by S. J. Bishop
Going Deep
A Second Chance Romance
S.J. Bishop
Contents
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Going Deep
BAD BALLERS - BOOK 2
Prologue
Ryan
“You’re really quiet,” Courtney whispered into my neck.
I closed my eyes and tried to think of something to say, but it was hard to think when Courtney Hart was straddling me, fingers still tangling in my hair.
“It’s hot,” I said, finally. And it was. Sex on the beach would have been cooler than sex in the backseat of a car, but Courtney had vetoed the idea (sand gets everywhere).
Courtney pressed a kiss to the side of my neck – where I’d probably have marks tomorrow. “Let’s go put our toes in the water,” she said. I nodded. What I had to do wasn’t going to be pleasant, and the more space between us, the better.
To be honest, outside the car wasn’t any less stifling than inside the car. South Florida in May wasn’t as bad as South Florida in June – but it’s still pretty damn close. Though the sun had dropped an hour ago, taking the worst of the heat with it, the humidity lingered. This was gonna suck.
We went down to the water where the waves crashed over our toes, cooling us down. I stood there, crossing my arms over my chest so as not to reach for her. But Courtney came close and tucked herself against my side.
“What is it?” she asked, her voice soft.
I took a deep breath. “I want to break up.”
Stillness. Total stillness. Then Courtney straightened, putting an inch of distance between us.
“Why?”
That was Courtney. No sobbing. No screaming. Just short and to the point. Why? Because it’s easier this way. Because you’ll eventually leave me. Because I’d rather we be done with this now. It will hurt less.
“Where you going to college next year, Court?”
“Florida State University.”
“An hour from home. Me? I’m going to Michigan. Dad’s moving to the Keys. I won’t be back here. Not ever again.”
I couldn’t look at her. I kept my eyes trained on the dim horizon, where black met darker black. There were clouds tonight. No moon. No stars.
“You brought me out here to screw me one last time?” she asked. Her voice was steady, controlled. Sweat beaded at my temples and ran down my chin.
“It wasn’t my plan. I meant to…”
“Tell me this, Ryan,” Courtney interrupted. “Do you love me?”
“Of course…”
“Bullshit,” said Courtney, her control breaking, anger crackling through the word. “If you loved me, you’d care. You’d care, and you’d fucking come back for me. You’d make this fucking work!”
My stomach was knotting up. “Courtney. I’m going to go pro. I’m not coming home for anything. Not for you. Not for anything.”
“What if I came to you?”
Fuck. She wasn’t going to make this easy.
“It’s not going to work,” I said. “I’m not bringing sand to the beach, Court.”
“Excuse me!?”
“I’m not going off to college still dating my high school girlfriend. I want a clean break from Serenity. This isn’t my life anymore.” I couldn’t look at her. If I looked at her I might give in.
“So all those promises…” she trailed off and then started again. “You have my fucking name over your heart!” I’d tattooed it there at the end of junior year. To be honest, I’d have to get it covered up. Courtney was the kind of girl a guy has to try to forget.
Courtney let my silence hang, then she nodded. “Okay. Okay Ryan. Fuck you. Go off. Go pro. Be big. Never come back here again, but I’ll tell you what – this is a mistake. There’s no one out there better for you than me. And when you realize that, it’s going to be too fucking late.”
She didn’t go back into the car. She strode off down the beach, and I let her. Because my life was about to start all over again, and Courtney Hart was no longer a part of it.
1
Courtney
“Rise and raise your voices high; they fear the Panther’s battle cry…”
Another huge group of people poured through the door of The Mangroves Seaside Restaurant, singing Serenity Beach High School’s fight song.
“I swear to God,” murmured Adriana beside me, “if I hear that song one more time…” She let the sentence hang but began to vigorously shake a cocktail shaker full of ice and someone’s dirty martini. My sentiments exactly.
“Oh, honey,” I drawled loudly. “How have you lived here for three years and not intimately acquainted yourself with the fight song?” I raised my voice as the lyrics continued. “They all go run and hide-a when the team from South Flo-ri-da takes the fiiieeellllddd….” The crowd at the bar started whistling and hollering.
Adriana pursed her lips at me, hiding a smile. We’d been friends ever since she’d moved to Serenity. She knew I had no love for my old alma mater. In fact, were it up to me, I’d have never come back home. But my parents had offered to make me part owner of the restaurant – so I’d returned. If things went my way, I wouldn’t be here much longer. I was doing my best to turn The Mangroves into a seaside chain up and down the southern Atlantic coast. We were in the beginning stages of planning a restaurant in Miami. When that started up, I’d be out of here so fast…
“Jesus,” muttered Adriana as more people filed through the door, “I don’t think I’ve ever seen this much testosterone in one place.”
And we weren’t likely to see anything like it again. Coach Callahan, the legendary coach of Serenity High’s football team, could only die once. We were lucky that his family had chosen The Mangroves for his funeral reception. It looked as if every single alumnus that had ever been coached by Callahan was here tonight. My servers were hustling back and forth with conch fritters, smoked fish dip, mahi-mahi skewers, and wings – we could barely keep up with the influx of mourners. There were so many people here that we’d opened up a third bar on the outside patio – which was the reason I was currently working behind one of them instead of spending the night at home watching House of Cards.
