number in France, anyway? Maybe my newfound friend who couldn’t drive for shit could help me out. I smirked as I climbed out of the car, feeling the anger and frustration well up inside. Whoever they were, they’d messed with the wrong person.
The driver of the huge SUV—which looked severely out of place and far too large for the delicate and whimsical streets of Paris—opened the driver’s side door and stumbled out onto the sidewalk. The idiot was drunk! Just great.
“You asshole!” I started as the other driver leaned up against the car, clearly unable to stand on his own two feet without support.
The car was a far cry from my rental—metallic black, polished to mirror shine and dazzling with a bunch of chrome accents. It was enormous, and yet it still possessed a sleekness that screamed wealth and luxury. Apart from the front bumper being slightly dented, it looked like it hadn’t been in an accident at all. Mine, however, was a different matter. I didn’t want to look too close, but I’d already spotted shards of thick, translucent red and orange glass littered on the ground. No doubt more damage would be revealed once the two cars were no longer kissed up together.
“Did you not see me? I was right there. Stopped at the light!”
The man said nothing. It was as if he hadn’t even realized I was there. I didn’t know if he could understand me, but I couldn’t stop the anger from flowing out.
I came to stand before him, making sure he would see me. I swallowed the next line of abuse I was about to hurl at him as I took him in. He was hot. Damn fine. And even though he was hiding behind his sunglasses, I could tell he was dreamy. Dreamy and drunk, I tried to remind myself.
He was tanned and tall, at least six foot or more, with broad shoulders and short, dirty blond hair that was a little longer in the front. His head was tilted down slightly; he stared intently at the ground. But even from that angle the outline of his jaw was strong, dusted with a day or two’s growth of stubble. He kept shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe it, a grin plastered on his face. Maybe he was just as shocked as I was to have been in an accident. It should’ve made me angrier, but that smile and the hollow of a dimple on his right cheek had little butterflies floating around in the pit of my stomach.
That was until he laughed. He was laughing about this.
“You think this is funny?” I asked, placing my hands on my hips. “Why don’t we see how funny it is when I call the cops on your drunk ass?”
His grin faded, and I felt a spark of self-satisfaction as I pulled out my phone again, my fingers hovering pointlessly over the keypad. Of course I was bluffing. I had no idea what number to call.
“Having problems?”
I looked up to see that the panty-melting grin had returned. He pushed himself off his car and took a few wobbly steps toward me. I was surprised to hear an American accent, but glad that I wasn’t going to have to fumble my way through an awkward conversation about our cars in another language. My high-school French definitely wouldn’t have got me through that.
“What?”
He gestured toward my phone. “Having problems calling the police?”
“No. I don’t need your help,” I grumbled, looking around and hoping that a police car would just happen to show up.
“I didn’t ask you if you needed help,” he laughed. I could smell the alcohol emanating from him and wrinkled my nose. He was going to be in a heck of a lot of trouble as soon as I could get a cop there. “I asked if you had a problem.”
I narrowed my eyes at him trying to peer through the mirrored sunglasses he had on. “I’m not going to be the one who has problems, buddy. I hope you don’t have a plane to catch anytime soon. You’re in deep shit.”
He stepped toward me, closing the small gap even more, the cocky grin still on his face. “Come on,” he said as I took in his crumpled shirt with one of those symbols near his pec that told me it was expensive. “No harm, no foul? I’m fine, and you’re definitely fine. Let’s just call it a day and go our separate ways, huh? No need to call the—hic—cops. I’ll pay for the damages.”
“Oh, you are going to do more than that,” I fired back, looking for a sign, anything, to tell me what I should do to call the cops. Drunk drivers were a hazard to everyone. Plus, I wasn’t going to get any of my deposit back on this car without a police report, and there was no way I was going to walk away now. Not with his cocky attitude.
“You’re going down, buddy. You should’ve thought about that before you got behind the wheel.”
He ripped off of his sunglasses, and I took one look at his bloodshot blue eyes and took a step back. Gasping. Those eyes. I knew those eyes.
“You’re, you’re…” I stammered, not believing it could be him.
Damon Holden was standing right in front of me. Damon Holden, the thirteenth-seeded male tennis player in the entire world! Damon Holden, who was an up-and-coming hot player, a frontrunner to win some of the largest tournaments this year. Damon fucking Holden. Overall bad boy and heartthrob who had scores of fans who followed him around the world cheering him on, and no doubt scores of one-night stands, too.
And he was mere inches away from me.
I’d lusted over him a time or two on TV, not only because he was hotter than a cold day in hell but also because he had true talent. I blinked. He was standing right in front of me.
And drunk. Oh crap.
“You know who I am?”
I looked at him, thinking that it was hilarious that he was even asking me that. Who wouldn’t know who he was? He was all over the news. He’d come out of nowhere in the recent years like a storm that couldn’t be tamed. Known for both his off- and on-court antics. So much so that the Holden Faithful—his fan club�
�had started keeping counts like they did in baseball for strikes on how many rackets he would destroy in one tournament or how many fines he’d receive on the circuit that year.
The media loved to follow him and his family around, and despite his unconventional court behaviors, he was being touted as one of the major reasons the public at large was watching tennis again.
“O-of course,” I forced out, realizing I was staring at him, my mouth wide open. In such a small amount of time, ever since he’d taken off his sunglasses, everything had changed. Everything. Now this entire debacle had profound consequences.
If I went ahead and reported him, got the police involved, I would be single-handedly taking down one of the world’s favorite players. It would be another scandal on his already filled score sheet. And I, little ol’ me from Jupiter, Florida, would become the world’s most hated woman. Damon would miss a ton of tennis as a result. He would miss the French Open. I would miss seeing him play. I couldn’t let it happen. But why was he out here in the first place, driving drunk before his match?
Yet that thought was overridden by a more disturbing one. He would probably go to jail… I had no idea of the sentences or fines he could be given if caught in his state, but I could almost see the mug-shot now, on the front page of every newspaper. The photo that would define the rest of his life.
Cringing, I took a hard look at him. I hated drunk drivers with every fiber of my being, but I couldn’t call the cops now, could I, and ruin the rest of his life and career?
2
Damon
My day had officially gone to shit. But at least there was a silver lining standing before me, and I wondered if she wanted to join my fan club. The special fan club, the one that had a ton of personal benefits, I thought with a sly smile.
I watched the woman in front of me get over the initial shock that yes, in fact, she had just met the great Damon Holden. Yours truly. A small thrill went through me. I never got tired of shocking beautiful women, loving the realization suddenly dawning upon their faces that they were in the presence of greatness.
The Love Game (a Bad Boy Sports Romance) (Damaged #3) Page 1
