Perfect Spiral (A Playing Dirty Sports Romance Book 2)

by Lane Hart

  “Of course I remember,” I tell her with a dismissive swipe of my hand through the air.

  I don’t remember.

  “I must have been distracted, still thinking about your tits.”

  “What did Kelsey say she’s making for dinner tonight?” Callie asks.

  Fuck. Is that a trick question?

  “Hamburgers?” I guess.

  “No.”

  “Pork chops?”

  “No.”

  “Okay, fine. I don’t remember exactly what she said she was making.”

  “We asked you what you wanted, and you said you wanted takeout from the Burrito Barn.”

  “Oh,” I mutter. “Right.”

  “Quinton, go home, take it easy and don’t rush the doctors to release you to play,” Lathan encourages.

  “I’m sure the…forgetfulness and dizziness will pass in a few hours,” I tell him.

  “Check with Jon, the head of training, before you leave,” Lathan tells Callie. “I’ll go see if I can find him for you.”

  “Thanks, Lathan,” Callie says, flashing him a smile.

  A smile.

  That’s all it takes for me to be jealous of my best friend. How fucked up is it that I don’t like Callie smiling at Lathan? Surely that’s just the knot on my head fucking with me. Or maybe it’s because I can see Callie with a nice guy like Lathan and it blows. After her husband cheated on her with her sister, it’ll be impossible for Callie to trust another man, especially one with as big of a reputation as mine.

  “I need to go shower and change,” I say, climbing off the table.

  This time the world doesn’t tilt, so I think I’m good.

  “Okay, but make it quick,” she tells me through narrowed eyes.

  “I’ll keep an eye on him,” Lathan assures her.

  “What, are you gonna hold my dick for me while I shower?” I tease him. “I’m fine.”

  Callie

  Quinton is not fine. And the fact that he thinks he is concerns me even more.

  He didn’t remember the conversation we had with Kelsey. Sure, it was a short one, maybe two or three minutes, but it had just happened, and he didn’t recall it.

  “Hi, it’s Callie, right?” An older man wearing a yellow Wildcats polo shirt comes up to me while I wait for Quinton to shower.

  “Yes.”

  “Hi, I’m Jonathan Young, the head trainer. You’ll be keeping an eye on Quinton tonight?” he asks.

  I could decline and give the responsibility to Kelsey, but she may have her hands full with Brady while Quinton recovers.

  “Yeah, I’ll stay with him,” I agree.

  “Great. You’ll need to wake him up every hour or two just to ask him a few basic questions, you know, what day is it, where he is, does he remember how he hit his head.”

  “Okay. I can do that,” I tell him.

  “If he doesn’t wake up right away or if he can’t answer the simple questions, you need to call an ambulance. And if you need anything or have any questions, give me a call,” he says, pulling out a card from his wallet and offering it to me.

  “Thank you, I will,” I assure him. “Oh, and just a few minutes ago, Quinton and I were talking to his nanny, and then ten or so minutes later he didn’t recall ever talking to her. Is that…normal after a concussion?”

  He frowns in thought for several seconds. “Possibly, for the first few hours. But if he’s still forgetting things tomorrow, you call me.”

  “Okay, thanks, Jonathan,” I tell him, clutching his card between my fingers after he walks off.

  I really hope Quinton didn’t sustain any permanent brain damage, and I can’t help but wonder how many other concussions he’s had playing football. It’s a dangerous sport, and I have a feeling based on the way he tried to get back on the field that he doesn’t take the injuries seriously.

  “Let’s go,” Quinton says when he reappears in the hallway, dressed in jeans and a plain blue tee with a Wildcats hat on and a pair of sunglasses.

  “Nice disguise. The only ones that have ever turned out better were two kids underneath a long trench coat trying to look like an adult.”

  “Hard to come up with a disguise when you’re six and a half feet tall,” he counters before we start down the corridor. At least he doesn’t look as off balance. In fact, he walks so fast that I nearly have to jog to keep up with his long legs.

