Sinker: Alpha Billionaire Romance

by Colleen Charles

  God, he’s cute. I wonder if I’ve met him before today.

  “I think I’m okay,” I said, anxiety ratcheting up under the hot guy’s scrutiny. “I mean, they’re taking me to the hospital.” I tried to laugh. “So maybe I’m not.”

  “You’ve got a big goose egg there,” the guy said in a casual, easy way. He loomed over me and pressed his hand to my temple. I winced, expecting it to hurt. But when our skin touched, a spark jumped between our bodies. He had gigantic hands, so his clumsy touch was surprisingly gentle. My heart flipped over as our eyes met again.

  “I feel okay,” I squeaked. “I’m sure I’ll be fine.”

  The guy grinned, and my heart melted. Smile perfection – crooked, lazy, showing off just a few of those amazing teeth. My finger itched to reach out and poke him in that charming dimple. I knew I was acting like a blithering idiot, but I couldn’t help it. I didn’t think I’d ever had that visceral reaction to a man before…especially not a man as gorgeous as this. I knew I’d remember once I was allowed to rest. I had to remember.

  “Good,” he said. “I’m counting on it.”

  As he jogged away, I realized that he hadn’t offered his name. Jeez. What a weird day.

  The EMTs loaded me into the ambulance and drove to the hospital, swerving through traffic and running lights. Riley rode in the back of the ambulance with me, scrolling through her phone.

  “How are you feeling?”

  “Not good,” I admitted. The nausea had come back, and the headache pounded with the force of a hundred hammers. The cacophony of the ambulance sirens blaring assaulted my ears. Even the tiniest flicker hurt my eyes. Every time I opened them, I felt like the ambulance wanted to kill me.

  “You’ll be fine,” Riley said. She sounded both bored and confident. “We’re almost there. Remind me next time that you’re a high maintenance date. I might want to just stay at the office.”

  Once the ambulance pulled into the bay of the ER, I was rushed into the emergency room with tremendous speed. After a nurse checked my vitals and triaged my injury, she left me alone. After a few minutes, Riley entered. She carried two tote bags and sat down in a wooden chair with fraying cushions. She pulled a laptop out of one of the bags and started to write.

  “What are you doing?” I frowned. “Did something else happen?”

  “I’ve got to finish this or Nina’s going to kill me,” Riley said without looking up. Her fingers flew over the keys. The sound of keys tapping felt like raindrops of concrete assaulting my forehead.

  “Nina?” I asked. Nina, Nina, Nina…where do I know that name? I couldn’t deny it nagged at me, somewhat familiar. Trying to remember caused bright bursts of pain to shoot through my skull, but I continued to struggle, not wanting to give up. Closing my eyes, I strained against my own brain, ignoring the flashes of pain that flickered through my body. A figure appeared in my mind, but it wavered like a giant blob. Concentrating harder, I balled my hands into fists, and a woman’s face appeared.

  “Our editor,” Riley said. She looked up from her laptop.

  “Oh! I know her!” At least I thought I did.

  Riley frowned. “But you didn’t know me?”

  The pain in my head overwhelmed me, and I clamped my eyes shut. I had to stop concentrating. I felt like I’d burst a blood vessel in my eye.

  “I think I know her,” I admitted. Really, I had no way of knowing if the womanly figure in my head was really Nina.

  Just then, the doors burst open, and two men in white coats walked into the room. They weren’t smiling, and a touch of fear crept back into my gut.

  “Brenna Sinclair?”

  I nodded. It sounded like an odd name, but they’d all been calling me Brenna. It had to be right.

  “Can you tell us what happened?”

  “It’s no use,” Riley said, standing up. “She doesn’t remember.”

  The doctor glared at her. “Please leave us, miss,” he clipped out. “We’ll take over from here.”

  I giggled under the force of my rising anxiety. It wasn’t exactly funny, but the doctors were being so serious as Riley stomped out of the room.

  “I really don’t think you have anything to worry about,” I said. “I just have a bump on the head, right?”

  One of the doctors – his nametag read Dr. Merton, Neurologist – stepped closer and took a penlight from his pocket. “You definitely have a bump,” Dr. Merton said. “Do you remember how it happened?”