“Tell you what,” Adriana said, stuffing a five dollar bill into her apron. “It’s a shame I’m married. What’s in Serenity’s water? Is it inbreeding? How do y’all pop out so many tall, pretty, male babies?”
“You’re not far off,” I muttered, looking to the door where another group of men in dark suits entered the restaurant. The glass slipped from my fingers.
“Hey! Careful,” said Adriana, reaching past me to catch the glass as it bounced off the rail. I blinked at Adriana’s cat-like reflexes and held my hand out for the glass. Mechanically, I scooped ice into it, filled it with gin, and topped it off with tonic water and a lime.
“Here,” I said to the now faceless customer. He gave me money. I tucked it away.
“Hey,” said Adriana. “Are you okay?”
Turning to respond to Adriana, I caught my reflection in the bar mirror. Tanned skin, bright blue eyes, thick, straight blond hair pulled back off of my face, and dark black tank-top hugging my chest. Did I look tired? Professional? Pretty?
“Courtney. Are you okay?” Adriana leaned in, and I flashed her a bright smile. She blinked. “I guess that answers that question,” she muttered. “What’s wrong?”
“Later,�
�� I said. My heart was hammering in my chest, and I’d started sweating slightly, despite the fact that the AC and the overhead fans were on.
Turning back to the line of waiting customers, I said, as energetically as I could, “What can I get you!?” Thank God, most people wanted beers. I’m not sure I could have handled anything more complicated at that moment.
As I poured, I glanced back at the door. The man who’d just walked in stood almost half a head taller than his compatriots and had almost twice their weight in muscle. He’d taken off his suit jacket and slung it over the back of a chair. Crisp white shirtsleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing thick, muscled forearms. His face… he looked like he’d stepped off the pages of a Tommy Hilfiger ad: All-American. Mouthwateringly gorgeous.
I’m not coming home for anything. Not for you. Not for anything.
But he had come home. Ryan “Mac” Mcloughlin – the pride and joy of Serenity Beach, one of Serenity’s three alums who had made it pro – had come home. I’d worked hard to put high school behind me – no small feat when you still live in the town you grew up in – but it was all spiraling back. Homecoming games, walks on the beach, weekend trips to Miami, that week over spring break in the Keys. Stolen kisses through the day. Long, hot nights.
As if sensing my thoughts, Ryan looked up. Our eyes locked. I forced myself to smile and hoped I managed to hide how startled I was.
His face was momentarily blank – as if he didn’t know who I was. Then he smiled. It was small, acknowledging. One of his friends said something, and he looked down, and his smile grew into a laugh.
I turned to the next customer. “What can I get you?”
It was hard to focus on my customers; it was a real effort not to look up, not to track his movement, not to drink in the sight of him like a desert traveler at an oasis. How long had I followed his career, or seen flashes of him on TV, or seen those white teeth bared in an Instagram selfie with some overly-made-up redhead? Yet I hadn’t even considered that he might have made the trip to his old coach’s funeral. I’m not coming home for anything. Not for you. Not for anything.
Apparently, that wasn’t true. He’d come home for Coach. I shouldn’t have been surprised.
“How’s the Due South IPA?” A warm, deep voice sounded to my left. My heart lurched, and I smiled at a customer, thanking him for the tip before turning my attention to where Ryan had made it through the crowd and was leaning casually against the bar. My mouth went dry. He was even more gorgeous up close. Familiar, and yet not. The enormous, striking man was different from the tall, lean boy who’d broken my heart.
“It depends,” I said, putting on my best customer service smile, “on what you like. I think it’s pretty good.”
“I’ll have that,” said Ryan, his eyes sparkling as they took me in. “How are you?”
“Can’t complain,” I said. I turned and grabbed a pint glass, filled it at the tap, and slid it across the bar to Ryan. For a moment, I thought about giving it to him on the house. But I didn’t owe him a thing, so I took his ten and nodded when he told me to “keep the change.”
“Shit, son!” Another man, probably a classmate of ours because he looked familiar, squeezed into the space next to Ryan and gave me an exuberant smile. “Is that Courtney Hart?”
“Don’t be a moron, Dale,” said Ryan. “She looks exactly the same. As beautiful as I remember.”
“Hey, Dale,” I said, ignoring Ryan. “What can I get you?”
“I’ll take a Heineken.”
I went into the fridge, bumping into Adriana. “You know him?” my friend hissed. I knew she wasn’t talking about Dale. I must have shot her a look, for her eyes widened a moment. “Oh, shit. Court. Is he…”
“I don’t want to talk about it here,” I said curtly. I could feel Ryan’s eyes on me as I bent over.
“Here you go, Dale!” I said brightly, returning to the counter. I winked at him. “This one’s on the house, honey. For old time’s sake.”
Dale thanked me, slapping Ryan on the back. “Good to be home, huh, man!? I sure missed this place.”