  “I’m staying with you tonight,” I tell him, which brings him up short.

  “You are?” he asks, looking down at me with an arched eyebrow.

  “Yes. The trainer, Jonathan, said someone has to wake you up every few hours, and I didn’t think it was fair to ask Kelsey to get up with Brady and with you, so…I’m staying,” I inform him in a rush.

  “Fine,” he says, turning and picking up the pace again. “I’m starving. What’s for dinner?”

  Oh fuck.

  “I’m joking,” Quinton says, looking at me with his trademark grin. “I remember --- the Burrito Barn. Hope you like Mexican food.”

  “Sure, that’s fine,” I say, my breath rushing out in relief that he didn’t forget again. Then I wince, wondering what else he remembers from earlier, which suddenly reminds me…

  “Why didn’t you play in the first quarter?” I ask him.

  “Because I pissed off Coach,” he mutters.

  “What did you do?”

  “I missed a team meeting Tuesday afternoon when we were in court. Then I walked out, missing practice Wednesday when Brady was in the hospital. If I had played, maybe we could’ve ran the score up early and won…”

  “It’s not your fault,” I tell him. “And I’m proud of you for choosing Brady before you even knew he was yours.”

  Cutting his eyes over at me, he flashes me a small smile and says, “Thanks,” effectively incinerating my panties yet again.

  “Quinton. Quinton, wake up,” I tell the sleeping, snoring giant, flipping on the bedside lamp before I start shaking his shoulder. I woke him at midnight, and now it’s two a.m., and he’s passed out on his stomach taking up a good portion of his humongous bed.

  “Uhh,” is his grumbled response, but he doesn’t open his eyes.

  “Quinton, I need you to wake up and talk to me for a second,” I tell him with another shake.

  “Flash me your tits again. Bet that will wake me up,” he replies with a grin when he rolls to his side to face me.

  “What’s your name?” I ask him, ignoring the embarrassing reminder of what I did earlier.

  “Well, that’s an easy one since you just said it three times,” he remarks.

  Even though he’s being a smartass, I’m glad he was alert enough to count the number of times I said his name.

  “Where are you?”

  “In my house, trying to sleep, but some harpy keeps waking me up and blinding me with a spotlight,” he mutters around a yawn. “And I’m thirsty. Can you fetch me some water?”

  “Fine,” I grumble before heading down the hall to his kitchen and fixing him a glass. There’s an empty bottle on the counter from where Kelsey just woke up with Brady around one. This whole not sleeping for more than an hour thing is seriously exhausting.

  Cold glass of water in one hand and my cell phone with an alarm set for every two hours in the other, I return to Quinton’s bedroom and find he’s fallen asleep again.

  “Quinton, here’s your water,” I tell him. His eyes blink open again before he sits up in the bed, letting the covers puddle around his waist and revealing his naked upper body.

  Now I’m the one who needs the cold glass of water dumped over my head to cool my libido.

  “Thanks,” he mumbles, accepting the glass and downing it in one big gulp before placing it on the bedside table. Quinton lays his head back on the pillow but doesn’t go back to sleep. Those sleepy blue eyes silently assess me as I stand there trying not to stare at his muscular arms or chest or shoulders…

  “Thanks for waking me up even if I’m cranky,” he eventually says.


  “Why do you want to play such a brutal sport?” I ask him.

  “Because I love it,” he answers right away. “And I get paid a lot of money to do what I love.”

  “The money can’t be worth the dangers,” I say confidently.

  “I get paid a lot of money,” he says again. “Go ahead, Google it,” he directs nodding to the phone in my hand. “It’s public info. Why do you think women are so eager to get in my pants?”

  I withhold my response that the money is only partially responsible for why women want in his pants. More than likely, it’s because of his stunning good looks.

  “Go ahead and look it up,” Quinton urges while lifting his head to fluff his pillow. “I’ll wait.”

  Curious only as an accountant who likes numbers, I give in and do the internet search. The first article from this past March says all I need to know in the headline, “Dunn signs seventy-five million dollar contract extension with the Wildcats, fifty-five million guaranteed over the next four years.”

