Second Chance: A Dark Bad Boy Romance

by Kathryn Thomas

He wouldn’t say no. What reason would he have to say that? From an assessment of the man’s very public private life, there was no way Dante Rock would be bashful and shy about letting his fans under the hood. I wanted to do, like, a Behind the Music, but in writing, and not about music, but about basketball, and Dante Rock in particular.

  When the game ended, there were interviews in the locker rooms. I would approach him then. Halftime was finally drawing to a close, and I saw the players start to get back onto the court. I looked to my side and saw Dante there, on his feet, looking at me. I didn’t think he was checking me out, but I felt like he was. His eyes were penetrating.

  “Big fan?” he said to me. I liked the sound of his voice. It was pleasant and smooth. The sort that you could listen to for a long time because it wasn’t annoying or overly raspy. “If you hang around after the game, I can sign your chest.”

  I wanted to laugh, if only to hide the effect that the statement had had on me. He was coming onto me, and he had said that phrase as if it was a perfectly decent thing to say to a woman you had never met before and whose first name you didn’t even know. I felt my cheeks heat up a bit, but I needed to keep my cool around him.

  “Hm, I think I’ll pass, but thanks for the offer.”

  “I’m Dante Rock,” he said. Was he? Was he really? Because I hadn’t noticed. It wasn’t like his last name wasn’t emblazoned on the back of his jersey. That statement on its own was likely all he had to say to some women to get them to come home with him.

  “I know who you are,” I told him, trying to sound sure of myself. I had walked up to him so we were about a foot away from each other. He should have looked a little worse than he did, given that he had just played one half of a basketball game. His hair bordered on long, but still sat at around medium length and was wavy. Standing that close, I could see the stubble on his chin and jaw. It was just a little bit darker than the hair on his head, but it wasn’t a drastic difference.

  “Who do you write for? TMZ?” he asked. I bristled a bit.

  “Not a chance,” I said, lightly. How dare he? How dare he suggest that I wrote for TMZ! TMZ was a different outlet than the one I worked for, and I didn’t want to judge them that harshly, but shit! They made their money, and I didn’t want to knock their hustle, but I had not been through four years of journalism school and accumulated the amount of debt that I had to work for TMZ.

  “You know, there are a lot of articles about you on there,” I said, trying to hint at the possibility of me writing one on him.

  “You’ve been reading about me?” he asked, eyebrows raising and interest obviously piqued. Whether or not he was interested for the right reasons was not something I could as yet tell.

  “Nothing good. I’m Quinn Blaze.”

  “Well, Quinn Blaze, you obviously want something from me,” he said. Was it that obvious? Could he read the hunger on my face?

  “An exclusive would be nice,” I tried to say to him in a way that I thought of as sweet. I wasn’t trying to flirt; I was just trying to be nice. I wanted him to say yes. That was the whole point of this conversation that was likely going to make him late in a few more seconds if he dragged it on and didn’t just say yes like I wanted him to.

  “How about I give you that if you let me take you out?” he asked. I wanted to wipe that smirk off his face. I also, for the shortest split second, the shortest, considered it.

  “Gotta give me something to write about first,” I said. He barked out a short laugh and left because he had gotten his signal to get on the court. I watched him leave.

  I had just survived my first conversation with Dante Rock. It could have gone better. He could have cooled it on the flirting, but then again… it was a little bit nice. There was no denying that. He had a charm, an acute aura that radiated off him and it was disarming. Could I be alone with him? What was I thinking? Of course I could. He was just a guy. He was an amazing athlete, but I was an amazing journalist. I had this.

  I wanted that story—and he was going to give it to me.

  Chapter Two

  Dante

  What the fuck happened last night?

  I couldn’t remember what time I had gotten back to the house, or how I had gotten back to the house without dying or getting in a wreck or something, but I had. All I remember was the girls came over some time before midnight, then we went out to one spot, then to another… then maybe one other, but there was no way of being sure.

  One thing for sure, though, it must have been a good night because I felt like absolute garbage in the morning. It takes a lot to take me out. A lot a lot. You don't take down a dude who’s six foot seven and two hundred sixty pounds with a couple shots. I must have mainlined straight gasoline or something; my head was still fuzzy. My game had been weak but not terrible. Considering the night I had apparently had, things could have been a whole lot worse. I could have still been passed out for one thing. The coach had had a couple things to say to me about the condition I was in, and I hadn’t heard half of them. Partly because of the massive hangover and the other part because he needed to relax.

  He had no reason to be that mad. I had shown up, hadn’t I? I was playing, wasn’t I? We were going to win that game. He had nothing to worry about. I didn’t appreciate him talking to me like I was his son because I was not. I didn’t care if he did it because he was worried, or because he wanted me to slow down before I crashed, because I was not going to crash. Like I said, it took a lot to take me out and a night of partying with a few girls and some shots was not it.

