Players to Lovers (4 Book Collection)

by Ketley Allison

  “I don’t really know what you’re talking about.” I duck into the car and attempt to shut the door, but he stops me.

  “You’ve figured out where the boy is,” he repeats patiently. “I’d like to know.”

  “Sir,” I say, praying my voice remains steady. I’m wavering between screaming at him to go away or remaining polite in order to keep my job. This annoying, scary man is one of Yang’s top clients. “If I’m going to make the arraignment, I need to leave now. And that’s what you want, right? For your … friends … to make bail?”

  “Of course, of course,” Chavez says, but still won’t let me shut the door.

  My mom’s voice bursts through. You can always leave a situation where you feel uncomfortable. I don’t care if it’s a sleepover, or a party, or with a boy who’s hitting on you and you don’t want to be rude. Leave. Never feel like you have to stay to be the nice girl. Call me, and I’ll always be there to pick you up.

  No, Mom. You’re not here now.

  “But if you could just tell me where you found him?” Chavez tries again.

  “I’ve told you once, Mr. Chavez. I don’t know.”

  Like a bracing wind blowing between buildings, his eyes tunnel into me. “You know where Ryan Delaney is. Altin so much as said. You have the papers, and you’ll be bringing them to the courthouse. I want them. Now.”

  “Mr. Chavez, I don’t have any papers.”

  And I don’t. Perhaps Taryn does. Likely, I need to get my head out of my angsty ass, stop mooning over Ben, and get back into the thick of climbing the ladder at the firm of CW&C so I’m not made to be so out-of-the-loop again.

  I grip the inside handle, and with all the Yoga-Pilates strength I possess, slam the car door shut. Chavez barely gets his fingers out of the way before they become attached to the vehicle as it drives off.

  “Thank you,” I say to the driver.

  “That was one persistent fucker,” he replies, and in typical city fashion, that’s the end of our conversation.

  Unable to resist, I look out the back window, and sure enough, Chavez is standing at the curb, staring at my car. As the distance widens, he steps out into the street to watch me turn a corner before he’s out of sight.

  Quelling a shiver, I redirect my route to the Staten Island courthouse, then spend the rest of the drive shaking off Chavez’s unsettling focus. Ben’s warning keeps running laps around my head, bringing with it a pounding headache that massaging my temples isn’t helping.

  These men don’t play around. Don’t get involved with them.

  Chavez didn’t really do anything, and yet I still feel warned.

  An email notification blips its arrival, and I open it. It’s a memo from Taryn, outlining everything she said to Altin Yang and…

  Oh, dude.

  I bring my phone closer to my face.

  I was wrong. I totally lied to Enrique Chavez.

  Ryan Delaney’s location is in my possession.

  17

  Ben

  “You wanna maybe not drop a barbell on my head?”

  Ash’s voice cuts through whatever vortex my brain decided to redirect to, and I refocus on being his spotter as he benches 250 pounds.

  “Sorry, bro,” I say as he grunts through another repetition. “I got caught up in—” Astor.

  “A chick, no doubt,” Ash says after a harsh exhale. He pushes the bar up again.

  “Speaking of, haven’t heard much about those lately.” Easton comes up beside us in the gym, a towel draped over his neck while he uses another one to wipe his forehead.

  “Am I the only one getting thoroughly and happily fucked?” Locke asks from his seat on a bench beside us, chugging from his water bottle and being a lazy asshole, as usual.

  I’m not in the mood to talk about my feelings, so I decide on the usual bro code of sarcasm.

  “I’d say you two are the only ones going through a dry spell,” I say to Ash and East, then give extra attention to Ash’s deadlift, since I don’t actually want to be responsible for his sternum being crushed. “Not me.”

  East takes a seat beside Locke and asks me, “Since when are you getting laid?”

  I say, “Since last night,” as a way to get them off my back. Too late, I realize the deep, dark, crevice full of shit I’ve landed in.

  “Oh, yeah?” Locke raises his brows and spreads out his legs, getting comfortable. “Who now? A cheerleader? Nah, wait, you’re off season. A barfly?”