  “Holy shit,” I mutter, picturing all those digits for one man’s salary. No, just four years of his salary, which doesn’t include what he made the first few years of his career. “That’s a heck of a lot of money to play a sport.”

  “The lifespan of a professional quarterback is short, but it’s the most important position on the field,” Quinton tells me, his eyes falling closed again. “They pay me well to take the hits.”

  “Yeah, but that’s an outrageous amount of money,” I tell him. “Especially when you have school teachers barely able to pay bills with their earnings and police officers risking their lives for a few measly dollars.”

  “I agree, but my career only lasts ten years, twelve if I’m lucky and don’t get injured or too old and slow. I don’t have any skills or a backup plan. What they pay me has to last me my entire life. It’s enough for me to know that Brady will have everything he needs, that he can go to any college he wants, and I can pay for it.”

  “What if he wants to be a football player like his father?” I ask, and Quinton smiles in response.

  “That would be great, but he’s gonna finish his degree first. I didn’t. I went into the draft my junior year, and that’s the one thing I regret…” he trails off.

  “You didn’t finish college?” I ask.

  “No. In case you haven’t noticed, I’m not the brightest bulb in the box, and all I wanted to do was play football. Now I wish I would’ve finished, you know? Especially with Brady…I don’t want him to be a dropout because I was.”

  “You can still finish your degree. You’re only, what? Twenty-six or twenty-seven?” I ask.

  “Twenty-five,” he answers.

  Damn, he’s younger than I thought.

  “So there’s plenty of time for you to finish, especially if you only had one year to go.”

  “Doubtful,” he mutters. “Without professors who pass me just for being on the school’s football team, I’m shit out of luck.”

  “You’re a smart guy, you could do it on your own even while you’re playing football.”

  “How the hell could I do that?” he asks.

  “Online. Lots of public and private universities have online programs. We could transfer your credits, and you could take classes during the spring and summer,” I tell him, but he rolls his eyes before he closes them again. “I could help you.”

  Blinking his eyes open again, he stares silently at me. “You’re gonna stick around until the spring and summer?”

  “Of course,” I reply right away. “Brady’s my nephew. I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Oh, right,” Quinton mutters, rolling over and putting his back to me, abruptly ending our conversation. “See you in two hours.”

  “See you then,” I tell him, somewhat confused by the sudden, abrupt halt in our conversation before I give up, turning off his lamp and slipping out the room.

  Quinton

  Between Callie waking me up every few hours and Brady getting up to eat, I didn’t sleep much Sunday night. So, when I showed up to the stadium Monday morning, I was a little relieved that the team doctors said I wasn’t cleared for practice.

  After a long nap at home, I grabbed a shower and decided to get back to work on the fan mail. Placing one of the boxes next to my recliner, I have a pad of personalized stationary in my lap, along with a stack of envelopes, previously autographed postcards, and my favorite pen.

  “So, do you want me to leave since you’ll be home the rest of the day?” Callie asks when she walks into the living room, freshly showered, her hair still wet, wearing those damn pink and white striped satin pajamas that look like they would slide right off her body. She reminds me of a candy cane, one that my tongue is eager to lick from top to bottom.

  “No, of course not,” I tell her because I’ve gotten so used to having her around. “You can stay or go. Up to you.”

  “Catching up on fan mail?” she asks, gesturing to the pile around me.

  “Yeah,” I say on an exhale. “My manager had it stashed away for about six months, so now I’m waaay behind.”

  “Need any help?” she asks, taking a seat on the sofa, which I assume means she’s gonna stay.

  “Nah, I’ll get through it, especially since I have free time until they clear me to practice again,” I reply, withholding the real reason I don’t want her to go through the stack.

  I’m still looking for a letter or letters from Bianca. Since I don’t know what they will say, I want to see them first before I consider letting Callie read them. And besides, these are my fans, so I should be the one to write them all back.

