Love Needs Another Chance (Truth About Love #3)

by Caleigh Hernandez

  “Di—” she gasps. “Diego,” she manages to scream out in her next breath.

  That’s all it takes. My name past her lips and I’m one swirl of her hips away from my own finish.

  “Be—”

  There’s a sudden shrieking beeping sound filling the room. My mind is in a haze. She’s gone. What the fuck? I shake my head to clear the sudden cobwebs. I open my eyes and reality sets in.

  I’m alone.

  In my bed, at the Orcutt Hotel.

  With my dick in my hand.

  Grrrreat. Memory lane is being replaced with near wet dreams and raging hard-ons.

  Frustrated with myself, and the shade of blue my balls are turning, I throw on some workout clothes and head down to the en suite gym. After forty-five grueling minutes on the treadmill, I move over to the punching bag. Something has to take the pounding I need to unleash.

  It’s three weeks into the New Year.

  Three weeks since I left Izzy on New Year’s Eve.

  Wonda Why They Call You Bitch by 2Pac plays off my iPod.

  “Fuuuuuck,” I wail on the punching bag. I try to beat the memory of that night’s events from the endless loop in my mind, but Izzy…

  It’s been three weeks since Izzy saw that picture.

  That shit replays in my mind as if it was just last night. It’s a never-ending reel of how I broke the love of my life. My Izzy.

  There she was just staring at the image on the screen.

  Fucking sensationalism at its finest. Yeah, right. Of course, the real kicker was including the cover of the fucking On the Pitch magazine that was recalled.

  “GOOOOOOO,” the memory of her heartbreaking plea and command drown out the music blasting through the speakers of the gym. It shreds my soul with every recall.

  My Izzy is strong, but we all have our breaking points. Each day I spend here and not at home with her, I desperately hope this won’t be hers, but I know it could be. I need to prove to her that the picture was set up; prove to her that it’s not as it seems. I have to prove it before she gives up.

  The image of her curled up in the office chair imperceptibly rocking scares me. I’ve never seen her so defeated.

  Except for that one time…on her birthday so many years ago.

  I ached to go to her. To wrap her up in my arms and tell her that the picture was all lies. But we’ve been here before. I remember it. Izzy needs her space and I need the time to collect the proof to claim bullshit...and kick some fucking ass.

  You don’t fuck with me and mine and get away with it. Heads will fucking roll and Sasha will be standing on the unpleasant side of a firing squad.

  The endless loop assaults my conscience again.

  “I fucked up, Baz...”

  The look Baz gave me when I met him at the top of the stairs was a gut punch. He was not happy with me and he didn’t even know what I did yet. The twitch in his left hand was all the clue I needed to know he’d like to punch me in the gut.

  He raises his eyebrow up at me in question. I see the disappointment wash over his schooled expression when I drop my shoulders and shake my head. I handed him the folded piece of paper with the letter for Izzy. I told him to put it on my bedside table with the light glowing above it in the darkened room.

  Fuuuuuck. In retrospect, the setup was probably more ominous than apologetic. I can’t get anything right these days.

  My head was wrapped up in the biggest of cluster fucks. I ran the questions over and over in my head. Why didn’t I tell Izzy about Sasha making a pass at me? Why the fuck did I not just show Izzy the picture to begin with? How the fuck did I miss this about Sasha?

  Baz broke me from my mental list of shoulda-wouldas, and with a knowing look and a quick hug, he gave me some advice.

  The words rage through my conscience at unpredictable times.

  “Whatever it is D, you better fucking fix it.”

  I walked out our front door more deflated than I could have ever imagined. Losing Izzy, leaving Izzy—semantics really, was ten times more painful, more difficult than anything I’ve ever faced. Including losing my mother to cancer.

  I had a moment of clarity when the cold late-December air knocked the breath out of me. I dialed Ken. I explained to him what was going on and gave him my theories on the who and the why. He admitted that he wasn’t an expert, but felt that something seemed ‘off’ about the stadium surveillance videos from the night my phone disappeared and I was delivered the false message. I told Ken I was headed to the Orcutt Hotel. He insisted on meeting me there.

  The mob of paparazzi camped outside the hotel the next morning validated Ken’s prediction that I would need him.

  He was already in the suite setting up his equipment when I arrived. The guilt of the situation hit me instantly. It was New Year’s Eve. Ken should have been doing whatever it was he was doing instead of helping me save my marriage. And I should have been home with my wife.

  “Ken,” I interrupt him. “Go home. This will all be here after the holiday.”

  “Diego,” he levels a ‘let it go’ look at me, “you’ve got beer in the fridge. The only difference between what I had planned and what I’m doing is that it’s here instead of my flat and the best room service in London is on speed dial.”

  I didn’t argue with him. It was pointless and I needed to stay busy. I was beyond desperate to learn that Izzy wasn’t wrecked; even more desperate to hear Izzy’s voice. Neither of those things was going to happen, so delving right into Project Bitch Bye.

  In less than an hour, Ken had a computer-techie genius and all his equipment in the room. Thank goodness for deep pockets and hungry college students.

