Sinker: Alpha Billionaire Romance

by Colleen Charles

  “Excellent,” he said in a low voice that sent another pulse of desire through my body. “I can’t wait.”

  “I can’t wait,” Ernie parroted, in a high-pitched tone reeking of mimicry. Blushing again, I finally pulled my hand free from Rhett Bradshaw’s and hurried across the field and toward the stands.

  By the time I reached Riley, the butterflies in my stomach had almost faded, but I couldn’t wipe the grin off my face. I didn’t know what it was about Rhett Bradshaw, but something about his smile, his demeanor…hell, even his voice made me feel captivated and hypnotized. In fact, now that I sat next to Riley, I could barely remember what we’d been talking about. The words hadn’t mattered. All that mattered was that I’d been in his company, by his side, enjoying the warm glow that emanated from his body like July sunshine.

  “Hey, head in the clouds girl, I’m talking to you,” Riley snapped.

  “What?” I squinted at her. “You were?”

  Riley rolled her eyes. “Duh,” she said, tossing her brown hair. “You were just off in la-la-land. Fantasizing about Mr. Bradshaw much?”

  “Definitely not,” I lied. “Sorry, I’m just feeling a little out of it today. Head injury and all that.” Now that I’d left Rhett on the field, I wished I hadn’t come to the game. Being here jarred my mind and body, rattling me, and I felt both guilty and angry that I couldn’t remember what was going on. Covering baseball games had apparently been the bulk of my reporting for Sport Taste.

  What would happen to my career if my memory didn’t recover? Would I be fired and lose it all?

  “Anyway,” Riley said, pushing a bundle of papers in front of me. “Read over these.”

  “What are they?” I frowned and picked them up, shifting them around on my lap.

  “They’re the editorial guidelines for Sport Taste,” Riley said. “Maybe if you read over them, you’ll remember.”

  I read the papers for fifteen minutes and then decided to buy a soda from a vendor during the warm-ups. Nothing I read jogged my memory, and before I knew it, the national anthem blared from the speakers surrounding the stadium. I popped to my feet and placed my hand over my heart as a teenage girl in a spangled dress belted the melody from the pitching mound.

  The pitching mound, I thought. The same place Rhett will be standing in just a few moments. Where I can stare at him without being discovered and judged.

  The thought made me tingle all over. At least with his lithe body throwing the ball in a public forum, I could watch him unfettered by anyone else’s prying eyes. Once the song finished, I sat down and buried my head in the papers again, hoping I’d missed something important during the first read-through. But as soon as I started reading, my head began to ache. Furthermore, the instructions were nothing short of ridiculous. Had I actually followed these for years?

  “God, who wrote these?” I grumbled, flipping from one page to another. “These are almost impossible.”

  Riley looked up at me, smirking. “You did. I mean, not originally. Nina wrote the first draft. But these are your personal notes. I lifted them from your desk.”

  I frowned. “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” Riley said in an exasperated tone, shaking her head from one side to the other. “God, Brenna. You’re being really thick. What would be in it for me to lie to you? We’re colleagues, and you’re my superior. Your success equals mine.”

  “But why didn’t you just tell me that I wrote these in the first place?” I shrugged, feeling helpless under her constant criticism. “Now I really feel stupid.”

  Riley bit her lip. “I don’t know,” she replied. “I guess I thought reading over your own words would help you remember.”

  I narrowed my eyes. “Well, be more transparent in the future, please.” I wasn’t able to hide my waspish tone anymore. My fingers itched to slap her smug face. “I’m already confused enough.”

  “Brenna, God, I’m trying to help,” Riley said, and I fisted my hand to keep from striking her. I couldn’t believe I’d hung out with such a meanie. “Don’t you understand that?” She linked her arm through mine, and I fought not to recoil. All I wanted to do was get the hell away from her. “I’m your best friend, after all.”

  I nodded and looked back down at the sheets in front of me.

  “Hey, this is weird,” I said, flipping through the pages. “There’s a page missing.”

  “Yeah, weird,” Riley said, holding a pair of binoculars to her face, watching as the players spilled onto the field. The press box offered an unobstructed view of the field, but not so close that I could see the players without squinting just a bit.