I couldn’t hear Ryan’s response. I had paying customers and money to make, so I left them to catch up.
“Court,” said Adriana a few minutes later. “That tall drink of water over there wants your attention. I tried to serve him, but he asked for you.”
I turned to see Ryan toasting me with an empty glass. Girding myself mentally, I walked over. “You want another one of those?” I asked him.
“Sure,” he said, smiling. If you’ve never seen Ryan Mcloughlin smile, you’re missing out. He smiles with his whole personality. Straight, white teeth on display, his eyes crinkling and dancing with humor. I used to believe in that smile. Now I understood it better: empty charm. I got Ryan the drink, and he slid a bill across the bar. When I reached out to grab it, he didn’t remove his hand, and I was forced to look up at him.
“I’m home for a few days,” he said, his voice low. “I’d love to get together. I’m staying with my brother, not far away. Call me.” He lifted his hand, revealing that he’d written his number across the twenty dollar bill. Jerk. Did he think overpaying a beer by fifteen dollars would impress me? Nevertheless, my heart was hammering when I took it. Ignoring his order to keep the change, I put fifteen dollars back on the bar and walked off. I refused to look over for the rest of the night.
2
Ryan
After The Mangroves closed, a bunch of us went to the dive bar next door.
I wouldn’t have returned home for anyone other than Coach Cal. He’d been a real father figure to me. When my mom had left, when my dad had sunk into a depression, and when I had started acting out, Coach Cal had stepped in and kicked my ass. I owed that man a lot, and fuck it if I hadn’t teared up when I’d gotten the news that he’d passed. I wasn’t all that interested in seeing the places and faces of my past, but seeing Courtney again... I hadn’t been expecting her, and I definitely hadn’t been expecting my reaction.
While my dad had moved away years ago, he still had friends in town, so I’d heard when her parents had sold The Mangroves. I hadn’t figured Courtney would be bartending in a restaurant her family no longer owned. And yet, she’d been standing there: a tall, slim, and sun-bleached blonde, working the bar like a pro.
“What are you thinking about, Super Bowl?” I stared down into Elise Lashinsky’s coy smile. I looked over as she ran her elegant French manicured nails down my arm. Elise and Courtney had been on the cheerleading squad together. I’d never looked twice at Elise in high school, but she’d come up to me at the funeral and made her interest pretty damn plain. I’d been game to give her a tumble. Might as well, right? That was before I’d seen Courtney.
“Coach Cal,” I lied to Elise, reclining back on the bar and giving her a healthy appraisal. If memory served me, Elise Lashinsky had been a flier: a compact, petite little thing that did flips in the air off of her squad’s shoulders. Ten years later, Elise was still tiny, but gone were the short little cheerleader skirts and the flat chest. She wore a little black dress that showed off her muscled legs and lean arms. The dress plunged over pert, delicious looking cleavage. She’d had work done. She hadn’t been that busty in high school.
I couldn’t help but wonder if she was as acrobatic in bed as she’d been on the field. We’d never banged in high school. I’d been with Courtney from the beginning of junior year through graduation.
“So sad, his passing. I thought he had another twenty years in him,” said Elise, but the hunger in her eyes belied the consolation in her tone. If I crooked a finger at her, she’d hop right into bed. Was she wearing panties under that dress?
“We all gotta go some time!” someone called from over at the bar. I watched as one of my old teammates raised his glass and toasted, “To Coach Cal!”
The bar echoed his sentiment, tipping back their beers and shots. I polished off my lager and set the bottle on the bar, checking my phone. Still nothing. Courtney
hadn’t called me. Fuck it. Maybe I would go home with Elise.
“Hey, Super Bowl!” called Paul Ehrlich from over by the door. Paul had been the quarterback my junior year. We’d gotten along pretty well. He’d played in college, too, though he hadn’t gone on to be drafted. “We’re bar hopping down Ocean Drive – you coming?”
“You should come,” said Elise, nearly purring. She gripped at my bicep, her two small hands dwarfed by it.
I checked my phone again. Nothing. Fuck it.
“Sure,” I said, waving Elise ahead of me, “lead on…”
Elise walked off, making sure to swing her hips. Oh, don’t worry, honey. I’m watching.
“Hey, Mac. How you holding up, buddy?” It took a moment for me to recognize Randy Carlisle. He’d graduated in my class but had been a second stringer. Pudgy in high school, he was still carrying a few extra pounds.
“Hanging in there,” I said. I glanced at my phone again. Nothing. What the hell? Was she really going to be petty about this shit? Ten years had passed.
I looked down at Carlisle and said, “Hey, Randy. You still live around here, don’t you?”
Randy nodded.
“How long as Courtney Hart been tending bar over at The Mangroves?” And was she still single? I hadn’t seen a ring on that finger, but what other reason did she have for not calling?
“Hart? I don’t see her back there often. She’s more of a behind the scenes sort, though she’s usually wandering the floor on a Saturday or Sunday.”
“What?”
“She owns it, man,” said Randy, clarifying. “At least, she owns part of it, I think. Folks sold it to her when they moved north. They’re snowbirds now.”