  “No,” I admitted, licking my dry lips. “I just remember waking up with my head in that girl’s lap – the one who just left.”

  Dr. Merton nodded. “You were hit with a baseball. Considering it was thrown by Rhett Bradshaw, it was probably going quite fast when the batter fouled it off into the press area.”

  I blinked. “Rhett who?”

  Dr. Merton and the other doctor exchanged a nervous glance.

  “What?” I demanded. “What’s wrong? What did I say?”

  Dr. Merton chuckled, but the laughter trailed off when he pursed his lips together. “Well, if you don’t know who Rhett Bradshaw is…” he shrugged, “let’s just say he’s someone that most people in NYC would recognize by name alone. But don’t worry, Brenna. I’m sure your memory loss is temporary.”

  Dr. Merton swallowed. His large Adam’s apple bobbed in his throat like a piece of bread. He smiled, kindness and patience radiating from his gaze.

  “I’m a sports journalist,” I grumped. “And I’ve never heard of him before. At least…I think I’m a sports journalist.” I closed my eyes, feeling exhausted. The doctors got to work, going through all the head injury protocol. As I lay in the narrow bed being poked and prodded, my mind started to wander.

  Am I really a writer? Or do I just think I am? And who is Nina? Oh, yeah, Riley said she’s our editor. So I must be a writer. Riley said I wrote for Sport Taste.

  I struggled, trying to recall how I’d become a journalist there. Snatches and glimpses of memories started filtering through my brain. I remembered standing with a group of students at Columbia University, throwing our caps into the air. My alma mater. Straining harder, I remembered sitting at a desk until my ass ached, typing furiously on a small keyboard.

  My career means a lot to me, I realized. I spent my whole life trying to get to where I am today. And if I’m a sports journalist, that must mean I’ve succeeded. Riley said she was the only other woman who worked with me. I guess that probably means that I had to deal with sexism, but I made it anyway.

  “Ms. Sinclair?”

  My eyes flew open. “Yes?”

  “Could you please tell us how old you are?”

  “Um,” I bit my lip. “I don’t know.”

  Dr. Merton and Dr. Malloy exchanged a dark glance.

  “We’re going to keep you overnight until we’re sure your memory loss is temporary and that you’ve suffered only a minor concussion,” Dr. Merton said slowly, like he was talking to a child. “Is there anyone we should call?”

  Chapter Four

  Rhett

  The next hours set my already frantic nerves on fire, and for the first time ever, I was glad I was in the dugout and not scheduled to pitch that night. We won, barely, and after the game, my coach, told me to go home and get some rest, but the way Don said it implied I needed a lot more than just rest. I felt like a fucking prize idiot for causing Brenna’s injury.

  Cursing, I stabbed my finger at my phone the next morning, needing to call Ernie to talk me down from the ledge. Even though our relationship bordered on the superficial with plenty of boozing, whoring, and laughing together, I knew I could unload my worry on him, and he’d take it. I cursed again as the phone rang in my ear because prior to today, I hadn’t exactly had any. Before knocking out Brenna Sinclair, the only thing I’d really had to worry about was knocking up some random due to a condom disaster and having to deal with the fallout, not to mention the hit to my wallet.

  Still, this felt worse than dealing with the possibility of fath
ering a million bastards. I’d really hurt someone – someone who hated my guts. It reeked of retribution, and I could almost feel the tepid breath of the publicity hounds breathing down my neck and calling me out.

  “Hey,” Ernie said, answering on the first ring. “What’s up, Rhettinator? You feelin’ any better?”

  “Not really,” I grumbled, wincing at the nickname. I used to love it since it inferred I was a badass. Now, it just made me feel like a jackass. “I feel like shit. She’s gonna really hate me when she recovers, Ern. She’s gonna write something that makes that last piece look like a Bible verse. And she’d be right. Look what I caused with my massive ego. I knew dipshit Andy couldn’t hit my sinker but threw it anyway because I thought he’d just be catching air.”

  Ernie laughed, and I rolled my eyes, suppressing a groan. He might’ve been my best friend, but he’d ride my ass for a few tortured minutes before I’d get any sympathy out of him.