  Hours later, after signing a few hundred more letters to fans, I finally find it, Bianca’s letter. Dated March twenty-ninth, it reads,

  Dear Quinton,

  I’m not sure if you remember me. We met at Limelight several months ago, and well, I’m pregnant. And while I’ve been clean since I took a pregnancy test last month, I just don’t think I can keep it up. That’s why I’ve decided to have an abortion. I’m not even sure why I’m writing to let you know. You’re probably relieved. I just wanted to tell someone, and I can’t talk to my friends about it or my sister. She would hate me even more than she already does and would think it’s someone else’s baby.

  Maybe I’m writing you because I’m hoping you’ll talk me out of it. I guess you could call this my own personal Hail Mary pass, but everyone knows how those always turn out. Just in case, all of my contact information is below.

  Bianca Williams

  Holy shit.

  She was seriously considering ending the pregnancy. Thank God she didn’t even though I just found her letter. Honestly, I’m not sure what I would have done if I had received it months ago. I would’ve probably gone to see her and talk to her. Would she still be alive if so?

  Maybe Callie’s right. Maybe…maybe it is my fault that Bianca’s dead. I knocked her up, left her to figure it all out on her own; and for some reason, she still decided to have Brady.

  “Quinton, it’s almost midnight. You going to bed anytime soon?” Callie asks, snapping my head up as I look around for the clock to verify the time. Fuck.

  “Um, I’ll probably stay up a little longer, until Brady’s next feeding,” I tell her, folding the letter up and placing it back in the envelope.

  “You don’t have to do all that in one day, you know,” she says, nodding to the second box now at my feet. “And you need to get plenty of rest while you recover from the concussion.”

  “I know, just a little longer,” I promise, touched that she’s worried about me. In fact, I want to pull her on top of me and kiss the sad frown off of her beautiful face.

  “Okay, well, good night,” she replies.

  “Good night, Callie.”

  Once she disappears down the hallway, I start digging through the rest of the boxes, hoping to find more letters from the same address as the local one from Bianca.

  There’s no more in the second box, but in the thir
d, the more recent mail, I locate one. My heart is as frantic as a jackhammer in my chest as I carefully open it. It’s almost spooky in a way, like reading mail sent from the grave. This one is dated August second, just weeks ago, and says,

  Dear Quinton,

  You’re not an easy man to get in touch with. I’ve tried to get a phone number or home address for you with no luck, so I decided to write you again.

  I couldn’t go through with it. I couldn’t have an abortion, not after I felt him move. I’m not sure, but I think it’s a boy.

  I’ll find a way to contact you when he’s born so you can see him, but I’m not cut out to be a mother. He’s the only reason I’ve been sober and clean for eight months because I couldn’t imagine hurting him. Once he’s born, he deserves to have a mother and a father who loves him and can take care of him.

  That’s why I need your help.

  If you don’t want him, I’ll understand, but I need you to take a test to prove the paternity. I don’t want money or anything else from you. I just want proof for my sister. If you can do that for me, I know she would take him and raise him. All she wants is to be a mother. But I made a mistake, and only a test proving you’re the father will convince her. Otherwise, she’ll push him and me away again.

  Please call me as soon as possible.

  Bianca Williams

  So Bianca didn’t take Brady to Callie because she didn’t think Callie would believe he was mine and not John’s. And when she finally tracked down my address, for whatever reason, she obviously decided not to stick around after she dropped off Brady and walked away. If I had seen her that night, could I have convinced her to stay? To not turn to drugs? Would she have come back for him if she hadn’t overdosed?

  If I show these letters to Callie, she’ll likely blame me, or worse, herself for not believing her sister. But it doesn’t feel right keeping them from her either.

  After a few more minutes of deliberation, I take the letters down the hall and knock on her open bedroom door.

  “Yeah?” Callie asks right away from inside the dark room, telling me she probably wasn’t asleep yet. She reaches over to turn on the lamp beside the bed so she can sit up in bed and see me. “Everything okay?”