  “There is,” I insisted, pushing the bundle back over to her lap. “Look, page eight is gone. It skips right from seven to nine.”

  “What’s eight?” Riley gave me a blank look.

  Panic washed over me, and my jaw dropped. After a few seconds, Riley burst out laughing and grabbed my hand.

  “Oh my god, Brenna, you should’ve seen your face!” She cackled, covering her mouth with both hands. When she saw my steely glare, her laughter faded. “Sorry. It was just a joke, Jesus!”

  For some reason, I didn’t think she was sorry at all. My mind drifted to that movie with Jennifer Garner, 13 Going On 30. The entire time Jennifer’s character, Jenna, thought her best friend Lucy was supporting her, she’d been sabotaging her while trying to steal her job. I’d have to keep a watchful eye on this weird girl.

  Closing my eyes, I saw the movie play out in my mind, but I wasn’t able to see what happened last week in any detail. Amnesia made no sense. It was like black paint had been thrown onto my memory. Some things weren’t touched, while others were completely opaque. Especially the things that had happened in the past year or so.

  Riley chuckled at something I wasn’t aware of, and I slid my eyes to her, annoyed.

  I wondered if it was normal for me to always feel this irritated with my best friend. Had something happened to me when that ball hit my head? Had it somehow changed my personality? Was I the same Brenna Sinclair as before, or had something fundamental shifted, like a switch or a lever? When I talked to my mom in upstate, all had seemed normal and supportive from her end. She and my dad insisted on being patient; that the doctors had told them they were certain I’d make a full recovery.

  “What’s wrong? Don’t be mad,” Riley said before I could reply. “I mean, it was just a joke, Brenna. You have to learn how to lighten up. You had a great sense of humor before.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I bet. And nothing is wrong. I mean, well, yeah, something is bothering me. I just wish my memory would come back.”

  “I’m sure it will in time,” Riley assured. She lifted the binoculars to her face and squinted. “Wow, he’s sucking today. Look.”

  She passed me the binoculars, and I held them up to my eyes, adjusting the focus until Rhett’s handsome face came clearly into view. The sight of him biting his lip, sweating in concentration sent a new herd of butterflies racing through my stomach. But when he wound up his arm and flung it, the ball soared through the air…and hit the dirt outside the batter’s box.

  “Holy shit,” Riley muttered next to me. “He’s tanking this game. What the hell is wrong with him?”

  She snatched the binoculars back from me and held them to her face, leaning over.

  “This is crazy,” she said. “Brenna, get a load of this!”

  “I was before you yanked them out of my hands,” I grumped. “He’s not doing a good job, is he?”

  “No.” She set the binoculars down, then scribbled some notes on a pad on her lap. When I leaned over and tried to read, she snatched the paper away and held it up in the air.

  “What the hell?” I narrowed my eyes. “Are we keeping secrets now?”

  “No,” Riley said, but her guilty look negated her words. “Don’t worry about work, Brenna. Just watch the game, relax, and try to remember. You’re not on a deadline. I am.”

  Doubt sprouted inside of me and wormed its w
ay all through my body, snaking through my limbs. I wished I could relax. I wished I could do anything except dwell on my feelings of inadequacy. I could feel myself falling into a deep, dark, heavy depression, and as much as I wanted it to stop, it seemed impossible to halt the downward spiral. I couldn’t stop the frustration welling up inside of me, every time I looked at something and thought, I must know that from somewhere.

  “I hate this,” I said, reaching down and scratching my ankle.

  “What, the game?” Riley turned to me. “I mean, Rhett’s doing a horrible job, but it’s not that bad.” She grinned. “Hey, want a beer to replace that boring Coke you’ve been nursing?”

  “What? No. I meant this.” I tapped the top of my head. “Not being able to remember. Feeling like a complete failure. You know, just worried that my memory won’t ever come back and my life will end up ruined before it really even gets started.”