  “Why not go see her? I mean, maybe she won’t remember you.” Ernie’s voice took on a humorous lilt. “What’s the worst that can happen? I know you. You won’t feel better until you’ve seen for yourself that she’s okay. And if the paparazzi gets wind of it, the photo op won’t hurt your cred.”

  I gnawed at the inside of my lip until I tasted blood. “I’m not sure I want my picture taken in regards to this,” I said. “You sure that’s a good idea?”

  “Yeah, man,” Ernie said and chuckled. “Besides, some of those nurses are hot as hell, and they know just how to take care of a man. Maybe you can pick one up for me, eh?”

  I had to admit, the idea of seeing a bunch of sexy nurses flit around was pretty damn appealing. Those tight white uniforms, bright red lipsticked smiles.

  And possibly, the chance to make it up to Brenna. Killing two birds with one stone. I gave myself an A for expediency.

  “Okay,” I said. “I’m going.”

  “Sounds good. I’ll see you at the field, then after the game, we’ll throw some back, and it’ll calm you the fuck down. Stress, especially female induced stress is bad for your mojo.”

  “Thirsty” was our code for going out, getting bad decisions wasted, and picking up the two most beautiful women in sight. It was almost like therapy, except better…even when dealing with the residual hangover the next morning.

  “Yeah,” I said. “See you.”

  We hung up, and I shoved my phone back in the pocket of my jeans. Before last year, people on the street rarely recognized me without my uniform. But ever since I hit it big – really big – I’d taken to wearing sunglasses and a baseball cap pulled low over my face on the rare occasions I left my condo and didn’t want to shake hands and pose for selfies.

  On my way, I grabbed a newspaper. The headline on the front page of the sports section made me cringe. My latest mistake spelled out in bold black letters:

  “THE HIT MAN: STAR PLAYER BRADSHAW KNOCKS ENEMY JOURNALIST FOR A LOOP!”

  The article caused even more regret to kick me in the balls. I didn’t recognize the journalist’s name, but I felt like I was reading something from the National Enquirer instead of The New York Times. It was lurid and sensational. By the time I was finished reading, my stomach rumbled its displeasure. Brenna had been portrayed as some ditzy wannabe journalist – definitely not a skilled professional. And I came across as a sleazy playboy, who’d do anything to seek revenge against the rogue writer who’d done me wrong. It was pretty fucking nauseating.

  Just then, my phone buzzed in my pocket. I groaned when I pulled it out. There was a text that couldn’t be ignored no matter how much I might want to. Don. And he sounded pissed. Make sure your head is in the game tonight. We need you.

  That wasn’t good. I gritted my teeth as I rolled up the newspaper and shoved it in my back pocket. With my luck, I’d now be on Don’s shit list for at least the next two seasons, running laps and staying late at practice.

  The hospital turned into a major disappointment. Of course, none of the nurses buzzed around in cute little white uniforms. They all wore baggy scrubs, no makeup, and some of the worst shoes I’d ever seen in my life. Like Crocs, only uglier. Still, I put on my biggest smile and waltzed up to the nurses’ station like I owned the damn joint.

  “Hey there,” I said, turning my charm up to an eleven. “What’s your name?”

  The girl behind the desk sighed. She looked young – maybe all of twenty-two or twenty-three – with shiny black hair pulled into a loose ponytail. But the hair seemed to be her only saving grace. A mottled complexion became even ruddier as she stared at me through glassy brown eyes. Dull. Lifeless. She didn’t recognize me. Shit. If it hadn’t been for the scrubs, I would have taken her for a patient who had wandered out of their room.

  Instead of responding, she stared at me with a blank look and tapped her name tag with a ragged nail.

  “Hi, Elaine,” I said warmly, raising my eyebrows, and giving her my best grin. “I was just hoping you could help me find a friend. I’m looking for Brenna Sinclair – she might be in the head trauma ward.”

  Elaine stared at me, working the tip of her tongue over her teeth like she was on the verge of an important discovery. Her eyes narrowed, and finally, her face lit up like a kid on Christmas morning.

  “Oh my god,” she breathed, nostrils flaring. “You’re Rhett Bradshaw!”

  I nodded, wincing at the loud way she’d announced my name across the hospital. Anyone scrambling about within earshot turned to stare at us. At me.