  There were three girls in the house when I got up. Three. That was a good indicator of exactly how much I had had to drink. I had never in my life needed help getting girls. Never. The fact that I had managed to get not one, not two, but three home with me was a sign that maybe I hadn’t had all that much to drink after all. We had started the night together, but they were under no obligation to come home with me and fuck. If it was rides home that they wanted, I am sure I would have had the mental presence to call them an Uber or something. Everything was a blur, but the women, maybe even more than these three… or a different three entirely had been with me the entire night. Or maybe they hadn’t. I had had a lot to drink. I didn’t know. It had been a lot, but most likely not enough to make me unappealing to chicks. I mean, really, because, how did drunk, slurring Dante manage to hook three birds at once?

  I knew the answer to that. It was because drunk, slurring Dante Rock was still Dante fucking Rock. I could pull anybody. Anybody. Girls wanted me. They just did. I was hot. I knew that, but a lot of guys were hot. It was not that hard to be hot. It was hard to be Dante Rock. I had never met a girl who told me I wasn’t her type. I was every woman's type. I was your married mom’s type. If they insisted on lying and pretending that I wasn’t, there was always the money.

  Money has been letting ugly guys pull since the beginning of time. When you had money and looks, you were like the prize stallion, everyone wanted to place their bet on you. Most, if not every single one of the broads I had ever brought home, were trying to become a WAG…wife and girlfriend. Any girl with good sense avoided athletes like the plague. We just weren’t the ones who were there to give you stability and a family you could come home to every night. Our schedules sucked, our lifestyles were high risk, and we travelled a lot. There were guys who wanted that sort of thing and there were some who even made it work. They had the wife, a stunner of course, the kids, a dog, the whole bit. I wasn’t one of those guys though.

  Getting girls was risky for a man in my position. You never knew with the hot ones who was batshit crazy. Good makeup and hair hid a lot of baggage. It also hid a lot of plotting and scheming. You never knew which girl was the one who would try and get pregnant by you so she could have the baby and start picking up monthly checks and gain a couple thousand more followers on her Instagram for posting the kid’s pictures.

  Love was a battlefield. Hooking up was a battlefield. There were so many willing women, and so few
nights in a week. Sometimes, like last night, you had to team them up and take a couple down at the same time. It was just like that sometimes.

  One was in the shower, the other was downstairs, and the last one was still in bed with me when I woke up. As if the awkwardness of having a woman over and not remembering her name wasn’t enough. I had to do it three times. It was like hide and seek, but with one-night stands. Two blondes, well, one actual blonde, one counterfeit blonde, and a redhead. They had reminded me their names in the morning, but they were leaving anyway. I didn’t need to retain that information. Could I even if I tried?

  I don’t even know whether I fucked them all, or if they just partied on their own. If they did, I hope I was conscious to see it. If they did, I was glad I could facilitate that for them. The only thing hotter than having one girl was having more than one girl. That way, if you got tired and weren’t into it anymore, you could just watch them. It was always just… just fantastic to see. That was another thing about these girls who chased the athletes…they would do almost anything if they thought you would like it. They would let you put it in the butt, do it with other girls, let you run trains on them… it was a lot. Sometimes, I would ask a girl to do something, just to see if she would. I wanted to see how far she would go for the dollars she thought she would be entitled to when she became my girlfriend. None of them ever did become my girlfriend…because I wasn’t an idiot. Why would I tie myself down to just the one girl? That was one pussy every single night. That was one person who you had to see all the time. That was nights you could spend having three different girls in your bed at once…but instead settling for one.

  Blondie was a nine, fake blonde was an eight and a half, and redhead was a ten. I loved freckles. She was the one I would have back for another round, maybe once I remembered, but there was no need to double dip. Literally. There was no need for me to ever fuck a girl twice if I didn’t want to. Newer, hotter girls were coming down the pipeline every day.

  I was sitting out for a minute, thankfully. It gave me a minute for my body to catch up to where we were, what we were doing, and what I needed it to do. I had never had a truly shitty game, but this one was definitely suffering. I could hoop in my sleep, but at the end of the day, I was getting paid to literally play a game and the people who paid me to do it expected me to be doing it while under the legal blood alcohol level.

  Were games always this loud? Were the lights always this fucking bright? I needed to go the fuck home. A little hangover couldn’t take me out, but when it got to the point that I almost couldn’t see straight anymore, I needed to call it a day and see whether I could still stand the next. I would though. I’d be fine tomorrow. If I didn’t do the same thing tonight and just went to bed, alone, then I would be golden.

  Maybe I wouldn’t have to go to bed alone. Girls I could do. It was the alcohol that was fucking me up. I watched the game unfold in front of me. I hadn’t even been following the score, but we were down some points. Nothing serious that we couldn’t come back from, but coach would likely have something to say about it. He had been stolen away by this reporter. A girl.

  I turned my attention to the girl who had been talking to the coach at halftime. She had a mic in her hand, and she was standing, watching the game from the sidelines. Her face looked like she was really concentrating hard on what was going on. As if she knew something about what she was looking at. A lot of girls didn’t know shit about hooping, but they could tell you what the NBA minimum annual salary paid to players was. They didn’t know the difference between a dunk and a lay-up, but they knew how much Kobe’s wife was set to get in their divorce settlement. Some of these girls, I swear, could only name Michael Jordan as a basketball player…and that was only because they had seen Space Jam as a kid.