  Riley frowned. “Brenna, it’s only been a couple of days. You have to be patient because the doctor said it could take weeks to completely recover. I’m sure everything’s going to be fine.” She glanced over at the scoreboard. “Wow, they’re down four to nothing. That’s embarrassing for only the bottom of the second.”

  Bottom of the second. Down four to nothing. I thought about the phrases until the words fell apart and turned to bland mush in my brain. I knew that I should remember the lingo, the terms, the rules of the game…but the harder I tried to concentrate, the more aggravated I felt. How could I remember a random rom com in vivid detail but not the game I supposedly loved?

  “I just feel so frustrated.” I turned to Riley. Her eyes were still glued to the field, but she nodded along.

  “I know, but this is temporary, Brenna. The doctors are sure you’ll make a complete recovery. Your lack of memory and resulting frustration are normal. Quit worrying. You’ll be back to ball-busting-Brenna in no time.”

  I was a ball buster?

  I closed my eyes and tried to think about the hospital again. Mostly, I remembered being bored. I remembered the doctors leaning over me and talking about me like I was a battered body without a soul.

  A loud jeering noise drifted up into the air. I stood up from my seat and leaned over the railing. Rhett stood on the mound, looking despondent. I could tell even without borrowing Riley’s binoculars. The crowd threw boos and groans onto the field.

  “Shit.” Riley stood up and shook her head. “This is terrible, Brenna. He’s never played this badly before. What if you’re the reason?”

  “It seems really bad,” was all I could say because blaming me for Rhett’s bad play wasn’t even worthy of a response.

  “He used to be really good,” Riley said. “League MVP. You remember that, right?” She cocked her head and looked at me. “I mean, you haven’t forgotten everything, have you?”

  Forcing a smile, I nodded. “Yeah,” I lied, vowing to go read about it later. “Yeah. I remember.”

  The truth was, I didn’t remember at all, but I didn’t want to be the recipient of any more of her verbal barbs. I barely remembered the mechanics of baseball, let alone Rhett Bradshaw’s ability to complete a game without getting pelted by peanut shells and beer in red Solo cups.

  None of this made sense.

  I just wished I knew what I could do about it.

  Chapter Eight

  Rhett

  By the top of the third inning, I knew I was toast. I’d thrown a decent pitch to start the game – a curveball – but the opposing team, the Marlins, had managed to knock it right out of the park. Any game starting with the opposing team scoring a seamless home run was never good for morale, and unfortunately, things went from the ditch straight into the septic system.

  Don called a short meeting at the end of the fifth inning. Sweating and nervous, I huddled with Ernie and the other players.

  “Bradshaw, where the fuck is your head?” Don snapped, leaning in close and cuffing me on the ear just hard enough to hurt. “What the fuck are you doing? Are you out there mentally counting your money?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, shaking my head. “I know. I know. I’m not on my game, but it’ll get better. I promise, Don, I’m not gonna let you down.”

  Ernie clapped a hand on my shoulder. “Maybe you outta tell Don your shoulder’s hurting and let Leighton take over,” he said, gesturing toward the bullpen. “He’s got a good save percentage this year. Think about your numbers, bro. They’re going to plummet.”

  “I know what to do,” I snapped. “If you’d just trust me, things would be fine.”

  “The Marlins are up seven to one,” Don said. “We can’t fucking hand the game over to them on a silver platter to soothe your ego. The papers and fans are going to rip us a new ass.”

  By the time I jogged back to the pitching mound on the wings of Don’s dressing down, I was such a nervous wreck I didn’t even recognize myself. I didn’t want to get pulled out of this game like a loser in front of her. Rhett Bradshaw was cool, calculated, a winner. He wasn’t the kind of guy who worried too much about anything. Or the kind of guy who talked about himself in the third person. But something had seriously shaken my confidence, and I didn’t even want to think about what I’d have to do in order to get it back.

  During my lowest moment of self-censure, the booing started. Yankees fans aren’t exactly known for their magnanimous attitude during a rout. With my heart racing, I managed to throw three foul balls in a row, and my reward was an assault from the crowd. Peanuts, candy wrappers, and beer cans all flew from the stands, littering the lush grass in a cacophony of vibrant colors.