  It took me a couple of days to remember his name was Kyle.

  When our half of the world was celebrating the ringing in of the New Year, the three of us were digging deep for the who, the what, the when, the where, the why, and the how of it all. The sun was nearly up when I succumbed to the weight of my eyelids pulling me under. I told Ken and Kyle to pick a room.

  “Mi casa es su casa.”

  I was too tired to tell them to wipe the empathy from their faces when I caught their expressions as I invited them to make themselves at home.

  I deserved this.

  I did this.

  I had more than one opportunity to avoid this path, but I couldn’t see through the fear.

  And that? That made my fear my reality.

  It’s three weeks into the New Year.

  Three weeks since that fated night.

  Three weeks since Izzy has said more than the handful or so of obligatory words to me.

  She’s not ignoring me altogether either. She’s not speaking of the “D” word or telling me to pack my shit. I’m pretty sure that’s a good thing. Pretty sure there’s a part of her that believes in me, hopes that this is all one big misunderstanding. But I know my Izzy. I know that hope alone will not pull us out of this fire. The proof is not in the pudding as she likes to put it.

  “If it’s not what it seems, prove it,” she has demanded on more than one occasion.

  She doesn’t want proof-less excuses and explanations. She needs the proof. In her gut, she’s probably telling herself, “I knew it.” No doubt cursing me for being so clueless even after she mentioned it not once, but several times. At least she’s not screaming, “I TOLD YOU SO!” She could.

  I hate looking like a fool. Sasha will pay for this.

  I hate hurting Izzy even more. I will destroy Sasha for that.

  It’s been three weeks since that damn picture graced the front page of Glamour Magazine.

  Three weeks and Sasha has not refuted a single inquiry about our ‘relationship.’

  It’s been three weeks and we’ve barely scratched the surface of findin
g those responsible and nailing Sasha.

  It took us almost two weeks to get the photographer’s name. But, by then, the photographer was nowhere to be found. Ken and his team of private investigators are still looking, leaving no stone unturned.

  I subscribed to all the rags to keep up on the trash they write about Izzy. I hate that she’s bombarded by this. While I know the picture isn’t ‘real’—in a sense, it looks like I’m fooling around with another woman—so why is she being attacked? For fuck’s sake, do people really believe that she’s responsible for this?

  I try to shake the ridiculous thoughts from my head.

  It’s been three weeks since I left.

  Izzy’s handling them well.

  Through it all, Izzy is still showing up to every home game.

  Of course, she’s not sitting with Bean. And it wasn’t until after her first game among the general population of the stadium that she opted for seclusion and perceived anonymity by renting a private suite. I was grateful for that. Even more grateful Mazzy decided to take a leave of absence, working on special projects at Abby Road Studios.

  Still, she continues to drudge her way through the waiting paparazzi camped out on our street to make it to my games. I hate seeing her pictures in the rags. The rest of the world may not be able to see it, but her smile is broken. She looks good, but if there’s one thing I know about my Izzy, it’s that she can cast her face to look as if her world was perfect. I’ve been on the receiving end of those looks a time or two.

  It’s good that Mazzy has stuck around. She’s not my biggest fan right now, but she’s less worried about unleashing her tongue and maintaining appearances. In fact, she refuses to say more than the same few words to me. “Fix this shit!”

  It’s been a few weeks since my life became a public relations nightmare.

  Following the advice from my manager, I hired a public relations representative, an attorney, and I’m looking into an assistant—whatever the fuck that means. Oh, and two additional security personnel. With Ken heading up the investigation into Sasha, he felt it was necessary to have a driver and a separate security guard. Both were former military and slightly intimidating even to me.

  It’s been a few weeks and I feel like we’re nowhere.

  “Sir,” I hear coming from behind me. I redirect my attention to the table of investigators. Ken is absent from the group.

  “What is it, Kyle?”

  “I think we’ve managed to restore the photo in order to determine where it was taken.”

  My eyes go wide at his revelation. I could never figure out the where which made it hard to determine the when.

  “When I tweaked the threshold and adjusted the shadows and highlights,” he stops when he breathes through his ramblings. He’s used to the look I’m giving him. “Right. Keep it simple. Sorry.

  “So, beneath the altered image is the ‘ghost’ of the original. Working backward to restore the original, I discovered a reflection on the surface behind you and Sasha.” The mention of that fucking foul bitch’s name stiffens my spine and locks my jaw. Avoiding her has been easy. She’s eating up the press attention this scandal has gotten her.

  Avoiding Bean has been gut-twisting. When he called me a few days after the first post, he said that the rags were always posting rubbish, “Give it some time and it will pass.” I wanted to tell him. I wanted him to know what she did, but how was he going to take hearing his baby girl did something so heinous? So, I kept quiet. Waiting for the proof to clear my name and definitively bury Sasha.

  “Sir?” it’s Kyle breaking through my ire-filled daydream.

  “Sorry, Kyle. What did you just say?”

  “I was able to determine that this was taken at some sort of a studio. I mean the background is solid. Almost like a greenscreen, but if I had to guess the original color is closer to a steel gray. ”

  Fucking, Sasha.