  Her arms were crossed across her chest, which made her tits sit up. Those were nice. She had on heels, which I didn’t know people could wear on the wood floor court. Her legs were smooth and disappeared under this tight skirt, which clung to her hips and ass. Also pretty nice. She had a body, something to hold onto while you fucked her, which I appreciated. I liked it when a woman looked like she could bear me loads of healthy sons, if you know what I mean, even though I didn’t want kids. I just enjoyed a thicker protein shake.

  Her hair was tied up in a bun, so I couldn’t tell how long it was or wasn’t. It was dark—like the color of expensive hardwood floors. She was brunette, but it wasn’t the same color all over. There were some lighter streaks here and there, probably not natural, but that was fine. I liked brunettes. I wasn’t one, so it was something different. Exotic, if you will. From where I was sitting, her eyes looked like they were dark, too. I wondered what color her nipples were, you couldn’t be sure whether they’d be brown or pink with the brunette girls.

  She had been looking over at me when she was talking to the coach, him too. They were obviously talking about me. Understandable. Maybe she wanted an interview or something. I could give her one of those. She could get under the hood and find out who the real Dante Rock was, as long as she made the ordeal worth my while.

  I wanted to give her a number rating, but I wanted to get closer first. I wanted to see if her skin was nice, if she had good teeth, those things that ruined an otherwise good package when they were there.

  “Dante, get ready, you’re going on,” the coach said in my direction.

  Showtime.

  I stood up and walked up to the line. The hottie with the mic was a couple feet away. She saw me looking at her and looked over herself.

  “Big fan?” I asked her. “If you hang around after the game, I can sign your chest,” I told her. She walked up to me.

  “Hm, I think I’ll pass, but thanks for the offer.”

  “I’m Dante Rock,” I said.

  “I know who you are,” she told me. I was used to people looking up at me because of my height, and she was too, but she was pretty tall for a girl.

  “Who do you write for? TMZ?”

  “Not a chance. You know, there are a lot of articles about you on there.”

  “You’ve been reading about me?”

  “Nothing good. I’m Quinn Blaze.”

  “Well, Quinn Blaze, you obviously want something from me.”

  “An exclusive would be nice.”

  “How about I give you that if you let me take you out?”

  “Take you out” was code for “let me fuck you.” I mean, I would take her out first. I wasn’t a total animal. She’d get her dinner or her night out, or her wine, whatever she wanted, but then I would have to get what I wanted, too. She was hot. She was smoking. Was she sure she was a reporter? If she ever wanted a career change, she could model or be an old guy’s trophy wife.

  “Gotta give me something to write about first,” she said. I got my signal and had to leave. I ran onto the court.

  It was just twenty-four minutes. I could do this. I could do this. I had put myself through hours of training after worse nights than the one I had had. This would be a piece of cake. I could play ball in my sleep. It was what I was good at.

  I ran out onto the court. There was applause and some quiet booing. Our competitor’s fans were mad that they were going to lose yet another away game. The score was fifty-one to forty-three and they were winning. For now.

  I went through the motions, keeping my game simple but fast. I just needed to stay ahead of the other guys and I would be okay. As soon as I got to the three, I would shoot, no hesitation. I caught the ball and dribbled it over to our hoop. I jumped into the air to make the shot and felt another guy thud into my back, taking me down with him. I lost the ball, and it rolled away out of my reach and his too.

  The ref had to have seen that.

  It was a hard foul. It was a flagrant fucking foul. The guy fucking climbed my back to stop me from making the shot. Barely seconds into the second half and the guy got the fucking whistle blown. If I wasn’t at one hundred percent before, I was now. I was fucking livid. Who was the little
shit who thought they could try? I got up and looked at the ref, waiting for him to say something.

  I had my back turned, but I didn’t have to see it to feel it. I felt something hard connect with my shoulder and then the sound of whatever it was hitting the ground. The shit that happened next happened like it was slow motion. I turned slowly and saw the red cup on the wood floor of the court. I looked up into the crowd. It was like the oaf wanted me to know it was him.

  It was this kid in red. He was laughing and pointing with the guy next to him. I looked him in the eye, and when his finally met mine, I lost it. I lunged for the guy, taking off into the stands. I had gotten like, halfway there, just about to take those steps three at a time to get at the little fucker, but I felt someone grab me and pulled me back, then more hands. There must have been at least three of my teammates trying to pull me back from going after the kid—and that was how many it would take.

  I was so fucking angry. I heard the jeering and booing from the crowd, feeling my teammates practically drag me back onto the court and onto the bench. I was fuming. I left the bench. I wasn’t going back in. There was no way the ref would let me after that anyway. He was lucky. That little punk was lucky. If I had gotten my hands on him, I would have made him swallow that fucking cup through his asshole.