  This is an excellent time for a your mom joke, but since it’s Locke’s sister crowding my mind and his mom passed away from cancer … ah jeez, I better hold my breath, ‘cause I’m swan diving right into the center of this shit pile.

  “Nobody important,” I say, except she’s everything important.

  Admittedly, I kissed Astor to get her scent off my trail. She’s too close to wondering why I am so invested in the SI Slaughters, and thinking I’m smarter than her is the greatest mistake I can make. She’s not only intelligent, she’s quick. Darts like a viper.

  What I didn’t expect was how much I missed exploring her lips. Both of them.

  Worse, she tasted just as lonely as I remembered.

  “Dude, you’re fired.” Ash gives one last, growling push and places the barbell back in its holder.

  “Sorry,” I say but don’t mean it.

  “What’s with you lately?” Locke asks, but it’s half-hearted concern. He’s been knee-deep in raising a child, recovering from a life-threatening injury, and having a woman permanently move in with him. Locke’s busy adjusting to a family that loves him. I could tell him right now, no issues, and he wouldn’t blink.

  It’s East I’m worried about, and his unusual perceptiveness. People usually take his quiet demeanor as shy, but he’s too busy watching and cataloguing the world around him to care. I’ve actually seen East’s reserve reduce girls to tears. Chicks crush hard on that sort of thing, I guess.

  “Do we need to institute another dare or something?” Ash lifts off his back, leaning forward with his palms on his thighs.

  “Jesus, no,” I say, at the same time Locke guffaws, “Hell yeah. Now that I’m a taken man, I can watch you bimbos run amok all over this town.”

  “It’s been years,” East adds. “Hopefully we’re older and wiser at this point.”

  “Older, maybe,” I say.

  “It ain’t up to me to spice up your sex lives, anyway.” Ash rises, then pulls his phone out of his gym shorts and grins. “Looks like I’ve got a date tonight. What do you two suckers have? Locke, I know what you got. Shut it.”

  Locke claps his hands together and stands. “What I got is two beautiful women waiting for me at home, one with mushy pancakes, and the other in lingerie. I’d say I’m a lucky man. Every single one of you should think on that.”

  Ash makes a sound of disgust. “Six months ago you were just like us, princess. Don’t act all queen on us now.”

  “Just sayin’.” Locke shrugs. “It’s good to be happy.”

  For reasons unknown, Locke puts me in his scope as he says it.

  “Whatever. ‘Bye, you fuckers,” Ash says, then turns and hits the men’s locker room without another word.

  East salutes and goes the same way as Ash does, and I start to follow, but Locke cuts me off.

  “You sure you’re okay?” he asks.

  “Totally.” I shrug off any remaining unease. About Astor, my old self, my parents … the arraignment this morning.

  “Uh huh.” Locke’s mouth flatlines. “You and my sister should talk.”

  The swallowed unease stiffens my spine. “Why do you say that?”

  “Because you’re both depressed teens sitting in your black-painted bedroom, writing angsty poems in your diaries.”

  I go to the side wall and throw a green tea infused cold towel around my neck. The perks of a top-of-the-line, TriBeCa gym. “Nice analogy.”

  “Seriously. Something’s going on with the both of you.”

  I cover any clue
s I might inadvertently give off by toweling my face. “Whatever’s happening with her has nothing to do with me.”

  Locke’s unusually silent, and I peek through the white cotton, but his expression is carefully, annoyingly blank. Right at the moment I think I should maybe say something, he adds, “I think she and Mike are on shaky ground.”

  Hell, thank the gods for this towel. I respond carefully, “Yeah, I might’ve noticed she was a bit off about that, too.”

  “Not that I give a damn.” Locke pushes open the change room door, and I follow him into the steam. “He’s about as personable as a hot fart.”

  “What’s she doing with him, anyway?” I can’t help but ask.

  “He’s smart, competitive, from a good family, I dunno,” Locke says. “All the things she looks for on paper.”

  I’m living under a secret identity due to almost being murdered, slept with Astor because of what she thinks was a ruse, and come from a middle-class, Connecticut adoptive family.