  “Don’t wear it out,” I said, leaning closer and winking. A deep flush appeared on Elaine’s cheeks, and she bit her lip.

  “Oh my god,” Elaine repeated. “Um, I’m so sorry. What did you say you needed?”

  I laughed. “I’m looking for Brenna Sinclair. I think she had a light concussion. Can you help me out, Elaine?” I made sure to lower my voice when I said her name – it was a trick I’d used on countless girls before, and when Elaine’s blush streaked from her cheeks to down her neck, I knew it had worked once again.

  “You mean the girl you knocked out?” Elaine tittered. She tapped a folded copy of The New York Times lying beside her paperwork on the desk. “I read about it this morning,” she squeaked in excitement. “Wow, Rhett. You really know how to get in the papers.”

  I tried to laugh along with her, but it stilled in the back of my throat. “Yes,” I said after a long pause. “Now, can you tell me where Brenna is?”

  “I swear, oh my god, if it had been me, I’d have been so happy to be hit by a ball that you threw,” Elaine gushed. She started giggling and clasped her hands to her ample chest like I’d just given her a prize. “I mean, can you believe it? It’s like something out of a romantic movie. And here you are, visiting her.”

  “Yeah,” I said, suppressing a sigh. “Look, I’m kind of in a hurry, and–”

  “I mean, the paper was totally unfair. You’re not a loose cannon at all, and if your manager thinks that, well, he should be fired.” Elaine’s eyes glowed chocolate, and now that she was excited, her entire body had turned the same shade of crimson. All I wanted her to do was shut up, stop drawing attention to me, and tell me where I could find Brenna Sinclair.

  “Right.” I leaned forward. “So, Brenna Sinclair? Which room is she in?”

  “I’ll take you,” Elaine said, standing up so fast she flung some of the errant papers onto the white tile floor. Without bothering to pick them up, she skittered around the desk in a flurry of excitement. “This way, Rhett. It’s not far.”

  “Yeah, of course not,” I mumbled, too low for Elaine to hear. “We’re in a fucking hospital.”

  “The doctors are really optimistic about Ms. Sinclair,” Elaine said as she led me down a hallway crowded with wheelchairs, patients, and nurses, apparently having forgotten that HIPPA exists. “They think that she’s totally fine, aside from her mild concussion and temporary memory loss.”

  That news should have filled me with elation, but fear clasped my gut in an iron grip. What if Bre
nna started screaming at me about the pitch? Shit, she already hated my guts. I’d just given her a whole new round of ammo to use against me, as if I’d personally adjusted physics and forced that ball to hit her skull. The thought of all that attention after such a damning newspaper story made me want to groan.

  “Are you a friend of Brenna’s?”

  “What?”

  Elaine spun around in her clunky shoes. “Are you a friend of Ms. Sinclair?”

  “Uh, yeah,” I lied. “Definitely.”

  Elaine’s worshipful gaze faded into a slight grimace, and she gnawed at her chapped lower lip, frowning. “Oh,” she spit out on a sigh. “That’s nice.”

  I smirked. The jealousy radiated off Elaine in hot, powerful waves.

  “She’s in here,” Elaine said, pointing toward the door. “Have a nice visit.” She walked away, clearly pissed by the fact that I didn’t want to linger and feed the beast of womanly adoration. I rolled my eyes. Chicks were so easy to read – it wasn’t even fun anymore. Maybe it was high time to grow the fuck up.

  Brenna looked terrible. Prone on the bed with a magazine on her lap, she slept or at least tried to over the blaring of the television broadcasting Dr. Phil. The cover of her reading material remained closed, and I snuck closer, trying to read the headlines. As I approached the bed, Brenna’s eyes snapped open. They were still a radiant green despite the dim, dull lighting of the hospital. A big purple-blue bruise covered half her face, starting around her eye, kissed her temple, then spread down her cheek all the way to her sculpted jaw. Gorgeous, even with a shiner. No wonder the nurses hated her.

  “You’ve got one hell of a bruise there,” I said, easing myself into a chair by the side of the bed. “How are you feeling today?”

  Brenna stared at me with open curiosity, then chewed her lip. “I’m fine.” Her voice sounded a little distant, almost like we were communicating by iPhone instead of face to face. “How are you?”