  This was cold. Calculating. The nerve of that bitch.

  “Are you one hundred percent certain?”

  After careful inspection, it’s pretty clear the bitch had this planned out well in advance. I remember the night this image was taken. I remember the suit I was wearing. Sasha asked me to where it. It just so happens that that very suit is the same suit I wore the night with her at the bar.

  Fuuuuck.

  “Yes, sir.”

  I should have known. Izzy warned me. She sensed something wasn’t right with Sasha and I just made excuses. Lame excuses.

  “Do you know where this is?” I can hear the curiosity in Kyle’s voice.

  “I have a good fucking idea.”

  “Any cameras?”

  “Cameras will be a wash, Kyle. It was at the team headquarters. Team photo shoot. All Sasha,” I say distractedly.

  He goes on about some other stuff, but the revelation takes me back.

  Bean’s heart attack. That stupid kiss.

  Chapter Twenty: Knockin’ On Heaven’s Door

  September 2006

  Fucking shit. These contracts are filled with a language all their own.

  “Diego,” Paul Stott, my agent, interrupts my legal jargon-addled thoughts. “After reviewing their clauses, I’m not sure this is the best deal for you. You’ll be in bed with One Sound Audio Solutions for three years. I think...” his voice trailed off.

  “Paul?”

  “Bollocks! Diego,” his voice switched from animated to somber. If it’s possible, I think I heard his posture deflate. “Bean was just rushed to the hospital.”

  “What the fuck?” my question is barely above a whisper.

  “It looks like he may have suffered a heart attack,” Paul explains. “The news channels aren’t giving us much yet.” He knows how much Bean means to me. Bean was the first on board to bringing me into the Queen’s Premiere League when Paul was shopping my name around. There were a few others, but Bean made Paul’s job easy when he offered me a contract that exceeded our expectations.

  “I know a good thing when I see it, son,” I recall Bean’s reason for the unexpected salary.

  “Diego—”

  If it weren’t for Bean, I wouldn’t be here in London playing for one of the most prestigious leagues in the world. I wouldn’t have connected with the realtor that found me Izzy’s dream house.

  “Diego,” this time when Paul says my name I manage to shake myself from the dark side. “We have a few days to get back to One Sound about the endorsement contract. If we need more time, I’m sure that, given the current event with Bean, they’ll be sympathetic to your situation and give you the time you need.”

  I barely register Paul’s ramblings. Shit! How am I going to break this to Izzy?

  “Get off the phone, Diego. Call me if you need anything.”

  I mumble a barely coherent affirmation just before I end the call. This is a bit like having an out of body experience. I move from the office to the living room where Izzy and Mazzy are watching the television. I stare at my phone waiting for it to ring again, waiting for the person on the other end of the line to tell me it was a mix up that, in fact, Bean was doing well, sipping whiskey in his study.

  Izzy’s voice breaks through my silent plea to the powers that be. “Diego,” her voice is filled with concern. I know she sees the beaten look on my face. “What’s wrong?”

  “Can you turn on the news?” I can’t answer her question. I don’t have the words or the heart to be the one to deliver the bad news to her.

  “Diego, what is it?”

  I can’t take my eyes off the screen of the television.

  “Owner of the London United Football Club William ‘Bean’ Stafford was rushed to the hospital this afternoon. Early reports are saying Stafford suffered a heart attack.”

  I vaguely register hearing Izzy g
asp, because my eyes and my attention are fixated on the newscaster announcing the breaking news.

  “As always presumed, Sasha Stafford, the daughter of William Stafford and his late wife, actress Esme Stafford, will assume the role of acting owner while Stafford is incapacitated. We’ll report back when we have more information.”

  With that last bit of information, the station goes to commercial. I grab the remote from between Izzy and Mazzy and turn off the television.

  The intrusive ring of my phone does nothing to snap me out of my haze of disbelief. The caller ID flashing on my phone does. Sasha.

  “I have to take this,” I tell Izzy. Shit. That was unnecessarily harsh. “Sasha?”

  “Diego,” I can hear she’s been crying. I can hear the fear in her voice.

  “How is he?” I question her as I make my way back to our office.

  Through fits of sobbing, Sasha manages to tell me they don’t know anything yet. They’re running some tests and he’s had bloodwork done. She’s worried that the team’s board of directors will fight her right to run the team.

  I do my best to console, but I don’t know shit about this business. I do know what it’s like to see a parent lying in a hospital bed.

  “Do you want me to call anyone from the team?” I ask, offering my assistance.

  “No,” she manages, “Victoria is handling that. Do you think you could come to the hospital? I...” she falters. “I just don’t think I can handle bad news on my own. Never—”

  “Of course, I’ll come down. You and Bean are practically my adopted family. I owe a great deal to your father, Sasha. Sitting with you while we wait for word on his condition is the least I could do.” The call ends when she gets a call back from her assistant.

  I take a moment staring out the small window in our office before I message Leo Cuomo and Jay. When they finally reply, I learn they’re both already en route to the hospital as well. One more message to Ken to be waiting outside for me.