  Maybe something will hit me, and I’ll get a concussion. That only seems fair. Maybe I’ll lose my memory, and Brenna and I can go off together and live in a home for old amnesiacs.

  I rolled my eyes. “Enough!” I yelled, throwing my arms in the air. The chorus of negativity just got louder because they knew they had me by the short hairs when I reacted to their bullshit. “Y’all can fucking stop this whenever you want! Where’s your fucking loyalty!”

  The crowd groaned in unison, and I wiped the sweat from my brow, determined to pitch a killer ball at least once during the game. But when I went to throw, the ball slipped from my sweaty hand and flew in the opposite direction, toward the outfield.

  You stupid piece of shit, Bradshaw. You haven’t done that since little league.

  I watched the ball dribble away with a warped sense of fascination as if I were driving by a fatality. Yeah, of my MVP career. Before even looking Don’s way, I knew he’d motioned to the bullpen to send my worthless ass to the showers.

  I didn’t blame him.

  I stayed in the locker room, hanging my head until Ernie found me wallowing. He cuffed me in the back of the head, then jabbed me in the ribs, glancing up at me with obvious concern.

  “Yo, boy, what the hell happened?” Ernie asked as he slid onto the wooden bench beside me. “You okay, man?”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know what’s fucking me up so much,” I said, readjusting the ice pack on my shoulder. “This is killing me.”

  “Aye, it’s killing me too,” Ernie agreed and shook his head. “Although my arm is remarkably rested since most of your pitches didn’t hit my glove. This is just like that movie where Austin Powers lost his mojo. You gotta get your mojo back, man. Maybe that’s what all of this is about. Should I call Elizabeth Hurley?”

  Brenna’s pale, beautiful face popped into my mind. I frowned, shaking my head, trying to get her to disappear the way a dog shakes to rid himself of pond water.

  “Yeah,” I agreed.

  As Ernie left me to strip down and get into the showers, I couldn’t stop thinking about her. She’d really crawled under my skin. I’d just pitched the worst game of my life, rendering me incompetent and worried about my future in the MLB. I’d signed a huge contract this year. What if Don threatened me with a trade? What if he cast me off to some bumfuck team in Middle America, away from New York City and everything I loved?

>   But if that happened, I’d deserve it.

  “You played like a real pussy today,” Andy called, his voice dripping anger as he walked by me wearing a white towel. “You gonna pull your head out of your ass, Bradshaw? First, you make me smack that woman and now this. The front office don’t pay you the big bucks to fuck up our winning record.”

  Spinning around, I balled my hand into a fist. “You want to tell me that again?”

  Andy sauntered forward. He shook his head, spraying me with droplets of water from his wet hair.

  “What if I do?” He gave a cocky, sarcastic grin. “Not like you’d be able to land a punch anywhere close.” Andy burst out laughing, and after a second, the other guys joined in.

  “Fuck you,” I muttered, turning around to grab my bag.

  “Man, he’s being a real dick,” Ernie said quietly as we walked out of the locker room. “He’s really pissed.”

  “I know,” I said, running a hand through my hair in exasperation. “I deserve it, though. I lost the game for everyone.”

  Ernie clapped me on the back. “You’ll do better next time. Wait until the next series, you’ll be fine, Rhettinator. I know you.”

  I rolled my eyes. Sometimes, Ernie’s tireless optimism really grated on my nerves.

  Rather than dwell on my failure, I thought it would be a better idea to try to forget about how poorly I’d played and move on. I’d always been the type of guy who enjoyed the present – especially when hot women were involved. But now, I realized that maybe it would help me if I learned to look to the future instead. Baseball wouldn’t last forever.

  “Hey,” Riley chirped. She and Brenna stood right outside the entrance to the locker room. “God, you took forever. I thought once the manager pulled you, we wouldn’t have that long to wait.”

  I grinned in the face of her pout. “Had to shower,” I said, trying to appear unaffected. Behind Brenna’s back, Riley held up her camera and mimed taking a picture.

  I got the hint. “Hey, Brenna,” I said, jerking my head to the side. “Come over here for a second.”