  I think wryly, yep, I’m real gold laid out next to Mike’s bronze.

  “She always thinks she has to do what’s right,” Locke says. “I’ve given up trying to convince her being a rebel is a lot more satisfying.”

  Except for that one time she fucked me without telling you…

  “But she doesn’t love him,” I say.

  Locke cuts me a glance as he opens his locker. For a moment, Astor’s eyes look back, a pure blue so full of understanding I almost back away from it.

  What exactly does he know?

  “Astor doesn’t love many people,” Locke says. “Especially from the opposite sex.”

  “Should we do something about it?” I spin the combination numbers on my own locker. “Beat Mike up? Threaten to kill him? I’m all for it.”

  “Nah, he’s not worthy.” Locke peels off his workout shirt and throws on a fresh one. “Besides, he’ll do the torching for us. He and Astor are competing for the same spot in a law case or some shit.”

  I slam my locker door too hard after changing, but keep my voice carefully controlled. “She told you much about that?”

  “A little. Got a text from her a few minutes ago, though, that she was on her way to the hearing. Something to do with those two killers’ bail.”

  “Yeah. It’s all over the news.” I throw my sports duffel over my shoulder.

  “She was cornered out front of her apartment.”

  All my attention dives into Locke. “Say what?”

  “Some honcho, I don’t know. But she called me, asked me to stay on the phone with her as she drove to court, to make sure she wasn’t being followed.”

  My chest is swelling in ways it only does when I’m running for a touchdown during a live game, but I try for lightness instead of breakneck speed. “Is that why you missed twenty minutes of training? To have a chat with your sis? She’s okay, though, right?”

  Locke claps me on the back as we walk forward. I’m glad he doesn’t feel how tense it is. “Astor’s been on high profile cases before. I’m not worried, otherwise I’d be there in a hot second. But she’s … different. Looks tired. More stressed. I think I might swing by, anyway—”

  “I’ll do it.”

  Locke stops at the gym’s exit out onto the street. “Yeah?”

  I nod. “You’ve got to get home to Lily and Carter. Like you said, this isn’t a big deal—it’s not even a trial. I’ll go, make sure she’s okay, then fill you in.”

  Locke, same height as me, keeps my stare dead-on. “I appreciate that, man.”

  “You got it.”

  We part ways outside, the frigid air doing quick work on my exposed, overheated skin. But I enjoy the freeze on my arms, the frost forming on my legs. It gives a centering gravity to what is quickly becoming an explosive ball ready to be lobbed in my chest.

  Someone cornered Astor.

  I hail a cab, because fuck the subway.

  When I get in, I check my phone, despite the reality that Astor would rather cut off her own fingers than text me. But the closer she gets to the truth, the more risk I’m putting her in by not giving her my real name.

  And I’m wondering how much longer I can choose preserving my identity over her.

  Sometimes, I don’t know my own fame. More often than not, it makes itself very much a part of my life, especially when I drive face-first into a honey badger’s nest of reporters. And I say honey badgers because they are the most vicious, insane, feral skunk-like fuckers you’ve ever come across. Don’t believe me? Look them up.

  This is exactly what I’ve done as my bright yellow, NYC trademark taxi pulls to a stop in front of the mammoth gray courthouse building in Staten Island.

  No tinted windows here, my friends. Nor do I possess a baseball cap, hoodie, or any other basic paparazzi-repellant.

  I’m in a muscle shirt and sports shorts, with a duffel bag full of sweat-soaked clothes and sneakers. I really haven’t planned this right, but that’s what fear does, doesn’t it?

  Makes human evolution obsolete.

  Lightbulbs flash as soon as the cabbie brakes, and one by one, like the calculated badgers they are, heads turn and possible recognition ignites.

  They’re here for the ruling on bail, and any unexpected visitor would get detailed scrutiny.

  “Fuck, keep driving!” I yell to the cabbie. “Just go around the corner or something. Anything.”

  “Yessir.” The whites of his eyes flash in the rearview. “Shit, didn’t realize who you were.”

  “No biggie,” I say automatically. “Just get me out of here.”

  I’m not worried about anyone making the Ryan-Ben link, since that’s essentially impossible for the public to do. I’m more concerned about connecting any further attention to this case, whether it be my NFL status and my “friendship” with Astor, or the reasons why a star receiver wants anything to do with a twenty-year-old murder. My murdered parents don’t need any more media attention.

  I just want them to rest in peace. I want Ryan underground with them.

  The cabbie, who must be familiar with the area, finds a deserted, narrow, side-street to drop me off at.

  “You got charges laid on you or something?” the cabbie asks.

  “Nah. Just here supporting a friend.”

  “Phew.” The cabbie laughs. “Can’t have next year’s fantasy football team be fucked over like that. Don’t get arrested any time soon, got me?”

  “Sure thing, my friend.” I pass a few bills through the glass partition.

  The cabbie thanks me profusely, but thankfully doesn’t ask for a selfie. I get out and sprint for the closest door to the courthouse, where maybe I’ll plan this shit out better and figure out what floor Astor is even on.

  Turns out, all I have to do is ask anyone inside the building this morning. Everyone knows what’s going on and where, and after going through the metal detectors and blending in perfectly with every other perp in casual, sports-related clothing surrounded by suited lawyers, I take the stairs two at a time to the right floor.

  As I stride over the marble tiles, giant wooden doors in front of me burst open, and people stream out. Reporters who had the ability and trickery to wait indoors descend upon the suits and spectators exiting, and my height allows me to adequately scan for Astor’s sleek, brunette head.

  She’s tall, too. I should be able to instantly spot her—there.

  I find her encased in five to ten other lawyers, microphones already thrust into their faces and questions being tossed left and right. Using my girth, I elbow through most of them. Everyone’s too focused on the ruling to notice the jacked-up football player trying to get a girl’s attention.

  Astor’s gaze slides toward, over, then skirts back and locks onto me as I’m a few feet away.

  Ben? she mouths, then breaks away from her suits of armor.

  Astor grabs me by the elbow and drags us out of the thick of it. “What are you—?”

  “Locke’s worried about you.” I cut her off, fully awar
e that I have a few seconds before anger, or more likely, indignation over being Locke’s sister who doesn’t need protection hits. “Especially after you called him.”

  Those sails of righteous anger billow closed. “I’m an idiot. I shouldn’t have called him. And you shouldn’t be here.”

  “You said you were being fucking followed, Astor.” I lower my voice at her warning glare. “What part of that worry makes you think I wouldn’t race over here?”

  “Because—because I overreacted,” she says. “There’s no guilty verdict today, nothing to incite anyone, never mind a drug lord. I’m on edge, and I didn’t mean to drag Locke or you into it—”

  “Consider me dropped into the center of it,” I say. “Because this is exactly what I warned you about, and now you have dickheads showing up at your door?”

  “It wasn’t my literal door,” she says. “My security isn’t that terrible. It was outside. Chavez was waiting—”

  “Chavez? Fucking Chavez?”

  Information I don’t want to think about scrolls its way across the back of my eyes regardless. How my biological father, Tim Delaney, became a reluctant drug mule within Chavez’s drug cartel when his roofing company went bankrupt and he became desperate. How my mom, a nurse pulling triple shifts, found safety in it once the FBI was involved and turned him into an informant. She didn’t think we’d be hurt.

  “That, more than anything,” I say through my teeth, “should tell you what kind of level you’re playing at.”

  “Ben, I’m fine.”

  “Say that one more time.”

  Astor takes a step back at my tone, a decibel I reserve only for rival teams or an asshole who’s particularly determined to start a bar fight with me. I don’t use it on women. I don’t curl my lips and dare them with a glare. But Astor’s doing things to me I’m not proud of.

  And—no great surprise—she meets my scowl with one of her own. “You don’t know this job, or what I’m honor-bound to do.”

  “Represent killers?”

  “Find justice,” she spits. “So sociopaths like Chavez don’t get opportunities to corner single women on sidewalks and threaten them.”